CHAPTER III.

"We may know by a child's actions If his motives are pure and right." Proverbs.

As long as it was possible, Robert followed, with burning eyes, the charitable man who had comforted him in his severe affliction. Several times he turned to see if the mountain had yet disappeared, on which he had passed so many happy days. At last the charm was broken, it was no longer visible, and tears chased each other down his checks, but he walked on quickly, saying, "My mother wishes it." His mind was so occupied that he walked on without looking at the road which ran ahead of his thoughts and his regrets, until, involuntarily raising his eyes to the scene before him, he stops in the extremity of his surprise; his eyes refuse to believe their evidence; they wander from object to object without knowing why, without being able to explain the mystery which plunges him into a sort of stupor, and he believes himself under the dominion of a feverish and fantastic dream. He raises his hand to see if he is asleep, but he is wide awake, and laughs at his simplicity. It is easy for us to understand this. He recognizes no longer men, things, or even nature. All that he left behind him was different from what was before and around him. He was in a new world, on strange ground, and everything which was presented to his sight caused him an undefinable sensation. Was there not enough to surprise him? These large fields, these plains of vendure, these yellow harvests, were to him a new spectacle, strange, singular, sometimes even monotonous to the eye of a little mountaineer, habituated to the fantastic forms of the rock and the sombre and imposing verdure of the woods which covered the sides of his native mountain. Where are the great heaps of volcanic rocks among which he had been reared and which were so familiar to his eyes? All had {648} disappeared, and it seemed to him that, without transition he had passed from severe and grand nature to simple and gay, rich with flowers and fruits and corn white and golden. It was the contrast which frightened him, and made him think he had been transported by some invisible hand a thousand leagues from his home. Like a bird slightly wounded which flies to the parent nest and seeks shelter under the warm wings of its mother, so Robert, restless and inquiet, longs for the maternal arms in which he can hide his fears. He feels his loneliness; the road seems longer at every step, and he cannot see the end of it. He invokes through his mother the blessing of God, and his fears are dissipated, and strength and hope are given him to hasten on. With the versatility which is the happy accompaniment of childhood, he put a sweet security in place of the most foolish fears. And now he was brave again. This transition of sentiment, this quick changing of the most lively sorrow into a kind of gayety, is natural to youth. They have extremes of joy and sorrow, and, without being prepared for either, we see them pass suddenly from one to the other. Happy, happy childhood! Robert was now full of a new sentiment, and the birds fluttered round him and sang their merriest songs; the long, low murmur of the insects was delightful to his ears. Why should he be sad when all nature was so joyous? A universal hymn of gratitude and love is being sung by all that exist, by everything that breathes, in honor of our divine Creator; and, no matter how many the sorrows and desolations of man, calmness comes to his heart, in the sweet perfume of joy, the suave harmony and gracious gayety that fill all nature under the life-giving influence of a beautiful summer morning. As we are all, sooner or later, initiated into the sufferings of life, we must feel for others and pour what balm we can into every wounded heart. Robert walked on until he came to an inn where he asked to pass the night. His fresh, open face, his gentleness, and the title of Orphan, gained for him the heart and good graces of his hostess. She asked him whither he was going and if he wished to go. He told her, and that it was his mother's wish, and, of course, if hers, his, that he should go to Paris. The next morning he started off, overwhelmed with the caresses of this woman, for she was a mother, and felt a tear moisten her cheek, as she saw this little boy take up his bundle and resolutely pursue his way, and she prayed God to take care of him. Robert felt his mother's loss hourly when fatigue weakened his limbs and hunger made him cry, but he saw her with the eyes of faith in heaven. Yes; believe me, dear little children who have lost your mothers! turn to heaven, and there you will see them looking at you with eyes of love, and saying to you: "Be good, my darlings, and when you are asleep I will visit you, and kiss your pure and innocent foreheads." Yes; look to heaven, and I promise you you will see your mothers there, if you are good. It was this which recalled to Robert's heart each day the remembrance of his mother and filled his eyes with tears. It carried also to his heart a secret encouragement and gave him strength.

As he walked on he left behind him Clermont, Rion, Aigueperse, and Grannot. Some leagues before this he had bid good-by to the beautiful district of Limagne, which had charmed him by its sea of verdure, it's deep golden foliage, and its rich and fertile plains. This was the first canton of France which was considered worthy of a particular description, and it was of this part of l'Auvergne that Apollo Lidoine said: "It is so beautiful that strangers who go there cannot leave it, and there have even then instances of persons forgetting their own country when there." It was of this country, so favored by heaven, that King Childebert said, "that before dying he desired but one {649} thing, and that was to see beautiful Limagne d'Auvergne, which is the masterpiece of nature, and a scene of enchantment." We cannot say that Robert shared in their opinion, but it is certain that he passed it with regret, although he was drawn by so strange of feeling toward Paris, the object of his hope and his ambition. He walked to St. Pourçain, Moulins, and all the small places, and rested a day when overfatigued. Great was his delight when he reached Fontainebleau, which royal residence had witnessed the first abdication of the emperor. All was still in motion at this place, and more than one old soldier twisted his mustache, and with a fierce and martial air walked on the edge of this great forest, weeping for the liberty of his emperor, his god, his idol. It was with delight that our young hero, the child of the woods and solitude, sought the fresh shades, which recalled to him, by a striking similarity, his cherished mountain home; and the immense piles of irregular rocks attested that this place, too, had been the theatre of some great convulsion of nature. At mid-day, when the sun sheds his fiercest rays, when the tired flowers lean on their stems, when the birds hide under the leaves, when all nature seeks repose, the better to enjoy the freshness of the evening, Robert, too, followed the example, and lay down and slept at the foot of a huge chestnut-tree many centuries old; the vast shade of which form and impenetrable cover from the heat of the sun. He awoke refreshed, rose, and ventured into one of the long alleys or walks to which a sign conducted him. For several hours he wandered about lost in this tangled maze and looking in vain for an opening. But he was a patient child, and obstacles did not stop him, neither was he discouraged by his unfruitful efforts; on the contrary, he redoubled his ardor, and finally reached a clear space, in the center of which was a fountain ordered by rose-beds. Four paths diverged from it, and of such great length were they that it fatigued the eye to look at them. In exploring in turn each of these paths, Robert found in one of them a sign pointing out to strangers the various labyrinths of the forest. He had nothing else for a guide, but thought if he could only find his way to the palace again, there must be some one there who could tell him how to go; so he followed the path which he thought might be right, and it was, and led him into the avenue which wound round by the palace. When he got right in front of the principal and only truly royal edifice of France, or rather of Napoleon, he stopped and wondered at the vast aspect of this assemblage of buildings, producing an effect at once imposing and majestic. Nothing like this had ever entered his imagination, and the most lively astonishment shone on his face, and his eyes burned with the fire of intelligence and pleasure. A few steps from him was an old soldier who was entirely absorbed in contemplating the building, and who looked worn and sad. He, too, was in a sort of ecstasy, but he gazed in silence and seemed lost to all around him. His expression was of one in anguish, and his eyes rested with a strange fixedness upon the steps of honor. He waits and watches as if hoping to see some one whom he ardently loves appear; but his hope is deceived, and two tears trickle slowly down his dark cheeks, scarred and burned by the fires of a hundred battles. At this moment when marks of supreme sorrow told so eloquently of his sufferings, Robert turned, and seeing his tears he was deeply moved at this testimony of profound sorrow, and, eagerly approaching the soldier, said to him in a touching voice: "Why do you cry, sir? Have yon also lost your mother? I fear you have." Robert had never wept but for one sorrow, and that we all know, and in happy ignorance of the other misfortunes of life he thought all wept {650} for the same thing; and in his great loss he looked to older persons to console him, which proved how tender, delicate, and generous are the sentiments that live in the hearts of children. Their young souls are mirrors have to which we should only give pure, chaste, and pious images to reflect and show them good examples, that without effort vice might be crushed out, and the world left an Eden of purity.

Hearing so touchingly compassionate a voice, the old soldier turned and looked at the child, while tears glistened in his eyes. "No," said he in a coarse tone, "it is not for my mother that I weep, it is for my emperor." "And who is it that is your emperor?" "Alas! I have no father, and have just lost my mother," he said sighing. "Was your emperor good, and did you love him so much that you weep or him? I shall never forget my mother, she was so sweet and good to her little son. But tell me, sir, tell me of your emperor. My mother said I should always love those who were good, and I want to love him too." The old fellow twisted his mustache, and growled some words between his teeth, looking alternately at the palace and the child, who smiled at him with an expression so gentle that it moved the soldier's heart. You could see he was the victim of an emotion he vainly sought to conceal. "Wonderful!" cried he, vanquished by the magical eyes of Robert. "You are a good child, and speak to my heart when you tell me that you love my emperor. But who does not love him, except those cowards! those scoundrels! those traitors! But stop, I have said enough." He saw that Robert was a little frightened, for his ears had only been accustomed to the caressing voice of his mother. "Do you see that staircase? My emperor descended by it to embrace the eagles of his flag, the victorious eagles which have made him immortal, and which led his way to glory. Yes, the embraced them, and wept because he could not embrace all his old soldiers had not betrayed him and would have followed him to the end of the world. And some of his old guard still live. Oh! if they had only sent me with him into the loan island of his misfortunes, if I could be with him there, I should be content. But since I cannot, I must go to Paris and see what is doing there. See, my child, you are going there too, and I believe you said you had neither father nor mother. Have you any relatives?" "No," said Robert. "Why, then, are you going to Paris if you have no friends there?" "My mother said I must go, and I'm going." "I don't wish to be too curious, but tell me from whence you come?" "From the village of Mount Dore, eight leagues from Clermont." "Pretty walk for such little legs, I think; but as we are both going to Paris, and you have no father or mother to protect you, and I and a poor old soldier, I will take care of you, for you have moved my heart by your gentle words, and we will travel together, so that the walk will be shorter for both." "Oh! how delightful," said Robert; "and then you can tell me about your emperor. I know I can walk fast enough in hearing you talk about one whom you love so much." "Yes, my boy," he replied, "I could speak forever of my emperor; but it must be when we are alone, for his glorious name, which once made kings and conscripts alike tremble, is now called usurper, and is forbidden to be pronounced. A thousand thunders! the thought enrages me; and if I had his traitorous subjects I would strangle them, or my name is not Cyprien Hardy." This conversation was held with furious gestures on the one side and great astonishment on the other, until they came to the modest inn where Robert had left his bundle. The child in his new friend, the old soldier, who justified the name, made a frugal repast, and continue {651} their journey. On the way Robert related the history of the twelve years he had passed on his cherished mountain with his beloved mother, which simple recital gained him the lasting friendship of his companion, whom Robert looked upon as a friend provided for him by that kind Providence who watches over orphans. He bore the fatigue of the journey well, and was in perfect health when they reached that magnificent chaos called Paris. The old soldier is, then, the second friend that God has given our little hero. And how strange it was that these two were isolated beings should meet in such a place, before the grand palace of kings--the one a man of resolute energy, who carried on his bold forehead great scars of glory, but who shed tears of despair at the fall of his well-beloved chief, in whom he had found parents, country, family; the other a charming youth, representing brilliant promises for the future, young, beautiful, and full of ambition. Cyprien Hardy was one of those true French hearts to whom the name of patriot was not a vain word. He was moved like many others when dangers threatened the republic and the when powerful allies audaciously invaded its territory. He was one of the first to take up arms, having entered the army as a volunteer at twenty-one. Some years later he served in the first regiment of the soldiers of the guard, after having made the memorable campaigns of Italy, Egypt, and Germany, always following the "Little Corporal," always the first in battle, and always respected. Dangers made him smile; his courage was inexhaustible. One thing alone could move him, and that was the voice of his chief. This electrified him, and made him forget all but noble actions. He had always loved Napoleon, and this affection increased with the fortunes of the great man whose word or look transformed soldiers into heroes. It was in the forts of Moscow that his emperor had given him the "Cross of Honor," for a wound which he received from a cannon ball while waving his flag. In this disastrous retreat the brave soldier, dying with cold, fatigue, and hunger, preserved his heroic exaltation and his confidence in and love for his emperor; and if he ever grumbled, it was only because he could not kill every Cossack that he laid his eyes upon. His courage and energy never diminished, and he believed so implicitly in his emperor that he thought good fortune must return. But it had gone forever. His heart revolted at the thought; and he swore that the author of this infamous treason should repent, and this was why he was going to Paris to see if he could find any of his old companions.

TO BE CONTINUED.

ONE MOMENT.

A trooping forth of buried griefs like ghosts,-- Temptations gathering swift in serried hosts,-- Of angel guardians a glittering band,-- God watching all--shall we desert or stand?

{652}

PROBLEMS OF THE AGE. [Footnote 178]

[Footnote 178: erratum: In the last number, p. 524, 2d col. 12th line, for "created in sanctity and justice," read "constituted."]

(CONCLUDED)

XII.

THE MYSTERY OF REDEMPTION.

The next article of the creed, in order, is that which expresses the Mystery of Redemption: "Crucifixus etiam pro nobis, sub Pontio Pilato, passus, et sepultus est." "Who was also crucified for us under Pontius Pilate, who suffered, and was buried." The redemption implies the incarnation, and is based on it. The incarnation having been already treated of, in immediate connection with the Trinity, we have only to proceed with the exposition of the doctrine of satisfaction for sin and restoration to grace through the sufferings and death of the Divine Redeemer.

It is no part of the Catholic doctrine that it was necessary for the second person of the Trinity to take upon himself human nature and suffer an infinite penalty, in order that God might be able to pardon sin without violating his justice. All Catholic theologians, from St. Augustine down, teach that God is free to show mercy and to pardon, according to his own good pleasure. The reason and end of the incarnation has been shown already to be something far above this order of ideas. The incarnation does not of itself, however, imply suffering or death. We have to inquire, then, why it was that in point of fact the incarnate Word was manifested as a suffering Redeemer; and why his death on the cross was constituted the meritorious cause of the remission of sin and restoration of grace.

The church has never made any formal definition of her doctrine on this point, and it is well known various have been the theories regarding it maintained at different times. We shall endeavor to present a view which appears to us adequate and intelligible; without, however, claiming for it any certainty beyond that of the reasons on which it is based.

The original gift of grace not having been due to Adam, or to any one of his ordinary descendents, injustice, the restoration of that gift, when lost, was not due. Aside from the incarnation, there was no imperative reason why Adam and his race should not have been left in the state to which they were reduced by the original transgression. God, having determined to accomplish the incarnation in the human race, owed it to himself to complete this determination, in spite of all the sins which he foresaw would be committed by men. The foreseen merits of Christ furnished an adequate motive for conferring any degree of grace upon any or all men, he might seek to be fitting and necessary for the fulfillment of his eternal purposes. It was not necessary, however, that the Son of God should suffer or die in order to merit grace for mankind. By the define decree, indeed, the shedding of his blood and his death was made the special meritorious act in view of which remission of sins and grace are conferred. But all the acts of his life had the same intrinsic worth and excellence, which was simply infinite on account of the divine principle of imputability to which they must be referred. There must have been some reasons, therefore, of fitness, on account of which it was determined that Jesus Christ should suffer death for the human race.

{653}

We may find one of these reasons in the law of suffering and death which God had imposed, out of a motive of pure love, on the whole human race. This law was, indeed, promulgated under the form of a penalty, but in its substance it was a real blessing. The way to heaven through the path of penance and by the gate of death is a sure and safer way then the one in which Adam was first placed; it is one, also, affording higher and more extensive scope for virtue, heroism, and merit. It was, therefore, fitting that the chief and prince of the human race should go before his brethren in this way of sufferings. "For it became him, for whom are all things, and by whom are all things, who brought many sons to glory, to perfect, by suffering, the author of their salvation." [Footnote 179] As a particular consequence of this general law, heroes, patriots, reformers, prophets, and saints, have always been especially exposed to suffering and to violent modes of death. They have been obliged to sacrifice themselves to their own fidelity to conscience and to that sacred cause to which they have been devoted. And this sacrifice of life has consecrated their memories in the hearts of their fellow-men more than any other acts of intellectual or moral virtue, however brilliant. It was fitting, therefore, that the Saint of saints, the Saviour of the world, should not exempt himself from the peril of death, to which the very character of his mission exposed him.

[Footnote 179: Heb, II. 10.]

Another reason for the suffering of the Divine Mediator, is found in the manifestation thereby made of the love of God in Christ to the human race. There is no need of dwelling on this, or of noticing other reasons of a similar kind which have been so frequently and so fully developed by others.

We pass on, therefore, to the consideration of the final and highest reason for the death of Jesus Christ, the expiation of sin.

The true and only possible notion of expiation or satisfaction is that which apprehends it as a compensation for the failure to perform some obligatory act, by performing another act of at least equal value in the place of it. Every noble soul, when conscious of having been delinquent, desires to repair the injury which has been done, as well as to redeem its own honor, by some act which shall, if possible, far exceed the one which it failed to perform. The same principle impels those who have a high sense of honor to make reparation tor the delinquencies of others with whom they are closely related in the same family, the same society, or the same nation. Now, the human race has been delinquent in making a proper return to God for the infinite boon of grace. The fall of man and the innumerable sins of the individuals of the human race have deprived Almighty God of a tribute of glory which was due to him, and have brought ignominy upon mankind as a race. Although, therefore, Almighty God might provide for the glorification of the elect who are to share with the Incarnate Word in his divine privileges, by an act of pure mercy; it is far more glorious both to God and man that a superabundant satisfaction should be made for the injury which has been done to the Creator by the marring of his creation, and a superabundant expiation accomplished of the disgrace which man has incurred. It was, therefore, an act of divine wisdom and love in God to determine that this satisfaction and expiation should be made by the second person of the Trinity in his human nature. The Incarnate Word, being truly man, identified with the human race, and its chief, necessarily made its honor and its disgrace his own. Although he could redeem his brethren without any cost to himself, his solicitude for their honor and glory would not permit him to do it. He desired that they should enter heaven on the most honorable terms, without any of the humiliation of the delinquency of the race attaching to them, but, on the contrary with the {654} exulting consciousness that every stain of dishonor had been effaced. Therefore, as their king and chief, he fulfilled the most sublime work of obedience to the divine love which was possible; he made the most perfect possible oblation to God, as an equivalent for his boon of grace which had been abused by sin. In lieu of that glory which God would have received from the perfect obedience of Adam and all his posterity, and that glory which would have been also reflected upon the human race, he substituted the infinitely greater glory of his own obedience unto death, even the death of the cross. By this obedience Jesus Christ merited for the human race the concession of a new grant of grace, more perfect than the first, by virtue of which not only the original sin which is common to all men was made remissible to each individual, but all actual sins were made also pardonable on certain conditions.

That this statement completely exhausts the true idea of the satisfaction of Christ, we will not pretend to affirm. It appears to us, however, sufficient to give a clear and definite meaning to the language of Scripture and the fathers, and to include all that Catholic faith requires a Christian to believe.

Jesus Christ having merited by his death the right of conferring grace without stint or limit upon mankind, and all the grace given after the fall and before the redemption having been bestowed in the foresight of his death, every spiritual blessing enjoyed by men is referred to the death of Jesus Christ as its cause and source. Strictly speaking, it is only the meritorious cause. By giving himself up to die, he merited the right to communicate the grace contained in the incarnation to men, notwithstanding the failure of the father and head of the race to fulfil the probation on which the transmission of the grace to his descendants depended. He merited also the right to renew this grace in those individuals who should lose it after having once received it, as often as these, without regard to the number or grievousness of their sins, or the frequency of their lapses. It is, however, the Holy Spirit; dwelling in the Incarnate Word in the plenitude of his being, and communicating to his human nature the fulness grace, not for itself alone, but for all men; which is the ultimate and efficient cause of all spiritual life. It is the grace of the Holy Spirit which actually removes all guilt and stain of sin from the soul, and constitutes it in the state of justice and sanctity. The Holy Spirit is, therefore, the efficient cause of justification. The formal cause is the personal sanctity of each individual. That is, this personal sanctity is that which makes each one worthy of the complacency of God, of fellowship with him, and of everlasting life. The work of the incarnation and redemption must, therefore, produce its results and attain its consummation through the Holy Spirit as the sanctifier of the human race. Consequently, the creed, after finishing it's expression of the Catholic faith so far as the person of Christ is concerned, proceeds to enunciate it as regards the person and operation of the Holy Spirit, is sent by Christ to complete his work. The articles containing this enunciation complete the creed, and bring man to his final destination.

XII.

THE CATHOLIC CHURCH, AS THE INSTRUMENT OF THE SANCTIFICATION OF THE HUMAN RACE.

The next articles of the creed are: "Et in Spiritum Sanctum, Dominum et Vivificantem, qui ex Patre Filioque procedit, qui cum Patre et Filio simul adoratur et conglorificatur, qui locutus est per prophetas; et in unam sanctam, Catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam; confiteor unum baptisma in remissionem peccatorum." "And in the Holy Ghost, the Lord and Lifegiver, who proceedeth from the Father and the Son, {655} who with the Father and the Son together is worshipped and glorified, who spake by the prophets; I confess one baptism for the remission of sins."

The relation of the Holy Spirit to the Father and the Son in the Trinity has been already considered. The temporal mission of the Holy Spirit as the consummation of the divine work _ad extra_ is exercised through the Catholic Church; and, therefore, the article concerning the church follows immediately in the creed the one concerning the Holy Spirit. [Footnote 180]

[Footnote 180: Vid. Archbishop Manning's Mission of the Holy Ghost.]

The organic unity of the Catholic Church follows necessarily from the principles laid down in the foregoing essays. It is an immediate consequence of the unity of the race, and of the incarnation, which are two distinct facts, but which have one principle. The order of regeneration must follow the order of generation. Mankind exist essentially as a race; as a race they received the original gift of supernatural grace; as a race they lost it. All human life and development is generic. The redemption of mankind must, therefore, re-establish the generic relations which were disturbed by the fall. Jesus Christ, the second Adam, must become the head of a redeemed and regenerated race of men, organized in a supernatural society. Continuity and perpetuity of life are, therefore, the essential notes of the divine society, or human race regenerated, in which true spiritual life is communicated to the individual. The sole possession of these notes demonstrates the divine authority of the Catholic Church. [Footnote 181] The continuity of life, embracing integrity of doctrine and law and the faculty of conferring grace, descended from the patriarchal church through the Jewish, with the increment added by the immediate intervention of the divine Lord of the world in person, to the Catholic Church.

[Footnote 181: Vid. Leo, Univ. Hist., vol. I. Lacordaire's Conferences, and the Works of Dr. Brownson, passim.]

The Catholic Church is, therefore, the human race, in the highest sense. In early times, one nation after another broke away from the unity of the race, carrying a fragment of the integral, ideal humanity with it. Integrity, continuity, and perpetuity of life were, therefore, rendered for them impossible. The same phenomena are exhibited at the present time in all nations and societies outside of the Catholic Church. Partial and temporary developments only can be made of that integral, universal, perpetual life, whose seat is in the bosom of the church, and which is sufficient to vivify the whole human race, if the impediments were removed. The proof, _à posteriori_, or by induction, of the Catholic Church, must be sought for in those works which treat professedly of the subject. Our object is merely to show the conformity of the idea of the Catholic Church with the idea of reason, by deduction from primary, ontological principles. The attributes of the church follow so immediately from its primary note, as the human race restored to unity in the fellowship of God in Christ, that they require no special elucidation; especially as this particular branch of theology has been so repeatedly and so amply treated by authors.

In regard to special dogmas of the church, most of those which present any great difficulty to the understanding have already been discussed in the former part of this essay; and the remainder find an easy explication from the same principles.

The doctrine of the sacraments is explicated from the principle that the church is the instrument of sanctification. The sacraments are the particular acts by which the church communicates the spiritual vitality which resides in her to individuals. They have an outward, sensible form, because the nature of man is corporeal, and all human acts are composed of a synthesis of the sensible and the spiritual. They contain an inward, spiritual grace, because the nature of {656} man is spiritual, and receives life only from a spiritual principle. The only one of the sacraments which presents any special difficulty to the understanding is the holy eucharist; on account of the mystery of transubstantiation which is included in it's essence. The ground of this difficulty, which lies in crude, philosophical notions, and is, therefore, purely a spectre of the imagination, has been already removed by the doctrine we Have laid down respecting the nature of substance and the proper conception of space and extension. The senses transmit to the soul nothing more than the impressions of the phenomena, which the soul, by an intellectual judgment, refers to a real, intelligible substance, or active force, as their productive cause. The substance itself is not sensible, but intelligible; is not seen as an essence by the eye, but concluded by a judgment of the mind. By divine revelation it is disclosed to us, that the substance of bread and wine is the eucharist is succeeded by the substance of the body and blood of Jesus Christ; the phenomena or sensible effects of the former substance still continuing to be produced in an extraordinary manner. There is a mystery here it is true; but it is only the mystery which belongs to the inscrutable nature of the essence of matter as active force, and the mode in which this active force produces various sensible phenomena. The definitions of the church do not furnish a complete explanation of the Catholic dogma, which is left to theologians; and even theologians do not precisely coincide in their conceptions or expressions. All we can do then, after stating the Catholic dogma, is to give the explanation which appears to be the most probable, according to the judgment of the best authors and the most weighty intrinsic reasons. This is enough, however, for our purpose; for all that is required is to furnish a conception which is, on the one band, theologically tenable, and, on the other, rationally intelligible.

We may separate the synthetic judgment pronounced by the church, in the definition of the dogma, into four analytic judgments. First, the absence of the substance of bread and wine after the consecration. Second, the presence of the substance of the body of Christ. Third, the absence of the natural phenomenon of the body of Christ. Fourth, the presence of the natural phenomenon of bread and wine. In order to reconstruct these elements of the church's dogmatic judgment into a more perfect synthesis, it it is necessary to analyze further these separate propositions. There are three principle, distinct conceptions contained in them: the conception of substance; the conception of presence, or relation in space; and the conception of phenomena, or, to use the precise term employed by the schoolmen, of _accidents_. There is, also, the conception of the mode in which the phenomena of bread and wine subsists out of relation to their proper productive substances, or, the conception of the immediate, efficient cause to which they must be referred. These first three conceptions have been sufficiently analyzed in a former part of this treatise. The absence of the substance of bread and wine after consecration may be explained, in accordance with the conception of substance, by annihilation, removal, or identification with the substance of the body of Christ. The senses cannot take cognizance of its presence before consecration, it being there office merely to report phenomena; they cannot, consequently, take cognizance of its absence. They are not, therefore, deceived in reporting the phenomena as unchanged after the consecration, since they really remain unchanged; nor is the mind qualified to pronounce on the report of the senses, that the substance is unchanged, by an intellectual judgment; since the judgment which would otherwise be validly made is superseded by a divine judgment, made known through revelation, that in this instance the substance has been {657} changed for another by the creative power of God. The simplest mode of conceiving the effect of consecration on the substances of the bread and wine is to suppose their annihilation. St. Thomas, however, denies that they are annihilated, because the terminus of annihilation is nothing, whereas the terminus of the act of transubstantiation is the body of Christ. In plain words, the argument is: if the substances were annihilated, the effect of consecration would be properly expressed by saying that they are reduced to nothing, whereas the language of the church is, that they are converted into the body and blood of Christ. The same argument applies to the notion of their removal elsewhere. Nevertheless, since they are not supposed to be annihilated or removed simply for the sake of getting rid of them, and their destruction or removal is not the end or final term of the act of divine power, but only its proximate term, in order to the substitution of the body of Christ, this argument is not decisive. It is proper to say that the substance of bread is changed into the body of Christ, if the body of Christ is substituted for it; The natural phenomena which formerly indicated the presence of the one substance remaining the same, and indicating the presence of the other substance instead of that of the former substance.

Another explanation is based on the notion of one generic substance individualized in all distinct, material existences. According to this explanation, the bread and wine, being deprived of their individual existence, are not thereby destroyed; but, as it were, withdrawn into the generic substance, which is identical with the substance individualized in the body of Christ; and therefore properly said to be converted into the substance of his body. We are unable to understand how the notion on which this explanation is based, which appears to require us to accept the realism of William de Champeaux and the schoolmen, can be made intelligible; and, therefore, prefer the former, which, we believe, is the one more commonly adopted.

The presence of the body of Christ, without its natural phenomena, and under the phenomena of bread and wine; which presents usually much the greatest difficulty to the understanding, is really capable of a much more easy and certain explanation. It is present not by its extension, but by its pure substance, or _vis activa_, that is, as Perrone says, _per modum spiritâs_, after the manner of spirit. Spirit, as all Catholic philosophers teach, is related to objects in space, by the application of its intrinsic force to them. The presence of the body of Christ in the eucharist is, therefore, the application of its _vis activa_; which is, indeed, finite, but, by virtue of its supreme excellence in the created order, through the hypostatic union, commensurate with the whole created universe and all its particular parts. The body of Christ, therefore, while it is circumscribed as to its extension; and, according to the ordinary sense of the word, is present only in one place; is, in a different but real sense, present everywhere where the species of the eucharist are present. These species or phenomena of bread and wine in the eucharist, are the signs indicating its presence by its substantial force or _vis activa_. They may be produced, as every one will admit they can be, by the immediate act of God; or, by the _vis activa_ of the body of Christ; which, as a perfect body containing eminently all the perfection of inferior material substances, can produce their proper effects. The body and blood of Christ contain substantially and essentially the virtue of bread and wine, and, being in hypostatic union with the divine nature, may be capable of producing the phenomena and effects proceeding naturally from this virtue in many places at once. It appears to us more in accordance with the language of Scripture and the church to make this latter supposition. We sum up, there fore, the explanation of the mystery {658} which appears to us the most probable and rational, in this short formula. By the effect of the divine power, exercised through the act of consecrating the eucharist; the sensible phenomena, indicating before the act the presence of the _vis activa_, of bread and wine, cease to indicate it; and indicate instead of it, the presence of the _vis activa_ of the body and blood of Christ, The language of the definition pronounced by the church is thus exactly verified. There is a change of substance, without any change of phenomena. There is a transition of the substance of the bread and wine; which ceases either altogether as a distinct existence, or, at least, as the cause of the phenomena; in order to give way to the substance of the body of Christ; which is properly called a transubstantiation.

The mystery still remains, and must remain, incomprehensible by the human understanding, however clear the explanation of the difficulties which beset it may be made. Neither the senses nor the intellect can perceive the presence of Jesus Christ in the eucharist. It is believed by an act of faith in the word of Jesus Christ. The mode of this substantial presence and of its action on the soul is, moreover, but dimly apprehended; because substance itself, as a _vis activa_, and the mode of its activity, are impenetrable to reason. The rational argument respecting the dogma of faith, therefore, merely proves that it is not contrary to reason; and that it is partially intelligible by analogy with other known truths and facts. We thus understand that the presence f Jesus Christ in the species of the eucharist is _possible_. And, the revelation of its reality once made, we see also its fitness. It is most fitting and congruous that Jesus Christ should unite himself in the most perfect manner which is consistent with the condition of man in this life, with his human brethren; and that this union should be manifested to the senses. This is accomplished in the eucharist in such a way that the intellect, the imagination, or the heart of man, cannot conceive or desire anything more perfect and admirable. [Footnote 182]

[Footnote 182: _Vide_ F. Dalgairn's on the Holy Communion for a more complete elucidation of the philosophy of substance and accidents.]

We shall simply note with the greatest brevity the remaining doctrines whose consideration falls under the present head.

The absolute necessity of grace for works worthy of eternal life, and the inability of man to perform them by his natural strength, is explained by the supernatural principle of which we have already given exposition.

The merit of good works is explained by the doctrine of probation; and the distinction between this kind of merit and the merits of Christ, as well as their natural relation and harmony, is obvious from the exposition which has been made of the latter.

The Catholic doctrine respecting the Blessed Virgin and the Saints is explained by the doctrine already laid down of the glorification and deification of human nature through the incarnation.

The whole exterior and visible _cultus_ of Catholic worship is explained by the doctrine, of sensible things as signs and representations of the invisible, and of the essentially corporeal constitution of man. These, and all other particulars of Catholic doctrine, are contained in the universal or Catholic idea, which shines by its own light, and proves itself by its sublimity, integrity, symmetry, and correspondence with all the analogies of the natural world.

XIV.

THE FINAL DESTINATION OF ANGELS AND MEN; CONDITION OF THE UNREGENERATE IN THE FUTURE LIFE; ETERNITY OF THE PENALTY OF SIN; STATE OF FINAL THE BEATITUDE.

The closing articles of the creed are: "Expecto resurrectionem mortuorun et vitam venturi saeculi, Amen." "I look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world of come, Amen."

{659}

Thus, the creation, which proceeds from God as first cause, is shown to have returned to him as final cause. This is especially accomplished in the beatification of the elect; and consequently it is the glory and blessedness of heaven which is immediately and explicitly affirmed in the creed. The entire creed, however, implies, what the Catholic church in her exposition of the creed teaches dogmatically, that only a portion of the angelic hierarchy and the human race attain heaven. The doctrine of hell, or the place and state of those who are excluded from heaven, is, therefore, the necessary correlate of the doctrine of heaven. So far as the human race is concerned, we have to consider, first, what is the condition in eternity of those who are subject to the consequences of original sin only.

It follows from the doctrine already laid down, namely, that the state to which man is reduced by original sin, is entitively the same with that in which consists the state of pure nature; that the condition of this class of human beings in eternity is the same that it would be if they had never been constituted in the order of the supernatural. They are destitute of supernatural beatitude, but attain to all the felicity of which they are capable in the natural order. They are elevated in the due course of nature to that integrity and perfection of soul and body which, in the case of Adam, was anticipated by a gratuitous gift. Their felicity consists in a perfect exemption from an liability to sin, in the complete evolution of their natural capacities, and in the possession of the proper object of their intelligence and will, that is, in the knowledge and fruition of the works of God, and of God himself by abstractive contemplation. This last expression needs some explanation in order to show its conformity with the doctrine we have laid down at the beginning of these essays respecting the primitive intuition of reason. We have there affirmed that the original intuition of reason is the intuition of that idea which is afterward demonstrated by reflection to be identical with the being of God. Some, rejecting this doctrine of the idea, object to it that it leads to a confusion of the act of intelligence constitutive of rational nature with the act proper only to beatified nature, that is, the intuitive vision of God. Others, who accept it, endeavor to rebut this objection, and to show the distinction between the knowledge of God derived from rational intuition and that which is communicated by the light of glory. But in doing this they make the first to be only the inchoation of the second, and the second the completion or full evolution of the first. It would follow, then, that a rational creature cannot attain to the proper object of his intelligence and will, consequently cannot attain perfect felicity, without the beatific vision. We cannot admit either that the objection is a valid one or that the explanation which is made in order to do away with it is sufficient. We venture, therefore, to suggest another.

It is real and concrete being, not possible and abstract being, which is the intelligible object of reason. Reason, however, does not, by an intrinsic, perceptive power, actively elicit the intuition of its intelligible object. In other words, it is not by its virtue as intelligence that real being, or the intelligible, becomes intelligible to it. The intelligible has the precedence and the superiority in the act of intelligence. The presence of the object makes the subject intelligent in the first act, and this first act is one in which the creative spirit is the agent and the created spirit the terminus of the act. The original, immediate contact of the intellect with real, concrete being, that is, with God, is, therefore, a contact in which the soul is passive, because this contact precedes and is the cause of its activity. It is only by reflection, or bending backward upon itself, that the intellect can have distinct self-consciousness and elicit thought. When it does so, it takes always the affirmation of real, necessary being, by which {660} God created it rational, as the first and absolute elements of its thoughts. But this affirmation, as soon as it enters into reflection, and becomes an element of the spontaneous activity of the soul, becomes _abstract_. It is not a pure abstraction, or an act which terminates on the abstract or possible as its ultimate object, but an abstraction formed from the concrete object as apprehended by the passive intelligence, or an abstract conception of the concrete idea. It would require too much time to develop this statement fully. But it is plain at a single glance that it is justified by the facts of consciousness. All our judgments respecting necessary and universal truth are abstract. The judgment respecting necessary cause, that respecting the infinite and the eternal, that respecting ideal space and time, those which respect mathematical relations, and those which form the data of logic, are all of this kind. There is no direct, immediate intuition of God as the infinite, concrete, personal truth, to be found in our consciousness; as we have previously proved in our demonstration of the being of God. The necessity of using the term _intuition_ in reference to our apprehension of the idea is, therefore, an unfortunate one, and gives rise to a confusion of the act in which we conclude the existence and attributes of God by a rational, deductive judgment, with the act in which the soul immediately beholds him by an intellectual vision. Intuition and vision are, strictly speaking identical. Experience teaches us that our first distinct vision is the vision of sensible objects, and that we refer constantly to this as the standard of clear vision, since there is nothing which appears to us equally clear and distinct. By the aid of our perception of the sensible, we attain to the perception of ourselves as existing, thinking spirit, and of other spirits like our own. But we never attain a similar intuition of God by the mere exercise of our intellective activity. It is of the essence of a created spirit that its active intuition or intellective vision is limited to finite objects as its immediate terminus, commensurate to its finite visual power. It sees God only mediately, as his being and attributes are reflected and imaged in finite things, and therefore its highest contemplation of God is merely abstractive. The natural felicity of created spirits is, therefore, at its maximum, when they attain the most perfect exercise of their faculties in this mode of action which is connatural to them. It is the fruition of God mediately through his creation.

We now proceed to show that the Catholic doctrine permits us to believe that this perfect felicity which is possible without supernatural grace is actually conceded to those who die in original sin only. It is reasonable to believe that any felicity which those souls can attain, consistently with their position as liable to the eternal consequences of original sin, will be actually attained by them. For God has created them for good; and to what end as he made them capable of this felicity, unless it be that they may possess and enjoy it? We shall quote from a treatise written in the seventeenth century by F. Maria Gabrielli, in defense of the doctrine of Cardinal Sfondrati, a very thorough summary of the opinions of the theologians on this point: [Footnote 183]

[Footnote 183: Dispunctio Notarum, 40 etc, Colon. 1699.]

"Joseph Maria de Requesens [Footnote 184] enumerates in his little book on the state of infants many theologians of great name who concede to these infants a certain kind of imperfect natural beatitude.

[Footnote 184: de Statu Parvui. Rom. 1684.]

He says that Richard (of St. Victor) teaches that these children will have more goods and greater joy in their possession than sinners have who possess created goods in this life. Lyra says, that according to the opinion of all doctors they will enjoy a happier life than would be naturally possible in this present world. Almost in the same way speak Origen, Marsilius, St. Buonaventure, Cajetan, and others {661} cited by Cornelius à Lapide, who all teach that children dying without baptism lead a happier life than those who are living on the earth. Lessius writes, that although they may be said to be damned because eternally deprived of the celestial glory for which they were created, it is nevertheless credible that their state is far happier and more joyful than that of any mortal man in this life. Salmeron says, these children will rise again through Christ and above this natural order, where they will daily advance in the knowledge of the works of God and of separate substances, _will have angelic visits_, and will be like our rustics living in the country, so that as they are in a medium between glory and punishment, they will also occupy an intermediate place. Suarez says, that children will remain in their natural good and will be content with their lot; and, together with Marsilius as quoted by Azor, he describes to them a _knowledge and love of God above all things_, and the other natural virtues. Didacus Ruiz, a theologian of extensive reading, lays down this conclusion: Great mercy will be mingled with the punishment of infants dying in original sin, although not a diminution of the punishment of loss, since that is incapable of diminution; yet in the remission of death which was the punishment directly do to original sin, and would naturally have endured to eternity, so that in spite of this infants will be resuscitated at the day of judgment nevermore to die, endowed with supernatural incorruptibility and impassibility, and they will also supernaturally receive accidental, infused sciences, and will be liberated from all pain, sadness, sickness, temptations, and personal sins, which are naturally wont to arise from original sin. Consequently, they are liberated from the punishment of hell which they might have incurred. Albert (the Great), Alexander (de Hales), and St. Thomas agree with this doctrine. Suarez shows that these children obtain some benefit, in a certain way, from the merits of Christ; and says that it pertains to the glory of Christ that he should be adored and acknowledged as prince and supreme judge on the day of universal judgment even by infants who died without grace. He also considers it more probable that they will understand that they have done neither good nor evil, and therefore receive neither glory nor pain of sense, and also that they are deprived of glory on account of sin (that is, original). He adds the reason of this, to wit, that they may understand the benefit which they received, first in Adam and afterward in Christ, and on this account may worship and adore him. Martinonus adds: when even the demons love God in a certain way even more than themselves as the common good of all, according to St. Thomas, why shall not these children love Christ as their benefactor and the author of their resurrection, and of the benefits which they receive with it through Christ, who is the destroyer of corporeal as well as spiritual death? He cites also what Suarez says, that although one who should speak of the bodies of infants in the same way as of the other damned would say nothing improbable, since St. Thomas speaks of all indifferently, nevertheless since those bodies will have a greater perfection and some gifts or benefits which are not at all due to nature, therefore, in regard to these gifts, Christ may be said to be their model. The same Martinonus subjoins: although those words of the apostle, "In Christ all shall be made alive," Suarez affirms, must be properly and principally understood of the predestined, nevertheless they can probably be applied to a certain extent to these children, inasmuch as they will have in their risen bodies a certain special conformity and relation to Christ, which will be much less and more imperfect in the damned than in the predestined. Nicholas de Lyra affirms that "infants dying without baptism do not endure any sensible punishment, but have a more delightful {662} life than can be had in this present life, _according to all the doctors_, [Footnote 185] who speak concerning those who die in original sin alone."

[Footnote 185: This is true of the great majority, but not of all.]

Those who die in actual sin, and the fallen angels, although in the same state of existence with those who die in original gin only, that is, in the Infernum, or sphere below the supernatural sphere of the elect angels and men, have to undergo a punishment corresponding to their individual demerits. This truth, which is clearly revealed in the Holy Scriptures and defined by the church, is confirmed by the analogies of this present life. The transgressions of law is punished in this world in accordance with the sense of justice which is universal among men. There is no reason, therefore, for supposing that the same principle of retribution is not continued in the future life. Moreover, there is positive proof from reason that it must continue. There has never been a more absurd doctrine broached than that of the Universalists. To suppose that all men are saved on account of the merits of Christ without regard to their moral state or personal merits, is most unreasonable; and subversive of the moral order as well as destructive of the idea of a state of probation. It is equally absurd to imagine that the mere fact of death can make any change in the state of the soul, or that separation from the body causes the soul to make a mechanical rebound from a state of sin to a state of holiness. The soul can be made happy only from its own intrinsic principles, and not by a mere arbitrary appointment of God, or a bestowal of extrinsic means of enjoyment. Sin brings its own punishment, and the state of sin is in itself a state of misery. Plato and other heathen sages taught the doctrine of future punishment, Mr. Alger, who has written the most elaborate work on the subject of the history of the doctrine of a future life which has appeared in recent times, has fully proved the universality of the doctrine of future punishment. Other rationalistic writers of ability have also of late years seen the impossibility of removing this doctrine from the teaching of Christianity and from universal tradition. We have already fully proved that God does not deprive any of his rational creatures of the felicity which is proper to their nature by his own act. It follows from this that it is the creature himself who is the author of his own misery. Existence is in itself a good, a boon conceded from love by the Creator. So far as this good is turned into an evil, it is by a voluntary perversion of the gift of a benevolent sovereign by the subject himself. The punishment which he must undergo in eternity is, therefore, the necessary consequence of his own acts, together with such positive penalties as are required by the ends of justice and the universal good. This doctrine, which is the doctrine of the Catholic Church, based on the clear evidence of Scripture and ecclesiastical tradition, [Footnote 186] is also the doctrine of calm, unbiased reason, and of the common sense of mankind. The probation of the Angels having been finished with their first trial, and the probation of men ending for individuals at death, and for mankind generically at the day of judgment, the epic of grace is closed for ever with the completion of this present cycle of providence; and consequently the state of all angels and men is fixed for eternity. Hell is, therefore, an eternal state out of which there is no possibility of transition into heaven.

[Footnote 186: It is now considered by the best authorities as fully proved that Origen and St. Gregory Nyssen, who have been so often cited by the advocates of the doctrine of universal salvation, did not teach anything contrary to the Catholic doctrine of eternal punishment.]

Heaven, or life everlasting, is the eternal state of supreme, supernatural beatitude, to which the elect angels and men are elevated by the grace of God, and in which they participate in the {663} glorified and the deific state of the Incarnate Word, through and ineffable fellowship with the three persons of the Blessed Trinity.

Man being integrally composed by the union of soul and body, and his corporeal nature being hypostatically United with the divine nature in the person of the Word, the resurrection of the body must necessarily precede his complete glorification. The only difficulty which the doctrine of the resurrection of the body presents to the understanding relates to the principal of identity between the earthly and celestial body. This principle of identity, or unity and continuity of life, must be the same with that which constitutes the unity of the body in all the stages of its natural growth; and through all the changes of its material particles, from the instant of its conception to its disintegration by death. It is the soul which is the form of the body, its vivifying principle. The soul and body have an innate correspondence with each other, not only in the generic sense, but in the sense of an individual aptitude of each separate soul for its own body, and each separate body for its own soul. The soul and body act and react upon each other perpetually while the development of both is going on, producing a specific type in each individual which is a modification of the generic type of manhood. The determination of the active force of the soul to the production of this type remains with it after the separation from the body. At the resurrection, it forms anew its own proper body in accordance with this type which is the product of the conjoint action of the soul and body during the earthly life. There is, therefore, the same continuity and identity between the earthly body and the celestial body that there is between the body of the embryo and that of the full-grown man. The celestial body is the same that it would have been if there had been no death intervening between the two corporeal states, but a transformation of the earthly body into the celestial perfection and glorification of its proper type. If this is not all which is included in the definition of the church respecting the identity of the body in the two states, we must believe, in addition to what has been stated already, that there is a material monad which forms the nucleus of the corporeal organization and is a physical principle of identity. This physical principle must contain virtually the whole body, as the germ does the plant; it must be preserved when the body is disintegrated; and reunited to the soul at the resurrection, in order to become the physical germ from which the celestial body is developed.

The natural beatitude of the glorified angels and saints, which is only a more exalted grade of that felicity which is accorded to the inferior intelligent creation, need not be specially noticed. It is the essential and supreme beatitude consisting in the clear, intuitive vision of God, which is the principal subject of the divine revelation proposed by the creed as the object of faith.

The possibility of this divine vision will not be called in question by any who are properly speaking theists and rationalists, and with others we have nothing to do at present. Much less will it be questioned by any class of believers in the divine inspiration of the Scriptures. We have not, then, the task of laboring to show the intrinsic reasonableness and credibility of the doctrine, but merely of setting forth that which can be made intelligible respecting the _relation between our present state in which we are unable to see God, and the future state in which we may be enabled to see him_. The examination of this relation includes that of the means and method by which the soul is elevated to an immediate intuition of that which constitutes the divine essence and personality. It requires a statement which shall show what is the nexus between the act which constitutes the soul in the power to exercise {664} intelligence, and that which constitutes it in the power to behold God immediately. It may be said, that the essence of the soul is transformed or enlarged in such a way that it becomes able, _per se_, to see God as it now perceives the creation. But this would be equivalent to the creation of a new essence with a new personality; which would destroy the identity of the subject who is supposed to be elevated to this new grade of existence. Moreover, according to the doctrine we have laid down, that supernatural grace elevates the soul _super omnem naturam creatam atque creabilem_, the supposition is impossible. We cannot go over again the principles already discussed, but merely endeavored to state such a theory of the mode of the beatific vision as shall be in harmony with these principles. We, therefore, dismiss this first supposition without further discussion. Another supposition may be made, that the complete evolution of the idea of God which the soul possesses in the present state in an obvolute manner bring it to that relation _vis-à-vis_ two God as its intelligible object, which corresponds to the relation of the visual faculty to the visible, material object. We cannot accept this supposition any more than the other. It contradicts the principles we have previously laid down, and the generally accepted maxims of Catholic theology respecting the supernatural quality of the power conceded by God to the creature of beholding his intimate essence, just as palpably as the first one. We do not deny that the reason of man is to a great degree in a obvolute condition in this life, and that it is capable of evolution in another and higher life. In this higher life the soul may be capable of perceiving immediately the essence of things, and spiritual substances, after the mode of intelligence which is proper to the angels. But the angels themselves, according to Catholic theology, though created at the summit of the intelligent order, with the complete exercise of intelligence in the highest possible grade, have no natural power to see God immediately; and their natural knowledge of him, though very perfect, is merely abstractive contemplation like that of men. The power of seeing spiritual substances, and the perfect evolution of the idea of God in the soul, therefore, do not give the intuition of the essence of God which constitutes the beatific vision. The beatific vision is supernatural, by means of immediate light communicated by God to the intelligence, called by theologians _lumen gloriae_, the light of glory. By means of this light the intelligence perceives God by an active intuition, or a clear, distinct act of reflective consciousness, as immediately present to it in the creative act, the cause of its existence, the source of its active power, the light of its reason, in whom it lives in moves and as it's being. God presents himself to the intelligence immediately in his concrete being, as the visible world is presented to the eye by the light of the sun. This is not accomplished by the creation of any new essential faculty in the soul or the addition of anything to its substance. The very same intelligent, thinking principle, or subject, which in this present state of existence of firms to itself the existence of God by and intellectual judgment, behold him in the beatific state by an intuitive vision. It must be, then, by a concurrence of God with the same faculties of the mind by which we think and reason and perceive, and our self-conscious, in our natural mode of rational activity, that the intelligence is raised to this higher power of supernatural intuition. That act which constitutes it rational in the natural order, must be the basis and substratum of its supernatural tuition of the divine essence. It has already been proved that a created spirit cannot be constituted rational in the first instance by the beatific vision of God; that is, cannot have an essence whose intrinsic, necessary act is a clear intuition of the divine essence, like that {665} act in which God has the eternal, necessary intelligence of himself. The created spirit must first be constituted a rational, intelligent subject, before it can be capable of a supernatural illumination. It must be extrinsicated from God, made a distinct, thinking substance, and constituted in its own finite, rational activity; before there can be any subject, or really existing, active force, with which God can concur; with which he can unite himself, and to which he can communicate the power of looking back upon himself by a distinct intuition. The created spirit must be, therefore, in a certain sense, self-subsisting, or containing in itself its own rational principle. It must have its own separate self-consciousness as a thinking substance, containing within itself all the necessary principles of thought. The necessary, the universal, the eternal, or, in a word, the idea, cannot be contained in a created spirit in its concrete being, but only in an abstract form, any image, or a created word. This is identical with the intelligence itself; it is what constitutes its intellective force and principle of activity. In man, as we have already seen, this intellective activity needs the concurrence of exterior, sensible objects, acting on it through the senses and occasioning perceptions and reflections, before it can attain distinct reflective consciousness of itself, and evolve its own ideal formula. This reflective consciousness cannot go back of the soul itself, where it finds the abstractive idea passively received from concrete being. The contact of being, or of God who is alone being, gives the apprehension of being to the soul by creating it. The creative act, and the being who produces the creative act, are unperceived by the soul, and lie back of its existence, which is the terminus of the creative act. The soul's separate activity begins at the terminus of God's activity, and is projected forward to its own proper terminus. Its natural activity would never bring it face to face with its creator, God, or enable it to contemplate him in any other way than it is now able to do so, by the vividly apprehended demonstration of his being from its own first principles and exterior works of his hand. In order that the soul, in its reflexive acts, may see God continually and clearly, it is necessary that he should unite himself in a new and ineffable manner to its substance and its faculties, and concur with them in such a way that they can look beyond their natural limit of vision into the infinitude of the being of God which surrounds the creation like an ocean on every side. The soul, which is, so to speak, projected from God by creation, must receive a movement of return, which does not arrest itself at the mere fact of self-consciousness, but brings the soul to a consciousness of God as immediately and personally producing its self-consciousness. This act is most perfect in the human soul of Jesus Christ, the Incarnate Word. The personality of the human and divine natures in him being one, there is but one Ego. The human soul, therefore, terminates its act of self-consciousness, not upon itself, as its own _subsistentia_, but upon the divine Ego or person. It is conscious of itself as a distinct substance, but not a substance completed and brought to distinct subsistence in itself. Its consciousness terminates in the divine person, and is referred to it, so that Jesus Christ, in every human act, affirms himself by self-consciousness as both God and man in one person. The union of glorified spirits to God is similar to this hypostatic union, though not so perfect, and not implying personal identity. The nature and mode of this union of the created spirit with God, by which it is glorified, beatified, and even deified--as the doctors of the church fear not to affirm, in accordance with the declaration of the Holy Scripture--is impenetrable to the human understanding. The Indian philosophers, having retained a confused idea of it from the primitive revelation, have expressed this idea in their sublime mysticism with all the superb imagery of their luxuriant imaginations. With {666} them, it is an absorption of all individual souls in the infinite fount of being. Nearly all their language may, however, be adopted, in a good sense, as expressing the Christian dogma, if clear, philosophical conceptions are substituted for their obscure and unscientific notions of the creative act. Without these clear conceptions and definitions, it is impossible to escape money into pantheism. The language of Christian mystic writers, even, is liable to misapprehension as expressing the pantheistic notion of the identity of God and the creatures, unless their terms are properly explained. In point of fact, Eckhart did give expression to some propositions which implied pantheism and were condemned by the Holy See. The mystic writers continually affirm that the soul is made _una res cum Deo_, and becomes God by participation. By this, however, they do not mean that the soul loses its distinct substance or becomes identified with the divine nature. They intend to signify and ineffable union between the soul and God, in which, each remaining distinct in its own proper essence, God communicates his own knowledge, sanctity, glory, and beatitude to the soul; and admits it into the Fellowship of the Blessed Trinity. This is the vanishing point of all theology, and of all sciences, beyond which even the most illuminated eye cannot penetrate. The return of all things which proceed from God as first cause to God as final cause, consummated in this beatific union, solves all the problems of time; there remains only the problem of eternity, which eternity alone can solve.

ORIGINAL.

MY AUNT'S WORK-BOX.

Sure, such a mess was never seen Of white and brown and black and green! Not Noah's Ark, Pandora's box, Such dire confusion e'er displayed Here's wool, shorn from the fleecy flocks That o'er Circassian Meadows strayed, With spools of cotton, every number; Buttons and studs, and other lumber; Needles of every size and kind, The blunts and sharps, the coarse and fine; White linen, recent wounds to bind; And rows of pins in order to shine. Lo! Thimbles, for each finger fit, And yarn too darn with or to knitt. Here's sewing-silk of every hue From brilliant red to modest blue; And floss, with which the maiden traces, With all the painter's art and skill, Flowers, landscapes, birds, and human faces, The verdant field or purling rill. Here every sort of thread is seen, The jolly ball and languid skein; And here's the ivory thing that shapes Small eyelet-holes in caps and capes.

{667}

Look at that pair of rusty tweezers! They must blame their many years. Dear! what a tiny pair of scissors! Sure, they're the twins of those huge shears. Here's lots of crewel, which I mean To use, someday, to work the screen. Here are pin-cushions and emery bags, Small shreds of lace and other rags, Linen, calico, and crape, And hanks of twine and bits of tape. In short, here's every earthly thing That thrifty wife could wish, I ween; But I've not time to say or sing The treasures of this magazine.

Original.

HOW MY AUNT PILCHER FOUND THE CATHOLIC CHURCH.

Perhaps you don't know my aunt, Patients Pilcher? Very likely not. i know her very well, and am going to tell you something about her. She is my mother's sister, and was born in the town of Squankum, Vermont, where she lived until she was over thirty years old--she says, twenty-five, but that don't matter--when she came to New York to see Uncle George. Well, Aunt Pilcher was mightily pleased and surprised when she saw New York; and as she knew every house, barn, and fence, and every lane and field in Squankum, and to whom they belonged, she thought she must find out as much about New York. She had no sooner taken off her bonnet and shawl when she got to our house--I say _our_, because I live with Uncle George since mother died--than she wanted to put them on again and go out "and see the places, and find out where people lived, and git introduced," as she said, adding that she would "hev to begin directly, or she would never git through."

My Aunt Pilcher is a very tall, thin woman, with a very cold face, as I found out on the first day she came to our house, when she bent over and kissed me. She thought I wiped off her kiss, and said "Oh, fie!" but it wasn't that, it was the cold. As I was saying, she wanted to see all of New York, and I believe she has, too, by this time; but she soon got disgusted with what she called "the offishness of the Yorkers." "You don't know anybody," said she, "and nobody 'pears to want to know you." She never tired, however, of seeing the many beautiful buildings in the city, and among them all the churches seem to her to be the most attractive and the most worthy of her close investigation.

"I'm gittin 'most ashamed of our wooden meetin'-house to Squankum," said she, one day, after returning from a visit to Trinity Church; "we used to be kinder proud of it, though, when some of the folks down to Rattlebog came over to spend Sabbath with us; 'cause ye know what a mis'able little country skule-house of a place they've got over there. Then, ye've got sich a lot o' churches, my! I'm 'most afeered never see them all, or I'll forgit abeout the first ones afore I git through."

"What sort of churches have you seen, aunty?" I asked.

{668}

"Oh! I've seen white-marbled ones and brown-stun ones, and a sort o' speckled mixed ones like Washin'ton cake, ye know, a streak o' jelly and a streak o' cake. Then agin, I've seen all kinds o' styles; Grecian, Beshantem, Gothys, high-steepled style, low-steepled style, and no-steepled style. But I haint seeing a green winder-shutter one like ours to Squankum yit. I s'pose the taste in architectur here in York don't run that 'a way."

But I was not thinking of the outside of the churches when I asked her the question, but of their inside. The truth was that Uncle George and I had been two or three times to see Mass and Vespers in the Catholic Church, and I was so full of all I had seen and heard there that I was nearly dying to talk with some one about it. But Uncle George had told me that he thought Aunt Jane--that is, Uncle George's sister who keeps house for him and me--might possibly disapprove of our going again if I happened to mention it, and so I took care to say nothing about it. I was very anxious to find out if Aunt Pilcher had seeing a Catholic Church, so I asked her if she happened to see any boys in the churches she had been to.

"Boys!" said she. "Why boys? Of course boys. Shouldn't boys go to meetin' as well as girls?"

"But boys dressed up," said I.

"Dressed up! Laws yes, in their best Sunday-go-to-meetin', as they ort to be."

"In long red coats, perhaps, down to their heels," I suggested, in spite of Uncle George's frown; "with nice white lace jackets over that again, and carrying torch-lights and censers, and going up and down and all around?" I added, eager to describe all I had seen.

"Why! what's come to the boy?" exclaimed Aunt Pilcher, raising up her hands in astonishment. "He ain't right," meaning in my head."'

"Oh! yes, he is!" said Uncle George, "that's the way the Catholics go on in their churches, and I suppose that Fred must have seen it somewhere."

"Catholics!" ejaculated Aunt Pilcher, in a tone of horror, and half looking over her shoulder as if some ghost of one might come in at the sound of the word. "Ye don't mean them papists and other Jesuits that call themselves Catholics! It's enough to make a body hate the name."

"That won't do, you know, sister Pilcher," said Uncle George, "because it is in the Apostles' Creed."

"I know it," returned Aunt Pilcher, "but I'd like to know what the Holy Catholic Church in the Apostles' Creed has got to do with them ignorant idolaters, the Catholics, the Roman papists, I mean?"

"It's the same name, that's all," said Uncle George, with a sly twinkle in his eye; "and they say it's the same thing."

"Which in course is nonsense!" ejaculated my aunt.

"Oh! of course it is," rejoined Uncle George. "We are the real and true Catholic Church, and if some one wanted to come to our true and real Holy Catholic Church we would just tell him to ask for the Catholic church and anybody would show him."

"Well, they ort to, that's all I got to say," said Aunt Pilcher doubtfully.

"Certainly," continued Uncle George, "and I've no doubt now, sister Pilcher, that if you were to go out and ask people in the street here to point you to a Catholic church that they would show you our Protestant churches directly."

Aunt Pilcher looked very hard at Uncle George, as if she feared he might be making game of her; but he looked so solemn and sedate that she didn't suspect, but I did, and I got a crick in the back of my neck trying to keep from laughing. She seemed to think that she was bantered by my uncle, and said:

"Well, I never sot eout to do a thing yit that I didn't do it, and I'm going to do _that_."

"Hurrah! Aunt Pilcher," I shouted, "I would too, if I were you." And that confirmed her in her engagement, {669} for the very next morning she put on her bonnet and shawl, and hung her reticule on her arm, without which she never went out of doors, and off she started. She was gone all day and did not return until tea-time, appearing completely fagged out and exhausted. She was not in the best of humors either, to judge of the way she pulled off her out-door additions to her ordinary dress, and bade me "carry them things up-stairs, for people dead a'most and starved can't always be expected to wait on theirselves." But not a word did she say about the object of her long day's journey. I was all curiosity to know where, she had been and what she had seen; and when we had nearly got through tea, that is, Uncle George, Aunt Jane, Aunt Pilcher, I, and Bub Thompson, who had come to play with me in the afternoon, and said he smelt short-cake, and wondered whether Aunt Jane could make it nice, and so got invited to try them--then I could stand it no longer, and said I, "See anything nice to-day, Aunt Pilcher?"

"I didn't particularly _see_ anything, my dear, but I heered something I shan't forgit, I can tell you, if hearin' a thing a hundred and ninety-nine times over is enough to' make a body remember it."

"What did you hear, aunt?" asked everybody at once.

"Hear!" exclaimed she. "These Yorkers never knows anything if a body asks them a perlite question abeout who lives in any house, or which is the way to somewhere; but to-day I do think they was all possessed, for everybody 'peared to know only one church, when, dear knows, they ort to know their own churches, I should think, and not be a' directin' everybody everlastin'ly to St. Peter's."

"How was that, aunt?" asked every one again.

"Well," said she, "I told you what I was goin' eout for, and I went. Neow I always do things in order: commence at the beginnin', I say, and then ye'll know when ye git to the eend. So I went clean deown to the battery, and then I turns reound and comes up. Not wishin' to ask questions of people _too_ fur off (for these Yorkers don't know where anythin' is ef it ain't right deown under their nose), I walked on till I got pretty near Trinity Church, belongin' to the Episcopals, and says I to a knowledgable lookin' man, says I, 'Couldn't ye pint me eout, neow, a Catholic church?' 'I can't precisely pint ye to it,' says he, which I thort was queer, with a Christian church right afore his eyes, 'but I can tell you where one is: in Barclay street, right up Broadway, ma'am, Saint Peter's church,' and off he went like a shot. These Yorkers air in _sich_ a hurry, they won't stop to hear a body eout. Well, on I walks, and I saw another church, Saint Paul's in Broadway, similarly belongin' to the Episcopals; and this time I got straight in front of it. The folks 'peared to be in sich an orful hurry jist here that I thort somebody must be dead; or somebody's house had ketch't afire, and I couldn't git eout the first word afore the person I spoke to was a whole block off, and I got kind o' bewildered like. At last, I tried a lady--for I give the men folks up--and says I to her:

"'Is this a meetin'-house of the Holy Catholic Church, ma'am?'

"'No, ma'am,' says she rather short, 'ef you want to go there, you had better go deown Barclay street, next street above, St. Peter's on the left,' and off she went. Well; I goes deown Barclay street, jist to see this St. Peter's, and do you believe, I found eout it was one of them papist churches.'

"That was rather strange," interrupted Uncle George.

"I thort it was a leetle so myself," said Aunt Pilcher, "and I began to conceit people took me for a papist or a Jesuit, so I made up my mind to say so to once; and on I walks agin till I come to Broome street, deown which I went till I found a nice look-in' church, and says I to a minister-lookin' gentleman, says I:

{670}

"'I'm not a Jesuit, sir.'

"'Glad to hear it, ma'am,' says he, 'there are concealed Jesuits all over.'

"'I'm a Protestant,' says I, 'pre-haps you can show me a meetin'-house that believes in the Holy Catholic Church; is that one there?'

"I am grieved,' says he, 'that anybody should wish to know anythin' abeout the Catholic Church, and I hope you have no intention of goin' to sich a place of abomination.'

"He didn't 'pear to know my mean-in', so says I, 'I mean the _real_ Catholic Church.'

"'Ma'am,' says he, 'real or unreal, it is always the same thing; always was and always will be. That is a Baptist church, ma'am, before you, and not a Catholic mass house. There is one of them, called St. Peter's, in Barclay street, I believe,' and off he walked without sayin' another word. 'Patience,' says I to myself, 'be true to your name,' for, to tell the truth, I was gettin' a leetle bit flustrated. I walks on, turnin' corners and reound and reound, and at last I got into a street called Bedford street. There I saw a meetin'-house with a sign over the door tellin' it was a Methodist. Says I to a man that was jist then sweepin reound the door--thinkin' to begin right this time--says 'I:

"'My Christian friend, the apostles believed in the Holy Catholic Church.'

'"Not a bit of it,' says he.

"'Oh! yes,' says I, 'they did; it is in the Apostles' Creed.'

"'Is it?' says he.

"'Yes, it is, and what's more, you ort to know it,' says I, gettin' bothered with sich ignorance.

"'None o' yer impudence,' says he.

"'Why, good lands!' says I, almost swearin', 'they believe in the Holy Catholic Church in this meetin'-house, don't they?'

"'No, they don't, and don't want to,' says he, and slammed the door in my face. Then I wanders reound and seen lots of churches, but I didn't see anybody, to speak to till I got ever so fur off in the Fifth avenue, where I saw a handsome brick church with a tall steeple, and there I saw some people goin' in. I asked what was goin' on, and they said it was a prayer--meetin". I should liked to have jined in a York prayer-meetin', but I wasn't in a fit state jist then--in sich a twitter as I was--so I ups and speaks to a young lady who looked like a Sabbath school teacher, and says I:

"'The real Catholic Church in the Apostles' Creed is where the gospil is preached.' She kinder opened her eyes at me, and says she:

"'The gospil is preached here, ma'am; but this is not a Catholic church; this is a Presbyterian church.'

"'But,' says I agin,' where the gospil is preached is the true Catholic Church.'

"'I guess not,' says she, 'the gospil is not preached in the Catholic Church.'

"'Well, ma'am,' says I, feelin' considerably riled, 'I guess I larnt my catechism, not afore you was born, but abeout the same time, I should say; and I'm jist lookin' for somebody else that knows it, and if anybody in York knows what and where the Holy Catholic Church is;' and do you believe she actually turned 'reound to another gal and said I was crazy, and had run away from a 'sylum. I went away disgusted and tried agin, one plase and another. I even tried the Washin'ton cake church in the Fourth avenue, but not a soul would own up to what they ort to believe. You wouldn't get papists sendin' you to their St. Peter's, I'll be bound, if you asked them for a Protestant church."

"Of course not," said Uncle George, "and what conclusion have you come to, sister Pilcher?"

"I've come to the conclusion," said Aunt Pilcher, "that these Yorkers don't know the Apostles' Creed."

"I should say," said Bub Thompson, "that those folks you 'saw didn't believe it."

{671}

"Boy!" exclaimed Aunt Pilcher, with an awful expression of countenance, "speak when you air spoken to."

"How is it when you're spoken about?" asked Bub; "'cause I'm a Catholic, a papist as you say, and you've been speaking about my church."

"My! I never!" ejaculated Aunt Pilcher, looking first at one and then at another for explanation.

"Sister Pilcher," said Uncle George, "the truth is, it is no use for us Protestants to call ourselves Catholics, for we are not. You see how everybody denied it. Of course you could never get a Protestant to own to the name of 'Catholic,' either here in New York or anywhere else, any more than you could persuade any one to give us the name; and it seems to me that where the name is, and always has been, the reality is likely to be. As for your experiment to-day, it is just what would have happened thirteen hundred years ago; for I read in a book that Bub Thompson's father lent me, that St. Augustine said, speaking about the sects that tried to call themselves 'Catholics' in his time: 'The very name of _Catholic_ detains me in the Catholic Church, which that church has alone, and not without cause, obtained among so many heretics, in such a way as that while all heretics wish to be called Catholics, nevertheless not one of them will dare to point out his basilica or house to a stranger inquiring for a place of Catholic worship." [Footnote 187]

[Footnote 187: Epist. contra Manich. I. 5, 6.]

"Well! sakes alive! live and larn," exclaimed Aunt Pilcher, "but it's enough to make a body think they never knowed anythin' when they find oat some things!"

Translated from Le Contemporain.

A PORTRAIT OF FRA ANGELICO.

BY EDMOND LAFONDE.

At dawn of a summer's day in the year of grace 1453, a Dominican monk set out from his convent of Santa Maria sopra Minerva, at Rome. He was an old man, but the brightness of youth still shown in his aged countenance, attributable, perhaps, to the shadowless sanctity of his life, and the purity of a soul which had never known wrinkles. He walked slowly in his dress of white woolen covered with a black scapular, his shaven head bared to the sun, his eyes cast down, and his hands employed in rolling the beads of the Rosary of St. Dominic. He traversed the square of the Pantheon, and was going to cross the bridge of St. Angelo, when, in passing the prison of the Tor di Nona, he saw coming out of it a funeral cortége; a condemned person, led to death in the usual place of execution, the piazza della Bocca Verità. A man nearly forty years of age, of noble and proud figure, but seemingly worn out by vice or grief; his costume curious, and wholly oriental; clothed in red silk, with a turban ornamented with gold and ermine. A Franciscan accompanied him, but endeavored in vain to direct his thoughts to heaven, and make him kiss the crucifix, from which he turned away his lips in discussed. The crowd that followed, becoming infuriated, exhorted him to penitence, crying out, "Amico, pensa a salvar l'anima." "My friend, think of saving thy soul."

{672}

As soon as the Franciscans saw a brother priest, he called to him, saying: "Ah! Fra Giovanni, in the name of the holy friendship which united our two glorious patriarchs, St. Dominic and St. Francis, come to my aid. You see this unhappy man. He is one of the Greeks just come from Italy, since the taking of Constantinople. His name is Argyropoulos. He has murdered a Roman woman; is doomed to die, and will not reconcile himself with God. He is not merely schismatical, but pagan. Try if you can be more successful than I." At a sign from the chief of the guard the _cortége_ stopped--for in Rome, since the earliest age, pontifical justice does not wish to kill the soul, and makes every effort to save it while sacrificing the guilty body. Fra Giovanni tried to speak to the Greek, but was met with repulse and blasphemy. With tears rolling down his cheeks he whispered a few words to the Franciscan, who, elevating his voice, thus addressed the chief of the guard: "This son of St. Dominic," he said, "is Fra Giovanni of Fiesole, the favorite painter of his holiness. He is going to the Vatican, and will ask the Holy Father a delay of one day, in order to try once more to induce the sinner to repent." The people applauded, and the captain of the guard declared himself willing to assume the responsibility of suspending the execution while awaiting a new order from the sovereign pontiff. The condemned man, who remained apparently immovable during this debate, was re-conducted into the prison of Tor di Nona, where still later were to be enclosed the guilty family of Cenci, and the Franciscan entered with him. The crowd remained a long time before the door, losing none of its interest or curiosity. Fra Giovanni again pursued his way to the Vatican, his soul, so calm ordinarily, deeply agitated and troubled by the unfortunate event. Arrived at the square of St. Peter, he kneeled by the obelisk which contains a piece of the true cross; then passing the guards, who were daily accustomed to see him, entered without difficulty into the pontifical palace. He repaired immediately to the new chapel, which Pope Nicholas V. had just finished, and charged him to decorate; for it is time to say that Fra Giovanni was the painter-monk of Fiesole, whose purity of genius and sanctity of life had surnamed him Beato (blessed) or Fra Angelico (the angelical brother), under which latter name he is most generally known, and which is equally appropriate to his beauty of soul and to his works. The great Pope Nicholas V., who had known him at Florence, and watched the budding of these marvellous products of his pencil in the convent of St. Mark, had just called him to Rome, where Eugene IV. had already bid him come, to enthrone in his own person Christian art in the Vatican. Nicholas V. had built in his palace a small chapel, in which he desired the painter-monk to retrace for him the story of St. Lawrence and St. Stephen, reuniting them in the same poetical commemoration; as had been the custom of the faithful to invoke them, since their bones had lain united outside the walls in the ancient basilica of St. Lawrence. This chapel being very small is lighted by a single arched window; happily it has been preserved, and is one of the sanctuaries where the friends of Christian art love to make a pilgrimage. Below the window is now placed the altar which formerly faced it. On the three other sides Fra Angelico has painted two series of compositions, one above the other; in the arches of the upper part is represented, in six compartments, the history of St. Stephen, and in the lower that of St. Lawrence. On entering the chapel Fra Angelico fell on his knees to pray God to guide his pencil, then commenced to paint the scene where St. Stephen was led to martyrdom. He there represented an enraged Jew, who conducts the saint outside of Jerusalem, while others pushed and pursued him with stones in their hands. While painting the violence of the Jews Fra Angelico {673} thought deeply of the Greek whose execution he had arrested, and awaited with pious impatience the arrival of the Pope, who never failed daily to visit the works of his favorite painter. The Dominican interrupted his work now and then to rest, reposing his mind with prayer and singing occasionally a stanza of Dante, who was then for mystical painters an unfailing source of religious inspiration. He recited the exquisite passage where Dante paints the glorious martyrdom of St. Stephen:

"Poi vidi genti accese in fuoco d'ira Con pietre un giovinetto ancider, forte Gridando a se pur; Martira, martira, ect."

"Then I saw an excited and angry crowd, stoning and forcing onward a young man, with loud cries of 'Kill him, kill him!' And him I saw bent to the earth by the weight of death, but with eyes uplifted and turned to heaven; in the midst of the terrible struggle praying the sovereign God to forgive his enemies, with an expression so beautiful as to command pity and respect."

At last the door of the chapel opened and the Pope entered. Nicholas V. was old, but more bent by sorrow than age. In his youth he was called the poor student of Sarzana, and had passed his life in the society of saints and literary men. Become sovereign pontiff, he encouraged piety, science, art, and letters; laid the foundation of St. Peter's, embellished Rome, and merited truly to give his name to the fifteenth century as Leo X., gave his to the sixteenth. During the Council of Florence he had known Fra Angelico, and soon perceived that the soul of the Dominican artist was worth far more than his pencil. Pope Eugene IV. had thus judged him when he wished to name this holy religious Archbishop of Florence. Fra Angelico, seized with fear on learning the intentions of the pontiff, besought to be spared so great a weight. His vocation, he said, was not to govern, but stated at the same time he could recommend a brother of his order far more worthy than he of such a dignity. Eugene IV. listened to his suggestion and named for archbishop the monk who was afterward to be St. Antonine. When Nicholas V. entered the chapel he appeared so unhappy that Fra Angelico, in kneeling to implore his blessing, could not forbear asking the cause of his sadness; if some recent misfortune had not befallen him. "O my son," replied the Pope, "the misfortune which has happened me is the catastrophe long since foretold, but not the less bitter to all Christian hearts, the taking of Constantinople by the Turks! My dreams, even, are troubled, for since I have been Pope the principal aim of my pontificate has been the pacification of Christianity, so as to unite and direct all our forces in a crusade against the Turks. But the unfortunate Greeks have upset all my projects in their hatred of the papacy, preferring the turban to the tiara. They have broken the peace of Florence, ill received the assistance of the Latins, and now their capital is no longer for Jesus Christ, but Mahomet. Ah! Fra Giovanni, can any one in the world be more wretched than I? Were it not that I fear a failure of duty, I would renounce the pontifical dignity, to become again Master Thomas of Sarzana. Then, one day gave me more true happiness than I have since enjoyed in a whole year." The Pope shed tears abundantly. [Footnote 188]

[Footnote 188: See this scene in Muratori, volume 25th, page 286. The taking of Constantinople was a mortal blow to Nicholas V. From that day he was never seen to smile.]

Fra Giovanni deeply commiserated him, and replied in a voice choked with emotion: "Most Holy Father, let us resign ourselves to the will of God. Bear your cross as did he of whom you are the vicar; I wish I were the good Cyrenean to aid you. Let us contemplate the images of the two martyrs I am to paint on the walls of the chapel, and, like them, let us learn to suffer." "You are right, Fra Giovanni. Your soul and talent are truly consolatory, and I love to come here and open my heart, charged as it is with incurable anguish." {674} Just then twelve o'clock struck. The Pope knelt down to recite the Angelus, and dried the tears which since St. Peter so often had reddened the eyes of the sovereign pontiffs. At this moment a prelate came to announce that the dinner of his holiness was ready. "My son," said the Pope, "do not leave me in this hour of affliction. I beg you to dine at my table." "Holy Father," replied the humble monk, "without the permission of the prior I dare not do so. I must dine with my community." "But, my son, I can dispense with this obligation. Come, come!" The Dominican dined, therefore, _tete-à-tete_ with the Pope, but in silence, and with eyes cast down, as if he had been in his own refectory. It was not a day of abstinence, and meat was served on the Pope's table, but the monk refused to partake of it, "Fra Giovanni," said Nicholas, "you exhaust yourself with this painting, and I perhaps urge you too closely to finish it. You have worked hard to day, and should strengthen yourself anew by eating some meat." "Holy Father, I can not without the permission of the prior." The Pope smiled, but could not help admiring the innocent scruples of the pious monk. "My son," said he, "do you not think the authority of the sovereign pontiff greater than the permission of your prior? For to-day I dispense with the rule of St. Dominic, and order you to eat all that is offered you." [Footnote 189]

[Footnote 189: This scene, which so well portrays the virtue of Fra Angelico, is related by Vasari and Fra Leandro Alberti; De Viris Illustribus Ordinis Predicatorum, libri sex.]

The Dominican obeyed in silence, but his mind seemed preoccupied. He thought unceasingly of the poor guilty Greek whose execution he had suspended, but he dared not speak of him to the Pope. Nicholas V. perceived his distraction and asked him of what he was thinking. Then Fra Angelico related to him the story of Argyropoulos, and added: "Holy Father, with justice your government has condemned this unhappy man to be executed, but I know your holiness desires not the death of his soul, and I have hoped your mercy would grant him the delay of a day that he may still have time to repent." "My son, I thank you for having acted thus. I accord you not only one day, but several if necessary." Nicholas V. then wrote an order suspending the execution, and gave it to Beato, who full of joy, asked permission to retire without finishing his repast. He obtained it, and in haste quitted the Vatican. After passing the bridge of St. Angelo, he was strongly tempted to stop at the prison of Tor di Nona; but he considered his duty to his convent, where doubtless his absence from dinner had occasioned surprise. When he entered the cloister of Santa Maria sopra Minerva, the brothers had left the refectory, so the prior exacted of the dilatory monk a penance, which consisted of eating his dinner in a kneeling posture. The Beato, without saying a word to excuse himself, knelt down and simply made a sign he would rather not eat. The prior then ordered him to explain his absence. "My Father," said he, "I am guilty; mea culpa. His Holiness wished me to dine with him, and obliged me to eat meat without your permission." The prior admired the simplicity and obedience of the blessed one, but said nothing to disturb his humility. The habit of obedience was so natural to him that all orders for his art were received through his spiritual superior; and when any work was requested of him, his friends were referred to the prior, as nothing could be done without his consent. He refused to stipulate a price for his works, and distributed all they bought him to the poor and unfortunate. "He loved the poor during his life," said Vasari, "As tenderly as his soul now loves the heaven where he enjoys the glory of the blessed." If he loved the poor, Fra Angelico better loved souls; he obtained from the prior permission to go immediately to the prison. He ran thither with the wings of charity, and showed the order from the Pope which delayed the execution. He gained {675} admittance to what is now called the prisoner's cell, now that so many of our ancient abbeys are transformed into houses of detention. Argyropoulos presented himself, grave and sad, clothed always in his red dress and white turban, which gave him an air of majesty quite oriental. He was seated on a straw bed, but his attitude was King Solomon enthroned. The Dominican, with his white robe and angelical figure, resembled one of the beautiful lilies he so often painted in the hands of the angel of the annunciation; one of the lilies of the field, of which the Saviour himself has said, "Not Solomon in all his glory could be arrayed like one of these." Fra Angelico, without saying anything at first, stopped at the entrance, and, kneeling, prayed God to cure this ulcerated soul. A ray of light, which shone obliquely through the only window, illuminated his bared and shaven head, and gave him the anticipated crown of glory of the blessed. The Greek contemplated with astonishment this luminous apparition, and thought he dreamed again the dream of the patriarch Jacob, who saw angels ascend and descend a mysterious ladder. Having strengthened himself by prayer, Fra Angelico approached the prisoner, and said in a voice truly angelical: "My brother!" But the charm to which Argyropoulos had given himself up at the vision of the blessed one was broken by the sound of his voice; he saw in him only a Catholic monk, and thus a being he detested. "I am not thy brother, we have nothing in common, and I hate the religion of the Azymites." [Footnote 190]

[Footnote 190: A name that the Greeks gave the Catholics on account of the discussion on the _unleavened_ bread as material of the eucharist.]

"My brother, you and I are Christians, although fifteen years ago you have separated the Greek and Latin churches, which the Council of Florence so happily united."

"No! As our great Duke Notaras said, there is no peace between us. I would rather see the turban of Mahomet at Constantinople than the tiara of the Pope."

"O my brother, can you say so? If you are not Catholic, are you not Christian?"

"No, I am so no longer. I do not believe in God; and besides, if there is a God, I have committed crimes too great for him to pardon. I am pagan and of the school of Plato; I prefer Jupiter to Jehovah, Plato to the Scripture, and the gods of Homer to the Saints of Christianity."

"Why, my brother, you have gone backward two thousand years, to breathe what Dante calls the fetid air of paganism, 'Il puzzo del paganes mo.'"

Fra Angelico tried in vain to move this heart, as hardened and desperate as that of Judas; during three days he fasted, prayed, and begged the prayers of his fraternity, offered himself to God as a victim to save this soul, and employed against his own body the instruments of penance. But God did not grant him the grace he sought. Every morning, while painting at the Vatican, he rendered an account to the Pope of his unsuccessful efforts, and recommended the Greek to the pontifical prayers. The three days expired; again he solicited a still longer delay of the execution. "Holy Father," said he, "a residence in prison seems to exasperate this unhappy man; perhaps I might obtain a better hearing if I could take him out and let him breathe the fresh air." "I can refuse you nothing, Fra Giovanni. Bring him to see this chapel, I am sure your painting will do his soul some good." "I will bring him to-morrow, since your Holiness permits me, and at the same time solicit your daily visit, as I am certain his meeting the vicar of Jesus Christ will have more effect on him than my pictures." Nicholas V. promised to do so, and wrote an order to place the captive at liberty for one day, and at the responsibility of Fra Giovanni. It was a touching spectacle to see the Pope and the monk so generously united in their {676} efforts to convert this paganized schismatic.

The next morning Fra Angelico ran to the prison, brought out the Greek, and proposed to him to see his pictures, without mentioning the Pope. Argyropoulos, who rather prided himself on his knowledge of art as well as of literature, willingly accepted the invitation. The fresh air and the glorious Roman sun softened his mood, hitherto so ferocious, and gave him an air almost of serenity. Fra Angelico, transported with joy, conducted his future neophyte to the Vatican, and introduced him to the chapel, praying God to work in him the same miracle which he had granted to St. Methodius, whose painting of the Last Judgment, on the walls of a palace belonging to the King of Bulgaria, had not only converted the king, but as many of his subjects as looked upon it. The Greek was deeply affected by these admirable pictures, and took upon himself to explain them lengthily. To show his artistic knowledge, he criticised the executioners who stoned St. Stephen, and thought their countenances lacked sufficient energy. The painter monk humbly accepted the criticism, which was not wanting in justice. A competent judge has said that the character of Fra Angelico was so formed of a love amounting to ecstasy that he never could familiarize himself with dramatic scenes where hateful and violent passions had the ascendency. In the painting of the life of St. Lawrence, the Beato begged the Greek to particularly observe the prison window where the martyr was converting a man on his knees, who afterward became St. Hippolytus. "In painting this scene of conversion I thought of you, my brother," he said, in a voice so sweet and tender it would have touched a heart of marble; but Argyropoulos turned away his eyes, and pretended not to hear him. Fra Angelico's heart was grieved, and he felt his only hope was in the sovereign pontiff. He had not long to wait for him. Nicholas V. entered into the chapel, with a dignity tempered by an ineffable tenderness. The Beato knelt down--his forehead in the dust--to kiss the feet of His Holiness. The sight of the Pope always caused him transports of joy, equal to those of St. Joseph of Cupertino, who went into ecstasy whenever in the presence of the vicar of Jesus Christ. But a contrary effect was visible in the mind of the pagan of Constantinople. At the sight of the pontiff he reassumed all his dignity. "On your knees, my brother, on your knees!" in vain said Beato to him, while pulling his dress. "Never," cried the Greek, "never will I bend the knee before the idol of the Azymites--before a priest who wished our submission at the Council of Florence." Angelico sighed in the dust at the obstinacy of this pagan, but the Pope, calm and dignified, began to converse in Greek with Argyropoulos, who, captivated instantaneously by this graciousness, replied by a verse of Homer. "My son," said Nicholas V., "I also will cite you a passage from Homer. In the second book of the Iliad, the prudent Ulysses cries out: 'All Greeks cannot reign, too many chiefs would do harm; let us have but one sovereign, but a single king, him to whom the prudent Saturn entrusted the sceptre and the laws to govern us:

[Greek text]

Thus, my son, God wished in his church but one chief, one flock, and one shepherd." At these words the Greek grew angry and replied in harsh terms. "My son," said the Pope to him with tenderness, "I forgive you, I pity your blindness, and I will continue to pray God to enlighten you."

Nicholas V. withdrew.

Argyropoulos, mortified at his own conduct, returned to Fra Angelico, and again commenced to eulogize the pictures. "My paintings are worth nothing," cried the monk, bursting into tears, "since they have failed to convert you. I am unworthy the name of preacher, since all my teaching has not succeeded, {677} and I have brought you before the holy father, only to hear you outrage the dignity of God's representative on earth." The remembrance of this scene completely overcame the tender and pious soul of Fra Angelico. He became pale and weak, sank on his white robe like a lily on its stalk, and fell on the pavement as one dead, according to Dante:

"E cadi, come corpo morte cade."

The Greek, seized with pity and astonishment, tried vainly to restore him. He thought he had killed him, and this man, whose hands were already bloodstained, imagined he had committed another murder. He hated himself when he saw this angel extended at his feet. He knelt before him, rubbed his hands in his own, and threw in his face the water in the vase which was used in his painting. "Father, father," cried he, "come back to life, and I swear to do all you wish." The Angelico opened his beautiful eyes, languishing and moist with tears. "My brother," said he, "you restore me to life, but again you will give me to death if you forget your promise. Now we must leave the chapel; it is time, according to my duty, that I take you back to prison." Notwithstanding his pallor and feebleness Fra Angelico insisted on leaving the Vatican immediately, and returned home leaning on the shoulder of Argyropoulos. He said nothing until they reached the prison of Tor di Nona. But there again, alone with him, the angelical monk knelt before the prisoner, and reproached him for his conduct toward the Pope with that sweetness he never lost, and which so greatly astonished his biographer Vasari. [Footnote 191]

[Footnote 191: "Never," said he, "could one surprise him in an angry moment. This seemed to me incredible: Il che e grandissima cosa e mi pare impossibile a credere."]

This touching kindness greatly affected the Greek, who had been already so deeply moved by the fainting of Beato. He began to comprehend the love with which this pious monk was inflamed for the salvation of his soul. "My brother," said the Dominican to him, while joining his hands, "you have restored me to life, but in promising to do as I wish, and I only desire to save you. You must discharge your conscience of its weight of sin--you must confess." "But I cannot believe in the necessity of confession, or in its divine institution." "O my brother, if you could contemplate your poor soul in its mirror of truth, it would appear so shaded and sullied. Your soul is bound in cords ruder than those that chained your body when they led you to execution. But confession would deliver you from all." "Let me see this with my eyes, or I can never believe it." A sudden inspiration came to the mind of the angelical painter. "My brother, we will speak again of this. I am hurried to finish a picture; would you be pleased I should paint it with you by my side, that I might every morning distract your thoughts and keep you company?" "Oh! yes, my father, I should be most happy, for you are very good to the poor prisoner." The Beato obtained permission from Nicholas V. to suspend for some days his work at the Vatican, and from the next morning he installed himself in the prison, accompanied by his pupil Benozzo Bozzoli, who brought with him an easel, some brushes, and a box of colors. After a fervent prayer, he placed on the easel a small panel of wood, upon which he commenced to paint rapidly, and without retouching, according to his custom; he never perfected his paintings, leaving them according to his first impression, believing, as he said, so God wished them. "His art," says M. de Moutalembert, "was so beautiful in his eyes, and so sacred, that he respected its productions as the fruits of an inspiration much higher than his own intention." He commenced by painting, as a foundation for his picture, some trees, which rose near a house of simple appearance, and a modest church, decorated by a portico supported by four pillars in Florentine style. In a court grown over with herbs and studded here and there with {678} flowers, he grouped five personages. At the right our Saviour, clothed in a blue robe and draped in a red mantle, is seen in profile; a large nimbus of gold encircles his tender and majestic countenance, his golden hair falls on his shoulders. The Saviour has an attitude of command, and extends his arm and hand which holds a golden rod. He accomplished one of the greatest acts of his mercy, he institutes the sacrament of penance, he gives to his apostles the power to remit sins: one can almost hear him repeat the words which he addresses to Peter, that he may transmit them to the entire Christian priesthood: "Whatsoever ye shall bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatsoever ye shall loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven." [Footnote 192]

[Footnote 192: In the convent of St. Mark at Florence, the Beato has painted the grand scene of Calvary, where he represents St. Benedict holding in his hand the rod of penitence.]

The painter monk put into action these words of Christ. He painted a priest in Florentine costume; a red cap encircled with ermine and a blue dalmatic, which hung in graceful folds; his figure is youthful, and expression benignant. This priest approaches a sinner in a red dress, and turbaned with a cap of gold and ermine. The sinner is bound with cords which are passed several times around his body. The priest approaches him with ineffable compassion. With what care, what delicacy, what respect, what love, he unties the cord with his white and pure hands! With what grace and dignity he fills his office of priest and confessor! The seven capital sins are figured by seven demons chased from his body by absolution, and who are making every effort to re-enter it. Rage and impatience are depicted on the faces of these servants of Satan, and their attitudes are as various as strange. One of them still threatens the sinner with his iron trident. In the second part, Fra Angelico represents a person in a green robe and turban, who expresses, by figure and gesture, his admiration at the sight of this miracle of divine mercy, which is called the institution of confession. Near this man, and right against the Saviour, is a second personage, of whom the face only is seen. His head is bared, and his angelical features seem to recall those of the Beato, such as they are sculptured on his tombstone at Santa Maria sopra Minerva. The Greek had followed with curiosity and profound interest all the details of this picture, accomplished in three days under his own inspection. He had admired the piety of the Angelico, who, according to his custom, had not dared to paint the head of the Saviour but on bended knees. Contrary to his usual manner, he had only lightly sketched the face of the sinner bound with the cord. It was on the third day that he suddenly finished it. But how express the surprise and emotion of Argyropoulos, when he perceived that, under the pencil of the painter-monk, this face became his own portrait! The blessed one had painted his gray beard, his noble profile, and expressed in his face at the same time the grief of being restrained by sin and the hope of a speedy deliverance. Argyropoulos, in the midst of the picture, had truly an expression of contrition in the intensity of his regard. "It is I," cried the Greek, "it is I indeed!" And he burst into tears. The divine touch of grace had vanquished him at last. "My father, my father, untie me also, deliver me from the bonds of many sins." The Angelico seized him in his arms, and in transports of joy pressed him to his breast, then begged him to kneel with him and render thanks to God. He passed several days in explaining to him Catholic truths; then he received the acknowledgment of his faults, baptized him conditionally at St. Jean de Latran, in the baptistry of Constantine. [Footnote 193]

[Footnote 193: The author has here fallen into a mistake; the sacraments of the Greek Church are never reiterated conditionally. --Ed. CATHOLIC WORLD.]

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The eve of this great day he had enjoined him, as penance, to go to the Vatican, throw himself at the feet of the Pope, and ask pardon on his knees for the invective he had cast on the holy father in the chapel. Nicholas V. received him kindly, and said: "My son, Jesus Christ has pardoned you, and I could not do otherwise than he of whom I am vicar; I absolve you, not only for what you have said against me, but the crimes committed against society. I grant you full and entire pardon from the punishment you have merited, in the hope that your new life will atone for the past." The Greek prostrated himself with gratitude, and kissed his feet; then showed the picture from which he would never part. The Pope admired it, and said to the painter-monk: "Your pencil has worked another miracle of conversion." The humble artist replied that only to God must be given the glory, and recited the verse of David: "Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, sed nomini tuo da gloriam." This was the device of the Templars, and we have seen it in Venice engraved on the wall of the old palace Vendramini. "Most holy father," said the Greek. "I know with what goodness your Holiness has received my compatriots, Theodore Gaza, George of Trebizond, Calchondylos, and Gemistos Plethon, who after the taking of Constantinople took refuge on a Venetian galley, and have come to Italy, bringing with them the precious manuscripts of the ancient Greek authors and fathers of the Greek Church, which but for them would have been burned by the infidels. They have been most happy to repay your hospitality by enriching the library of the Vatican with these literary treasures." "It is true," said Nicholas V. "Thanks to their and other conquests, we have become able to reunite in the Vatican nearly five thousand manuscripts; it is, we believe, the richest collection made since the dispersion of the Alexandrian library. But I still have one gap to fill, and I have promised a reward of fifty thousand ducats to him who will bring me the gospel of St. Matthew in the original language." "O holy father, how can I express my happiness! I possess this manuscript, which I brought from Constantinople. After having committed the crime by which I merited death, I hid this book in a place in the Roman campagna, where I could easily find it again. To thank your Holiness for all your goodness, I am only too happy to offer you the gospel of St. Matthew," Nicholas V. was delighted, he who ever thanked God for the taste given him from his youth for literature, and the faculties necessary for its successful cultivation. On the receipt of the manuscript the Pope paid to the Greek the fifty thousand ducats, who, finding himself possessed of so great a fortune, resolved to go to Venice, and engage in commerce with one of his compatriots. He quitted Rome with regret to leave Fra Angelico, but returned at Easter to confess to the saviour of his soul, as he called him, and receive the communion from his hands in the church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva. The mass said by the Beato inspired him with great devotion, and he was happy to receive from such pure hands the body and blood of Jesus Christ. The year that followed 1455, the Greek appeared at the same epoch, carrying ever with him, in a casket of cedar, the precious painting which had been the determining cause of his conversion, [Footnote 194] and which, he never ceased to contemplate with love and, gratitude, repeating what Vasari said of another picture of the Beato: "I can affirm I never contemplate this work that it does not appear new to me, and I am never satisfied gazing upon it."

[Footnote 194: This picture on wood is painted _a tempera_ and enriched with gold. It is twenty-seven centimetres high, and twenty-three broad. After various vicissitudes it was carried from Rome to Venice, from Florence to Turin, and finally found an asylum in Paris, in the celebrated Pourtales gallery. To-day it is in possession of him who relates the story, according to a traditional account received by him at Rome.]

{680}

Scarcely landed at Rome, Argyropoulos hastened, according to his custom, to the convent of Santa Maria sopra Minerva and asked for Fra Angelico. At this name grief overshadowed the countenance of the brother porter, who replied: "Alas! signor, the blessed one has gone from earth and left us to sorrow. His death was as angelical as his life." The prior, who appeared, confirmed the sad news and gave the details to the heart-broken Greek. The holy father said he was so impatient to enjoy his beautiful chapel that he hurried continually our blessed brother to finish his work; and he, ever willing to be sacrificed to duty, and believing he worked for God in serving this vicar, would not even interrupt his work during the fever season, which is always more pernicious at the Vatican than elsewhere. His health was lost by it entirely, he languished, and died at last of malaria. Argyropoulos shed tears and asked to pray by the tomb of his friend. It is still seen at the left of the church choir, a simple tombstone encased vertically in the wall; the painter-monk is rudely sculptured in bas-relief in his Dominican robe, with hands joined, his head uplifted, and mouth partly opened as in prayer, as he was in life, as he was particularly in death. I have often contemplated this sepulchral stone, and recalled the verse of Dante, which could so well have described the heart of Argyropoulos:

"Come, perche di lor memoria sia, Sovr' a sepoiti le tombe terragne Porton segnato quel ch'elli eran pria; Onde li molte volte siripiagne. Por la pun ura della rimenbranza Che solo a pii da della calcagne."

"As to preserve the memory of the dead, the tombs given them on earth bear the impress of their features as they were in life, so each time one weeps over them the pious heart is pierced with the remembrance." "Nicholas V.," said the prior to the Greek, "was inconsolable at the death of his painter and friend, and survived him but a few weeks. It is this great Pope who has erected this monument to Fra Angelico, and who composed the epitaph you can read on this stone:

"'Hic jacet ven. Pictor. Fr. Jo. de Flor. Ord. P. MCCCCLV. Non mihi sit laudi quod eram velut alter Apelles. Sed quod lucra tuis omnia Christe dabam Altera nam terris opera extant, altera caelo; Urbs me Joannem flos tulit Etruriae.'"

"Here lies the venerable painter. [Footnote 195] Brother John, of Florence, of the order of Brother Preachers; 1455. Let me not be praised because I have painted as another Apelles, but because I have given all I made to the poor. O Christ! I have worked for heaven at the same time as for earth. I am called John, the town which is the flower of Etruria was my country."

[Footnote 195: We must remark this title of venerable given the Angelico immediately after his death, and which justifies the popular canonization which has surnamed him in Italy, Il Beato.]

Argyropoulos remained long kneeling by the tomb, then on rising said to the prior: "Tell me exactly the day of his death; for me it will ever be an anniversary to be celebrated with prayers and tears." "It was the 18th of last March," replied the prior, "that the blessed one went to heaven, there to contemplate the true models of the dear and holy pictures which, with so much love, he painted on earth."

ORIGINAL.

"I AM THE WAY."

"I am the way." I well believe thy word; The truth of it is plain enough to see. For never was there yet a man, O Lord, So roughly trodden under foot like thee!

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ORIGINAL.

CHRISTINE. [Footnote 196]

[Footnote 196: Christine, and other Poems. By George H. Miles New-York: Lawrence Kehoe.]

The writer of the present remarks made his first acquaintance with the volume under consideration during the magic season of Indian summer, and perused many of its pages beneath the shade of sycamores by the side of a woodland streamlet, ever and anon lifting his eyes from the book to scan the many-colored foliage of trees mellowed by the distance and draped in luminous haze. He took it up a second time when driven into the house by equinoctial storms, and a third when the trees had doffed their painted leaves and stood as black and cold as the iron woods we read of in the Scandinavian Edda. But whether in-doors or out, by waterside or fireside, he always found Christine and her sisters the same genial and charming companions.

Who does not prefer the sunny side of a landscape to the dark one? Are not coins and medals more pleasing when viewed on the side bearing the principal legend and inscription? Juicy fruit, whether plum, peach, or apple--does not the eye dwell with more pleasure upon the side which is tinted with the finest blush and which glows with the rosiest bloom? The same may be said of a pigeon's neck, a maiden's cheek; and why not of a volume of poems? Let us, therefore, fix our eyes upon the bright points, the beauties; and as every human production _must_ have its imperfections, let us, when we discover these last, pass them over lightly and almost in silence. The poet, when he composed his book, hoped that its perusal would add to our enjoyment, and expected to accomplish this, not by means of its defects, but by reason of its many excellences.

Many, many such excellences belong to Christine. Open the book, reader, and as if by magic you will find yourself transported some eight hundred years backward in the world's history, and will fly on fancy's wings from the age of steam-cars and telegraphs to that of chivalry and the crusades. You will find yourself now in the south-east of France, now in Savoy, gazing in succession at the Rhone, the Isère, the Alps, Pilate's Peak, and the Grande Chartreuse, and, in short, wandering over that romantic land so dear to all true lovers of poetry, and so renowned of old for

"Dance, Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth."

The story is founded on one of those old devotional legends of the early church, many of which have afforded such fine subjects both to the painter and poet. Were I to enumerate one-tenth part of the fine specimens of pictorial art which have been founded on such subjects, I should soon swell out the list to a sufficient number to constitute a good-sized picture-gallery. I will only allude, in passing, to a few masterpieces, most of which are familiar, even to the untravelled reader, from engravings, copies, and written descriptions. Among the most noted are the St. Cecilia by Raphael, the Vision of Constantine by the same artist, the the Assumption of the Virgin by Murillo, the Marriage of St. Catharine by the same, the Archangel Michael by Guido, and St. Patronilla by Guercino. These two last have been copied in mosaic to adorn the interior of St. Peter's. Of poems of this nature might be cited as among the best, Dryden's Ode to St. Cecilia, the Virgin Martyr by Massenger, the Golden Legend by Longfellow, and the Eve of St. Agnes by Keats.

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Christine, I think, may fairly be catalogued among the same sainted sisterhood.

These traditions and legends of an earlier and more credulous age may be likened to the eggs, beautifully spotted and fantastically marked, which some delighted school-boy finds in spring-time, after hours of climbing and nest-hunting. Such eggs, curious in themselves, and brooded over by genius, often break forth into winged and musical poems, which afterward soar high above the nests and the tree-tops in which they were first cradled. Such is the case with the one now under consideration. In a new world, in a land which was not then even dreamed to be in existence, it arises lark-like, soaring and singing toward "heaven's gate." Let us watch it for a few moments, reader, and listen to its matin melody; my word for it, we shall be none the worse, either in heart or head, for having done so.

I shall not mar the beauties of this radiant little poem by attempting a cold and prosaic outline; this would, indeed, be to offer a dingy silhouette in place of a picture glowing with all the colors of a Tintoretto. Instead of this, I say, let the volume speak for itself; procure it, read it aloud to your friend; there is music sleeping in the book, awaken it to the sound of your own voice, and even though you may be a Protestant of the strictest school, you will find here nothing to offend, nothing to call forth a word of disapprobation, with one proviso, however, and that is that you read it as the title-page directs. Remember always that it is supposed to be "A song by a Troubadour."

A troubadour? And what was a troubadour? And what were his mainsprings of action? Hear an answer in the language of one of the most gifted of their number.

"A Dien mon ame, ma vie au roi, Mon coeur aux dames, l'honneur pour moi!"

This, interpreted into tamer and more prosaic language, means that his ruling principles of action were religion, loyalty, gallantry, and honor; in other words, his soul, his life, his heart belonged respectively to God, to the king, to the ladies, and only his honor he reserved to himself. Such was his creed, such was the disinterested and noble spirit which animated him, and which breathed through all his lays, his vire-lays, his morning songs, his serenades, his sonnets, his idyls, his villanercas, his madrigals, and his canzonets. In this spirit acted the enthusiastic Rudel, who became enamored of the Countess of Tripoli from the reports which he heard of the hospitable manner in which she treated the Crusaders, and who, without having ever seen her, actually started of on a long voyage to visit the object of his admiration. Who has not heard of Blondel, and of the romantic incident by which he discovered the lion-hearted Richard while imprisoned in the castle of Lovenstein?

But in addition to the above-mentioned motive principles, the troubadour was influenced by another sentiment, which had a powerful effect on all the feelings and actions of his life. This was an intense and romantic veneration for the Virgin Mary. In fact, with little variation the following words, which we find in another poem in the same volume, entitled "Raphael Sanzio," might with equal propriety be attributed to one of the troubadours.

--"Her whose colors I have worn since first I dreamed of beauty in the chestnut shades Of Umbria--Her for whom my best of life Has been one labor--_Her, the Nazareth maid, Who gave to heaven a queen, to man a God, To God a mother_."

Such, then, was the troubadour. His birthplace was Provence. It was there, in fact, that during the darkness of the Middle Ages the muse relit her torch which had long been extinguished. Many years before Dante's great poem rose like a sun--never again to set--the troubadours, those morning-stars of poesy, "sang together and shouted for joy." The troubadour preceded the Saxon bard, the Anglo-Norman minstrel, and the German minnesinger. There were held those curious courts of love where {683} queens and noble ladies often presided, and there were exhibited, on green and flowery meadows, those poetical contests, those festive jousts and tournaments, the idea of which seems to have been caught from the neighboring Saracens of Spain. The cross and the crescent both added something to the great result, the one contributing the deep and earnest glow of devotion, the other the pomp and circumstance of chivalry.

Of all these circumstances our poet has, with exquisite tact and skill, availed himself. Christine herself, when only ten years old, had accompanied her father to the Holy Land. This throws an oriental richness around her whole bearing and manner of thinking:

"Sooth thou art fair, O ladye dear, Yet one may see The shadow of the East in thee; Tinting to a riper flush The faint vermilion of thy blush; Deepening in thy dark-brown hair Till sunshine sleeps in starlight there."

The gray charger which plays so conspicuous a part in the action was born under the palm-trees of Palestine, and his name, Caliph, would seem to indicate an Arabian descent. By this subtle link the connection between Provençal and Arabic poesy seems delicately to be hinted at. The fact that the main poem concludes in sonnet-form, if accidental, is curious; if brought about by design, is a happy thought, inasmuch as the sonnet derived its birth in Provence, and also from the fact that, from the number of its lines (twice _seven_), and the collocation of its rhymes, it is instinct with Christian symbolism.

The song itself, or story of Christine, is divided into five cantos or sub-songs, which, like the five acts of some romantic melodrama, arrest the attention from the start, and conduct the reader by five stages of increasing interest to the jubilant conclusion.

This main picture, as it may be called, has hanging on each side of it a smaller lateral one, one of which is a kind of _prelude_ and the other the _finale_ to the whole performance. This reminds us of some of those works of art by the older masters, in which a smaller side-picture may be seen to the right and left of the main representation. These appendages, though apparently slight and worded with extreme conciseness, are artistically conceived and add greatly to the general effect. They are also in fine keeping with the time and spirit of the legend itself, reminding us of one of those triple-arched emblazoned windows so often seen in old Gothic edifices. But the chief advantage derived from such an arrangement is, that the two smaller or lateral pieces serve as links to connect the more confined interests of the story with that grandest event in history, namely the Crusades, and thus to impart to the whole a breadth and grandeur of design which the size of the poem scarcely led us to expect. In the prelude we are presented with a view of the troubadour himself, who is supposed to sing the song, and not only himself, but his lady love, together with Richard of the Lion Heart, his queen, and all his chivalry. These last are at the time gazing over the blue Mediterranean, on which, in the distance, King Philip of France is seen sailing homeward with his receding vessels. The finale exhibits the arrival of a fleet under English banners. In both, a glimpse is caught of the troubadour who sings the song; in the one case, before he commences his romaunt, in the other, as he retires unnoticed and unthanked by the English monarch.

In the midst of so many beauties and artistic excellences, it is with reluctance that I notice two little circumstances which some might consider as slight blemishes. Caliph, the charger above alluded to, is spoken of as "the gallant gray." This expression sounds almost too trite and commonplace to find a place in so original a poem. Even if the color were preserved, I should {684} prefer some more novel and striking form of words. But would not pure _white_ be a hue more suitable in itself, and also form a finer contrast with the _coal-black_ steed which is ridden by the Goblin Horseman of Pilate's Mount? The last personage forms the evil, as Christine forms the _good_, principle of the poem. By placing one upon a white and the other on a black horse, the antagonism would be brought out in bolder relief, and we should be reminded of the fine allegory in Plato's Phaedra, where the chariot of Psyche is represented as drawn by two steeds of opposite colors, under the guidance of Reason, who is the charioteer.

The other--a trifle scarcely worthy of mention--is this: For the expression "Santo sudario" I should like to see substituted "Veronica," not so much on account of its effect upon the ear, as on account of those subtle trains of associated ideas which either lead us _off from_ or _on_ to poetical ground, as the case may be.

In justice to the author I must add that of these supposed blemishes I am doubtful, whereas of the beauties above alluded to I feel perfectly certain. It is much more easy to suggest alterations when a work is finished than by one's own effort to finish a perfect work. As a whole, there is a youthful fire and glow about the poem which cannot fail to render it captivating to the young, and a devotional and earnest tone of feeling which must be extremely acceptable to those more advanced. Reserving the "other poems" which accompany it for a future article, I shall conclude my remarks by a short extract taken almost at random from the third song:

"They are coming from this castle, A bevy of bright-eyed girls, Some with their long locks braided, Some with loose golden curls. Merrily 'mid the meadows They win their wilful way; Winding through sun and shadow, Rivulets at play. Brows with white rosebuds blowing, Necks with white pearl intertwined, Gowns whose white folds imprison Wafts of the wandering wind. The boughs of the charmed woodland Sing to the vision sweet, The daisies that couch in the clover Nod to their twinkling feet They see Christine by the river, And, deeming the bridegroom near. They wave her a dewy rose-wreath Fresh plucked from her dark-brown hair. Hand in hand tripping to meet her Bird-like they carol their joy, Wedding soft Provençal numbers To a dulcet old strain of Savoy."

How trippingly and buoyantly do these verses gallopade adown the jocund page, as if one of the blithest of the old masters of the "gaya scientia." had been thrown by Merlin into an enchanted sleep, and, awaking from his slumber of eight centuries, was even now pouring into verse one of the freshest of his matin visions. And that bevy of dancing maidens! long may they continue to bound in tiptoe jollity adown the salient page. The glad creatures are as yet ignorant of the fact that Christine's noble lover is lying in a death-like a swoon, and that Christine herself has just had an interview with the fearful demon who wishes to bear her off in triumph. Each one of them seems to be a kind of Provençal Minnehaha, and may be compared to one of those merry waterfalls which come tumbling down the mountain-side, leaping in joy from rock to rock, and quite heedless of the black precipices which surround them.

But enough. As Cleopatra's barge of old went sailing down the river Cydnus, with burnished hull and perfumed sails, and silver oars rowing in unison with dulcet flutes, so ever and anon, at long intervals, is launched into the world some rare poem, which moves sailing down the river of time, to the admiration of all beholders. It behooves us, when such an apparition heaves in sight, whether it be poem or vessel, to be on the lookout and not to miss the pleasure of saluting it with our heartiest cheers.

{685}

ORIGINAL.

GENIUS IN A PARISIAN ATTIC [Footnote 197]

[Footnote 197: In a private letter received from a member of the Guérin family--one whose name is held in gentle reverence by all the readers of Eugénie's Journal--we are asked if it would be possible to interest devout souls in America in the reconstruction of the little church of Andillac. We would gladly answer this question in the affirmative, for the restoration of Eugénie's parish church would be a monument that even her humility could not reject.

The smallest sums for this purpose will be gratefully received and forwarded to Andillac by Miss E. P. Cary, Cambridge, Mass., or Office of THE CATHOLIC WORLD, 145 Nassau Street, New-York.]

In a former article [Footnote 198] we traced the course of Maurice de Guérin's career at La Chênaie; and left him in Paris, bewildered by the rush and whirl of such a city, one day to become so familiar to him. We will now let his journal and letters exhibit the curious change through which he passed in turning from the fair Utopian dreams of Lamennais to the work-day experiences of an unsuccessful author.

[Footnote 198: See article in THE CATHOLIC WORLD of June, 1866, entitled: Two Pictures of Life in France before 1848.]

To do this fully we must retrace our steps to Le Val, the asylum thrown open to him by Hippolyte de la Morvonnais when he left Ploërmel. Guérin's record of that peaceful sojourn in Brittany is as distinct from our popular ideas of French life as Eugénie's sketches of Rayssac and Le Cayla. The brother and sister have successfully proved that all Frenchmen are not deceitful and unbelieving, nor all Frenchwomen vain and perfidious. Surely no young man in any country ever met with influences more sound and elevating than Maurice found in the society of Eugénie and Mimin; of Louise de Bayne, Madame de la Morvonnais, and Caroline de Gervain; or with friends more enduring than Hippolyte, Paul Quemper, Marzan, Trébutien, and D'Aurevilly.

There is in France an undercurrent of domestic life as pure and fresh as the superficial existence in her great cities is shallow and turbid. Indeed, the more familiar one becomes with French life and manners, the more one appreciates the truth of the _mot_ of a certain cardinal: "There is no purgatory for Frenchmen; they go straight to heaven or hell." But we will no longer detain the reader, by moral reflections, from the perusal of the selections we have made from Guérin's writings.

LE VAL, Dec. 7th, 1833.

After a year of perfect calm, but for interior tempests for which I must not blame the solitude that has unfolded me in such silent peace that any soul less unquiet than mine would have slumbered deliciously therein; after a year, I say, of absolute tranquillity, Fate, who had let me enter the holy house to rest awhile, smote on the door to call me forth again; for she had not gone on her way, but had sat waiting on the threshold till I should gather strength to resume the journey. "You have tarried long enough," she said; "Come." And she took me by the hand and tramped on like the poor women you meet in the road, leading a tired, lagging child. But what folly it is to complain; are there no troubles in the world but mine to weep for? I will say henceforth to the fountain of my tears, "Dry up," and to the Lord, "Lord, heed not my complaints," whenever I am tempted to invoke God and my tears in my own behalf; for suffering is good for me, who can merit nothing in heaven by my actions, and, like all weak souls, can earn nothing there except through the virtue of suffering. Such souls have no wings to raise them up to heaven, and the Lord, who would fain possess them, sends help. He lays them on a pile of thorns, and kindles the fire of grief; the consuming {686} wood mounts up to heaven like a white vapor, or like the doves that used to spring upward from the dying flames of a martyr's stake. This is the soul which has completed its sacrifice, and grown light enough in the fire of tribulation to rise to heaven like a smoke. The wood is heavy and immovable; set fire to it, and a part of itself will ascend to the clouds.

8th.--Yesterday the west wind blew furiously. I watched the shaken ocean, but to me its sublime disorder was far from equalling the spectacle of a calm blue sea, and yet why say that one is not equal to the other? Who can measure these two sublimities and say that the second surpasses the first? Let us only say: "My soul delights rather in serenity than in a storm."

Yesterday there was a great battle fought in the watery plains. On came the bounding waves, like innumerable hordes of Tartar cavalry galloping to and fro on the plains of Asia--on to the chain of granite islets that bar the entrance to the bay. There we saw billows upon billows rushing to the assault, flinging themselves wildly against the rocky masses with hideous clamor, tearing along to leap over the black heads of the rocks. The boldest or lightest sprang over with a great outcry; the others dashed themselves with sluggish awkwardness against the ledges, throwing up great showers of dazzling foam, and then drew off growling, like dogs beaten back by a traveller's staff.

We watched the great struggle from the top of a cliff, where we could hardly keep our feet against the whirling wind. The awful tumult of the sea, the rushing boisterous, waves, the swift but silent passing of the clouds, the sea-birds floating in the sky, balancing their slender bodies on wide-arched wings; all this accumulation of wild, resounding harmonies, converging in the souls of two beings five feet (French) high, planted on the crest of a cliff, shaken like two leaves by the energy of the wind, and not more apparent on this immensity than two birds perched on a clod of earth. Oh! it was something strange and wonderful, one of those moments of sublime agitation and deep revery combined, when the soul and nature rear themselves in majesty before each other.

From this height we clambered down into a gorge which opens a marine retreat, such as the ancients could have described to peaceful waves that rock themselves to sleep there murmuring, while their frantic brethren lash the rocks, and wrestle among themselves. Huge blocks of gray granite, embossed with white lichens, are thrown in disorder on the slant of the hill which has hollowed out an inlet for this cove. They look, so strangely are they tossed about, half tipping toward the slope, as if a giant had amused himself with hauling them from the height above, and they had been checked by some obstacle, some a few feet from the point of departure, and others half way down; and yet they seem to have paused, not stopped, in their course, or rather they appear to be still rolling. The sound of the winds and waves pouring into this echoing recess makes glorious harmony. We stood there a long time, leaning on our walking-sticks, looking and listening and wondering.

9th.--The moon was shining with a few stars when the bell called us to mass. I especially enjoy this mass, celebrated in the early morning between the last rays of starlight and the first beams of the rising sun.

In the evening Hippolyte and I wandered along the coast, for we wished to see what the ocean is like at the close of a calm, gray December day. Mist veiled the distance, but left space enough to suggest infinity. We stationed ourselves on a point where a tidesman's hut stands, and leaned against the wall. To the right a wood, spreading over the slope of the coast, stretched its thin, naked branches out into the pale light with a faint, sighing sound. Far away to our left the tower of Ebihens vanished into the {687} mist, and then appeared again with a faint gleam upon its brow, as some furtive ray of twilight succeeded in eluding the clouds. The sound of the sea was calm and dreamy, as on the fairest days, but with a more plaintive tone. We followed this sound as it swelled along the shore, and only taking breath when the waves that had poured it forth gave place to another. I believe it is from the deep, grave tone of the advancing wave as it unfurls itself, and from the shrill, pebbly sound of the retreating wave, gritting against the shells and sand, that the marvellous voice of the sea is created. But why dissect such music? I could say nothing worth hearing on the subject, for I am no adept at analysis, so we'll go back to sentiment.

The shadows thickened around us, but we never thought of going away, for as the earth grew still, and the night unveiled its mysteries, grander grew the harmony of the sea. Like those statues set on promontories by the ancients, we stood immovable, fascinated and spell bound by the beauty of the ocean and the night, giving no sign of life except to look up when we heard the whistling wings of the wild duck overhead.

The thread of my wandering fortunes led me to a solitary headland in Brittany to dream away an autumn evening, there for several hours those interior sounds were hushed that never have been still since the first tempest arose in my breast. There a sweet, heavenly melancholy stole into my heart with the ocean chords, and my soul wandered in a paradise of revery. Oh! when I shall have left Le Val and poured my parting tears into the bosom of your friendship; when I shall be in Paris where there is neither vale nor ocean, nor any soul like yours; when I shall wander alone with my sadness and with an almost despairing heart; what tears I shall shed over the memory of our evenings; for happiness is a fine, gentle rain that sinks into the soul, and then gushes forth in torrents of tears.

21st.--For several days the weather has done its worst. The rain falls and the wind blows in gusts till it seems as if everything would be torn to pieces by the storm. These three nights I have started up wide awake as the gale swept by at midnight, besieging the house so furiously that everything in-doors shook and trembled. I spring up in my bed white, and listen to the hurricane, while a thousand thoughts that swept, some on the surface, others deep down in my soul, start into shuddering wakefulness.

All the sounds of nature; the winds, those awful breathings from an unknown mouth, rouse up the innumerable instruments in the plains or on the mountains, hidden in the hollow of valleys or massed among the forests; the waters with their marvellous scale of tone, ranging from the tinkling of a fountain through moss, to the wondrous harmonies of the ocean; thunder, the voice of that sea that floats above us; the rustling of dry leaves beneath a human foot or before a whirling breeze; in short, for I must stop short in enumerating innumerable sounds, this continual emission of tone, the floating rumor of the elements, dilates my thoughts into strange reveries, and throws me into unutterable amazement. The voice of nature has taken such hold upon me that I can hardly free myself from its perpetual influence, and in vain I try to turn a deaf ear. But to wake at midnight amid the cries of the storm, to be assailed in the darkness by a wild, tumultuous harmony, overthrowing night's peaceful empire, is something incomparable among strange impressions. It is ecstasy in the midst of terror.

CAEN, 24th January.

I have been wandering along the streets of this city by the dim light of the street lamps. What did I see? Black phantoms of steeples and churches, whose outline I could barely trace. The mystery of night, which enveloped them without limiting their dimensions {688} like dear daylight, added to their impressive influence, and filled me with an emotion that was worth more, I believe, than forms. My thoughts soared up to heaven with the never-ending spires, and wandered awe-struck through naves that were mournful as sepulchres. That was all. The streets were crowded, but what is a crowd by night, or even, by day? At night I enjoy more the sound of the wind, and in the daytime those grand assemblies, now silent and now rocking and roaring, called forests. Besides, I met several of that class of men who always put me to flight; students strutting along in gown and cap, and wearing in every feature a nameless expression that reduces me to rout and discomfiture. Oh! my dear journal, my gentle friend, how I felt that I loved thee, as I worked my way out of the multitude. And here I am with thee now, though the night is far advanced and I am half dead with fatigue; all alone with thee, telling thee my griefs, and letting thee peacefully into my secrets. Can I recall often enough those memories all steeped in tears, that will ever dwell incorruptible within my soul? Kind Hippolyte and his exquisite Marie! I bade her farewell; she answered me in a few words of touching kindness. I stammered out a few words more, and was running down the steps thinking that she had not come beyond the threshold, and that all was over; when I heard another farewell coming to me from above, and, looking up, saw her leaning over the balustrade. I answered very softly, for her voice had taken away the little strength I had to keep back my tears.

MAURICE DE GUÉRIN TO M. H. DE LA MORVONNAIS.

PARIS, Feb. 1st, 1834

You thought you would receive news of me by the end of this week. Your calculation has proved false, and you are feeling impatient, and thinking that I am neglectful, and that the tumult of Paris has dulled my ear to the sweet, lovely voice of friendship that sings unceasingly in the depths of my soul. Imagine no such thing, my dear friend. God knows that since I came to Paris I have listened to nothing but the two farewells that I heard on that black Thursday evening, one from her whom you must let me call your sweet Marie, who, as I went down-stairs thinking that everything was at an end, leaned over the balustrade to say good-by once more; and the other from you, on the steps of the carriage, uttered half aloud as you clasped my hand. I hear these two voices incessantly, and never fail to listen to them, while all other sounds pass by as if they were not.

I did not see Quemper until two days after my arrival, Tuesday morning, when I surprised him in bed, dreaming, between sleeping and waking, of music, dancing, fresh garlands of young maidens, and all the other vague and enchanting images that float through the imagination long after the magic of a ball has passed away. Our friend had spent the night at one of those radiant entertainments, whose brilliancy his pen, fresh as if dipped in a dew-drop, depicts with such sparkling charm. All of a sudden my pale and melancholy visage appeared to put these fair dreams to flight; but though it must have looked among them much like one of those crows that we used to see flying among flocks of white sea-gulls, he embraced me with all the cordiality that you remember in him. I sat down by his bedside, and the vivacity of our first greetings having effervesced, a long and charming conversation gradually unrolled itself, of which this is the substance: remember that he was the speaker and that I interrupted him very seldom, so anxious was I to gather up all his instructions.

The most difficult task to accomplish at the beginning of the career which we have chosen _is to get published_, to bring one's name before the public; {689} and he mentioned the names of several young men who had been vainly knocking at the gates of journals for several years past. We are already far advanced, since two are thrown open to us, Catholic France and the European Review. Booksellers have no faith in the unknown, and would refuse obstinately to have a masterpiece printed if it were the first attempt of its author, while if they have seen his name ever so little in reviews and journals they would prove facile and accommodating. Therefore we must devote our whole strength to making our names known through magazines and papers.

But in order to write acceptably for this sort of publication one must adapt one's self to its habits, speak its language, and become all things to all men--in matters of style merely, you understand. Let us strive, then, to catch their ways, as the saying is, and to throw our thoughts into the conventional mould, until we shall have attained to such independence of pen as will leave us free to clothe our thoughts after our own fashion. There is no use in disguising the fact that as long as we serve under an editing committee (I dwell upon this point because it is an important one, and Quemper insisted upon it very strongly), we must, to a certain degree, renounce the habits of style peculiar to ourselves, and adopt those of the journal; so that, while preserving our individuality, we may blend and combine it with customs foreign to our nature. It is hard for men like us, with characteristic traits of their own, proud and independent of the fashions they have railed at and disdained; it is hard for such men to muffle themselves in the livery of the day, to follow instead of leading, to copy instead of designing; but necessity with her iron nail stands before us. Finally, the committee of the European Review refused an article of Cazalès himself because it was in Germanic form.

As to the Review, we must share the editing of it thus: Each number should contain a leading article purely philosophical, an article of a high order of literary criticism, and an article, artistic or imaginative, of a light character fitted to relax the mind after reading the first two. You, Duquesnel, and I could share the labor and play into each other's hands, so that each number should have as often as possible three articles from us, conceived in the manner that I have just indicated; only remember that you must leave the light article for me, because I know nothing of philosophy or criticism.

. . . . .

And now let me tell what my present position is. I have hired a little room at twenty francs a month, near my cousin. He could not take me into his own family; my friend, Lefebvre, could not accommodate me either; and besides, the fact is that one must be alone and quite independent if one would work well; it is better to have a house of one's own. I take my meals at my cousin's; in short, I am in a very tolerable position, and one that will allow me to try my fortune for three months to come, and I hope much longer.

Add to this a most charming perspective, from which I hope much for the advancement of my fortunes and the maintenance of my courage. At the end of this month Quemper is going to change his lodgings. He has in view, still, in the rue des Petits-Augustins, an apartment consisting of three rooms, two bed-chambers and a parlor. He proposes that I should take one of these rooms, which would cost me twenty francs, like the one I have at present, and that we should share the parlor. You may imagine that I accepted the plan with both hands, especially because it will be so delightful to live with such a friend. We have already laid out a life of uninterrupted happiness not to be described, a sort of Le Val for us two in the midst of Paris. {690} Can discouragement seize upon me there? and if it comes, cannot we put it to flight? Quemper has drawn up a rule of life for me, and given lessons in a double economy of which I knew nothing--that of time and money; in short, as he says, he will pilot me through life and Paris, two paths where I lose myself completely, though I number twenty-three years of life and eight years of Paris. I begin to believe that in spite of myself or any evil genius, I shall accomplish something.

If I turn to the source of all these blessings, I find you, my dear friend, who by your exhortations and generous reproaches, sowed in my soul the first germs of the courage that I feel stirring within me now. You urged me to come to Paris when I was contemplating a cowardly retreat; you bound me in that ripe sheaf of friendship with yourself, Quemper, and Duquesnel, an endless blessing from which, perhaps, all the success of my life will grow; to you I owe two months of beautiful impressions and pure happiness. You let me look upon Le Val as a second Le Cayla, love it with the affection that belongs to one's birthplace, for it was the June of my second birth; weep for it in momenta of sadness, and sing of its charms when I am glad.

My cousin's little girl is nine months old; she is charming, can stand alone already, without walking of course, has an enchanting smile; in short, would be a companion angel for Marie. When her tongue is loosed, I will teach her all the little words that her baby sister in Le Val can say, "_Bon jour, ma, à tantôt, le v'la lia_" and I will swing her in a napkin; in short, I will do everything I can to make her another Marie, her faithful and bewitching likeness.

I have not yet written to my sister. I shall do so this evening with exhortations and entreaties. How happy it would make me to see a firm friendship grow up between Madame de La Morvonnais and Eugénie! those two souls so formed for mutual understanding, and to draw forth the wealth of sweetness from each other's souls.

Offer my homage to her who will, I hope, soon call my sister friend, and win the same title from her; as it is between you and me, my dear friend. Countless kisses to Marie. Don't forget me, I beg, when you write to Mordreux and St. Malo. Love to Duquesnel and François.

At the time the following idyl was written, the pernicious style of literature which it satirizes was confined to France. To-day, when our bookstores teem with works of the same class, we fear that the allegory may meet with less favor among American readers than it would have aroused thirty years ago.

MAURICE DE GUÉRIN TO M. H. DE LA MORVONNAIS.

PARIS, February, 1834.

I fear me much that the month of May will bring us snow-balls instead of roses.

When I left you, dear friend, your solitude was just ready to burst forth into flowers and verdure. The reddening fruit walls in your garden, and the little chilly shrubs that love the sun, were trusting their tender foliage, in all confidence, to the benign and gentle winter, smiling upon them with the grace of spring. The wood that stretches over your sloping shore, dipping almost into the sea, wore that look of life and gladness that trees put on as spring-time draws near. The sticky, oval buds of the Indian chestnut, glistened in the sun; beech buds, sharp and slim, pricked themselves up with pert vivacity, even the small round oak buds were beginning to gather in bunches at the end of the branches, and yet the oak leaves out later than other forest-trees. We saw the young shoots of undergrowth blushing with the red tint that colors them at the awakening of vegetation, as if blood were purling through their veins instead of sap. The grass, pushing its way up through the bed of dead leaves and withered vegetation, thrown over {691} it in autumn, was bordering the paths, and spreading a velvet carpet in every glade, decked with the enamel of a thousand Easter buds and daisies. Everything was gay in preparation for the great feast of nature. Oh! if nightingale, swallow, oriole, and sparrow knew all this, how they would bestir themselves to fly _dulcesque revisere nidos_. It may be that their European brothers have sent messengers to tell them that everything is ready for their reception, woods, groves, hedge, and bush; that seeds and berries will come early; that, morning and evening, the gnats are whirling in myriads in the beams of the rising and setting sun; that all is lovely here, and they must hurry home to enjoy the glorious festival. I don't know that our domestic birds have paid this attention to their travelled brethren, but at least they have given themselves up to joy and harmony in awaiting their return. Do you remember, Hippolyte, how the blackbirds whistle, the gay, sweet warble of the thrush, or the twitter of some wren perched on the top of a wall, used to beguile us from our study, tempting us forth to pleasant rambles?

Such was your Thebaïd, as you call it, the day before I left you, full of warmth and animation, vivid with rising sap and the labor of vegetation. To-day I will wager that the eruption of leaves and flowers is far advanced, that the birds are hopping about in search of moss, twigs, stray feathers, and bits of down, and that you are wandering in spring revery under the first shade of your chestnut trees. But, my friend, are you slumbering serenely on these fair promises? Does it never occur to you that this may be all a stratagem of winter, and that the old despot may have manoeuvred, merely to draw out verdure and blossom, and kill them with his baleful breath? Do you never fear that thus the acme may be reached of our delusions? What if this balmy, perfumed air turned to a north wind; if a black, sharp cold condensed all this living sap, this fecundity now gushing through the veins of nature; if the frost crystallized your woods and their tender leaflets; if your little eddying brooks were to clasp in ice the flower, stems, and stalks of herbs that grow upon their beds and borders; if, instead of nightingales and singing-birds from southern shores, you should see triangles of long-necked geese and swans pouring down from the north, and files of those ducks that we used to hear cutting the clouds with whistling wings on December evenings; if the exterminator, winter, were to kill in one night all these first-born of the year; in short, if your Thebaïd were to turn into a Siberia, what would become of your dreams of plenty, fruits, and flowers, soft siestas under the shade of a tree, songs on the sea-shore, and of that whole existence, nourished upon sunlight, gentle breezes, and sweet odors, that you lead in your dear wilderness?

If you had power over nature, I should say to you: "Give your gardens and woods and birds a lesson of wisdom. Bid those buds that I saw gaping in the sunshine to hold back well in their envelope the leaves entrusted to their care, scare them with the rigors that may surprise them; the brightest sun is a deceiver. Put them on their guard against the wiles of a fair day, teach them to be austere, and tell them the thousand tales you know of flowers that have crumbled into dust because they heeded the lures of a passing breeze or of a glowing sunbeam. Tell them that, if perchance a few be saved amid the general havoc, they will one day bear shrivelled, meagre, tasteless fruit that no fair hand shall ever gather, and that shall wither on the branch or fall a prey to the vile appetite of insects. Tell them that their thin and pallid foliage shall draw disdain upon them from the panting traveller, the young maidens, and the winged musicians that take refuge under their shade to rest or dance or sing. Men will take them for useless cumberers of the earth, and one day {692} perhaps the axe will be laid at their root." As to the birds, the best advice you can give them is, to leave their brothers in exile until the first day of true spring shines. It is better to bear banishment a little longer than come home to find their country the wretched slave of winter. Let your birds beware how they recall their brethren or begin to build their own nests. The brood would not prosper; the poor mothers would shiver on their eggs, and the bitter cold, stealing under their wings, would kill the chicks in the shell, despite the warmth of the maternal bosom. Oh! if you had, power over nature, what a discourse I would send you for your Thebaïd, to save it from the seductions of this perfidious spring whose perils I know so well.

Do you take all this seriously, my friend? I fear not, and that you will dismiss it with a smile, as the prattle of a child. I even fear that you may regard my letter as very eccentric, and say to yourself: "What nonsense is this? Talking of woods and flowers to a hermit; wandering on into homilies addressed to birds and flowers, when he is writing from Paris, and not one word of what is stirring in the world! He deserves in punishment that I should send him an essay upon the dramas and romances of last year!" My friend, restrain your wrath, and contain yourself long enough to hear, my reasons.

Horace said: "At Rome I prate of Tiber, and at Tiber I prate of Rome." Don't imagine that my taste is light and changeable as the wind, and thus explain to yourself my long tirades on your solitude. When I was in your Thebaïd, did I ever speak regretfully of the joys of Paris? Did I not, on the contrary, say always that a city life is repugnant to my taste, and that I care not at all for any pleasures to be enjoyed here? Don't you remember how the little rough huts of your tidesmen used to excite my envy, and that I used to have dreams of hollowing out a cool, dark grotto in the heart of a rock in one of your creeks, and letting my life glide away in the contemplation of the vast ocean, like a sea-god? If you recall all this, you'll easily understand why in Paris I talk of the country and forget Paris. Indeed, you will see that it cannot be otherwise; for having said to the fields, as you know,

"Le corps s'en va, mals le cocur vous demeure," [Footnote 199]

my discourse must turn on them, and I can only live in this mad tornado of Paris as not belonging to it.

[Footnote 199: Froissart (manuscript note).]

If you know me well, these reasons will more than suffice to make you understand the beginning of my letter. But will you be able to resist the perpetual impulse that makes you look for mysteries in the clearest things, so insatiable is your taste for divining? No; you will look under the natural sense of my words, and think you have surprised a sly meaning, crouching like a serpent under flowers, beneath my sentences, which breathe only sweet images of spring. I'm not afraid of your discovering some political allusion in them, for you are too solitary, and hold yourself too much aloof from such things for that idea to occur to you. But, if your eyes turn from the arena of politics, they will settle on the noble field of literary doctrines; and because lately the combat has grown hot, and the noise of the mêlée is resounding far and wide, you will fancy that I am a passionate spectator of the struggle, amusing myself with winding the opposing party in subtle mocking allegories. Let me tell you that this interpretation, or any similar one given to my idyl on the precocious spring, misses its aim; that my idyl veils no satire; and that if it seems to you the least in the world insidious or guileful, 'tis only because you've breathed your own malice upon the innocent thing. I repeat, it conies merely to discourse with you about nature; and what can be more natural? Know that never has a ray of sunlight shone directly {693} into the room where I live; I receive it only by repercussion. Toward noon the sun strikes some garret windows opposite that send across to me a few pale reflections, without warmth or cheerfulness, like the rays of a lamp; and even this vague, languishing light vanishes in a quarter of an hour. These are the beams that gladden my eyes, accustomed to the broad overflowing liberality of a southern sky. A narrow, sombre court-yard, where there's not a blade of grass growing in the cracks of the pavement, nor a flower-pot on a window-sill to smile upon me--this is the horizon to which I am reduced; I, who so many, many times have scaled with you your rocks and downs and sea-cliffs, whence our eyes embraced the divine expanse of ocean, the marvellous indentures of your coast, and the wide fields all green with wheat and flax. And now that I've fallen from these fair heights into a hole that hardly admits the light of day, do you suppose I shall not try to live over again these charms in imagination, or that I shall talk to you of anything but yourself and your solitude? And you, you cynical recluse, would envenom these sweet, innocent recollections, and find some apologue or another in the images of nature among which I seek recreation? But as I have every reason to suppose that you are not attending to me, and are still working to disentangle the metaphors, let us see if perchance malice can make anything out of my precocious spring, and to what allusion it can be turned.

Interested as you are in literary matters, and attentive to the disturbances that have risen tip lately among our authors, I am sure that it will not be long before the _facile literature_ comes to your mind. Then you will think you have the clew, and with that thread you'll plunge into the labyrinth of my supposed allegory, hoping to emerge maliciously triumphant and content. I allow that, without any extraordinary flights, imagination might pass from the buds, opening prematurely on the faith of a brilliant winter sun, to this young literature, which has burst into blossom before its time, and innocently exposed itself to the returns of frost that I predict to your woods and groves. But, my friend, will you, who rejoice so ardently at sight of an almond-tree in flower, will you reproach severely these trusting souls that have opened in the broad-day light and displayed with touching faith their treasures to the graces of heaven? Blame rather the burning sun of our day, and the atmosphere all charged with fatal heat, which have hastened this development and perhaps reduced the harvest of our age to a few ears.

And the trees whose blossoms are only born to die, and those that bear bitter fruits which no one will ever pluck, or will gather only to throw away--ah! you'll not have much trouble in seeing in them the emblems of the many authors who have appeared once and vanished for ever; the many authors whose books, distasteful to a few grave judges, are welcomed by seekers after novelty and romance readers; and who, having filled these vain souls with vain ideas, often sink into the well of oblivion with hands relaxed by the lethargy that comes from dull satiety.

Will you have it that the trees shunned by travellers, young maidens, and birds figure those renowned books, worthy of their fame as works of art, which do not contain a grain of the hidden manna, nor one of the sweet, beneficent thoughts that nourish the soul and relax it after fatigue?--books that maidenly hands dare not touch, and that put to flight everything fresh and innocent--a thought to make one die of shame and grief! Will you have it so? I yield the point with good grace, for in truth my thoughts bear your interpretation as well as if I had really hidden it therein, and I will follow you no further in your suspicious investigations, feeling sure that my test will not suffer violence from you, {694} and that you will go on to the end without losing your way.

What conclusion do you draw from all this? First, that, resolved to enter the lists, I am preparing in secret my lance and chariot, and kindling my wrath. But are my peaceful inclinations unknown to you, or the weakness of my arm and my very doubtful courage? I a combatant! Just remember that the least tumult scares and routs me like a flying prey, and that my strength bravely suffices to drag me out of danger; so how could it drag me in?

In the second place, you will suppose that I am nursing an aversion for the new school and calling out for a classical reform. M. Nisard, of course, does not wish the new school to perish, but to amend its ways; and it is with that belief, and, I dare to say, on that condition, that I pray ardently for the success of the campaign he is about to open. The Catholic faith would never allow me to sympathize entirely with a sceptical and fatalist literature, that sets no value upon morality. But, on the other hand, the same faith makes me feel a certain interest in it; for is not this disorderly, frantic new school a truant from our fold?

No, dear friend, I am not a prey to devouring anger; but I must groan in solitude over the wanderings of this literature, which has forgotten the home and the teaching of its father, and has so hopelessly lost itself, until the last and most terrible romance, in that style, would now be its own history. Amid these sighs there come to me a few reflections upon the cause of the evil and the means to remedy it; and that is what I meant to announce to you in this incoherent letter, in which I beg you to see only a whimsical prelude of my imagination, turning, as it always does, toward you.

MAURICE DE GUÉRIN TO M. H. DE LA MORVONNAIS, AU VAL SAINT POTAN.

AU PARC, July 9th, 1834.

I wrote to you on leaving Paris a short letter, of which I begged you not to take any notice. To-day, dear Hippolyte, when I have all possible leisure, and the untroubled peace of the country is around me, I resume our talk with every intention of carrying my confidence to the utmost limits; that is, to the point where I shall begin to fear that my chattering bores you.

I announced to you a complete account of my affairs and my position during these five months past. Now I am going to begin and you must listen. You know what my hopes were when I left Le Val; I felt a decided taste for literary life, the profession of a journalist smiled upon me, and I was hugging some bright phantom or other of the future that had sprung up in my imagination; and in spite of the distrust that you know I mingled with my love, I had given myself up to this dream with intense ardor. For, let me tell you, _en passant_, that I throw myself impetuously into every new project that can modify my existence; and whether a walk is proposed to me for the next day, or whether I am told, "To-morrow your destiny is to be completely altered," I feel equally excited, and rush to meet the two events with equal impatience. A strange activity of thought possesses me, and I shake myself and champ my bit because time prevents me from seizing at a bound what I am already devouring with my eyes. You may imagine that, with a soul subject to such ardent cravings, I reached Paris full of enthusiasm and seized the journalist's pen with a quiver of delight. But, as usual, my enthusiasm did not last long, and difficulties, personal as well as external, made themselves felt. I saw the entrance to the journals bolted and barred by that selfishness which guards the gates of everyplace against the approach of poor young fellows who come to Paris full of innocent hopes. Catholic France alone admitted me within its circle; but this journal, notwithstanding the good-will of its directors, could not satisfy my needs. My articles were favorably received, {695} but the narrow frame of the journal cut me off from frequent contributions, and in four months I had only appeared four times.

In the mean time expenses were not behindhand, and, although I lived in a very small way, my expenditure was large in comparison to my resources. I was exhausting fruitlessly time and money, my own patience and my father's. For several months I persisted in this disposition, holding my ground against adverse fortune in order to save appearances and not yield the field without making fight. But at last everything went so badly that I had to decide promptly upon a plan suggested by the extremity of the ease. If I had been alone, I don't know what would have become of me in my utter failure of strength and courage; but God, as if for my preservation, has placed around my wavering soul friends who prop and sustain it, restoring me to myself with touching solicitude. I went to Paul, and laid before him the whole story of my painful position. I proposed to him the terrible enigma of my destiny and asked him for a solution. Without an effort he untied the Gordian knot with these words: "If you leave Paris, the future will slip through your hands. Do not let go your hold at any cost. Make your father feel that this concerns your whole life, that our last effort may save everything, and a first refusal may ruin everything." And thereupon we set to work to compute article by article all the necessities to be satisfied, all the debts to be paid, all the most threatening possibilities of the future; and the whole account, amounting to the sum of twelve hundred francs, I sent to my father, with a petition written by my cousin in order to give it more weight.

At the end of a fortnight my father returned it with his approbation and a gift of the sum I had asked. What happiness it was to go in search of Paul that I might thank him, triumph with him, overwhelm him with joy for my joy; for I knew his kindness too well to doubt that he would share all my transports. I was not mistaken; his rejoicings over my success were sweeter to me than my own, and I had the inestimable pleasure of seeing it communicated to my other friends, François, Elic, etc. How delightful it is to receive such proofs of pure, heartfelt sympathy! In short, my dear Hippolyte, here I am launched upon the waves, provisioned with money and courage, and walking with assured step to meet the future; I feel as if a light were guiding me, and as if I were advancing toward an unknown goal. For the present this is what I mean to do: I shall spend the end of August and the whole of September at the College Stanislas, where I shall have a class during vacation: when the term begins, I shall establish myself in the college if there is a place for me; if not, I can have quite an advantageous situation at my cousin's, by helping him to keep his little _pension d'elèves_. This is an abridged history of these last five months; it gives only a superficial view, but you are well enough acquainted with my inner life to understand the course of my thoughts during the time. Here I am at rest, dreaming of the future, giving myself up to the pleasures of friendship and conversation, and drinking in the country-life and all the dear idleness that one can never fully enjoy except in the fields. Our solitude is so profound that we do not even know the result of the elections. Another ignorance, harder to bear, is concerning all that is going on among our friends and affairs in Paris. I know nothing more than when I left them, and it is a very long time also since I heard from my sister.

Pray, present my respectful compliments to Madame Morvonnais, and my remembrances at Mordreux and Saint-Malo. I am going to write to Amédée. Ask Marie, who can answer me now, if she remembers M. Guérin, who sends her a thousand kisses.

TO M. H. DE LA MORVONNAIS. PARIS, Sept. 21st, 1834.

I have just received your manuscript, my dear friend, and the letter {696} it enclosed; it has only this moment arrived, and I write before reading, that my despatch may be ready for Paul, who leaves day after to-morrow in the morning. You are to possess this inestimable treasure of friendship, freshness of soul, and warmth of heart. He will rest from his busy, devoted life in the fair sanctuary of peace and friendship, of which you are the priest; he will bathe in the current of those easy, limpid days that murmur beneath your roof. What an interruption and vacuum in my life will be between his departure and the day of his return with the other brothers! What will become of me in my _ennui_. Tomorrow evening we shall have our farewell _soirée_. Do you know what evenings we have now and then? We meet at dinner-time and have a cosy dinner, intimate talks, long wandering walks under the chestnut-trees of the Tuileries, through the perfume of orange-blossoms and flower-beds in the gleams of the setting sun. These talks come and go between Paris and Le Val, from one friend to another, from present to future, from melancholy to the liver, philosophy to poetry, weak sadness to firm and manly resolutions, from one thing in life to another. To paint these conversations for you would be like trying to render with a style the colors of twilight, the vague nonchalance of the breezes, or, a still more difficult task, what comes more softly shaded to our hearts. Tomorrow will be the farewell evening, the close of these melodious evenings. How many things come to an end under our eyes! I will not speak of my own affairs; Paul will tell you where I stand, and how my hopes ebb and flow, rising to the chair of rhetoric of Juilly, and falling to a little schoolroom. He will tell you about my firm resolutions and the manly efforts of my will to seize the empire of my soul. It would be a long story to relate the history of my interior revolutions, changes of government, civil wars, anarchy, despotism, gleams of liberty. These are annals that write themselves in rude characters upon the soul and in wrinkles on the brow. Sometimes I feel that I _can no more_, like an old empire. O my charming hermit, my sea-swan, my poet-philosopher, how shall I express the jumble there is in my soul at this moment of pleasure and pain, the pell-mell of joyful and sad tears that rush from my eyes and roll over each other down my cheeks? I see you in my soul; I see Paul's departure and embrace him in farewell; I see Le Val, your meeting, the charm of your life, the isolation of mine, and my longings after my dear Brittany. My friend, sometimes the soul wanders out of sight, and is restless and troubled like the sea.

MAURICE DE GUÉRIN TO M. H. DE LA MORVONNAIS.

PARIS, Oct. 19th, 1834.

At last, my dear friend, I can be with you, I can open my heart and confide my soul to you; a doubtful privilege, perhaps you think, but unluckily I cannot keep it to myself. Today, then, this gray Sunday, a calm day, a day of decline quite suited to the fall of leaves and the emigration of souls, my busy life, heated with action, pauses to recover its strength, and resume its confidential intercourse so long interrupted; to give itself up to the genius of autumn and lend its ear to the memories whose rustling we hear so distinctly on certain days; and, all laden with impressions, reminiscences, and autumnal melodies, to retire into some lonely corner far from chances of interruption, and pour itself out to you. But I have left behind me the mystery that I wish to unveil to you: _My busy life, heated with action_. What! I a man of action! Some potent voice must have bade me take up my bed and walk! The day after Paul left me I was to go to Versailles, where I had reason to hope I could have a place as teacher in an institution. I went to Versailles, and this was what I found: four hours of teaching {697} every day, _des salles d'études_, recreations, walks with the pupils, and a salary of 400 francs. The position I had hoped for in the College Stanislas having failed me also, there remained only my last plan, that of going to my cousin's. But, as if to complete and crown the lesson that she was resolved to give me, fortune decreed that my cousin should all of a sudden be absolutely without scholars. Thus for a time was I trampled beneath the feet of destiny. Then indeed I had time to write to you, I had a superabundance of leisure. To punish me for my sins--me, so long a rebel against the ancient condemnation to labor, God took from me the possibility of doing anything. He turned aside and removed from my reach all working tools at the moment when my hands were eager for them. Leisure on every side, far stretching, never ending, condemned to bury myself in unlimited leisure as in a doleful desert. Why did I not write to you when my whole life lay before me at my own disposal? My friend, I had nothing to tell but misfortunes, and my recital would only have grieved you. I preferred waiting for the wind to blow away these black days and clear my atmosphere. The tempest was short; the sky of my little world is tinged anew in the east, and it is by the light of its first gleams that I write to you. The professor of the fifth class at Stanislas asked leave of absence for a month; I have taken his place and shall have 100 francs for the work. I am looking for private lessons and have found several. Classes and recitations occupy my day from half-past seven in the morning until half-past nine in the evening; I sleep at my cousin's, the college dinner serves me for breakfast, and in the evening I get a dinner for twenty-four sous like a _débutant_. Such has been my life for the last three weeks; a sudden revolution in my existence, an abrupt transition from careless revery to breathless action. An urgent pressure, a little reason, a few grains of irritating self-love, supply fresh strength to my soul, which is exhausted at the first tug. However, I must say that in the deepest and most hidden recesses of my being, in the sanctuary of the will, lives a resolution, that is, I believe, firm and steady, to sacrifice half my existence to external things, in order to insure repose to the inner man; and therefore I have decided to prepare myself for the _agrégation_ (corresponds to the expression, master of arts). I have explained to you the facts, accidents, and external circumstances; let us go deeper. Latin, Greek, and all the bustle of laborious life, absorb a certain portion of my thoughts; but it is that floating and least, valuable portion which, without regret, I let flutter in the wind like the fringe of a cloak. These are the waves that break upon he beach; the sand drinks them in, men gather their spoils, the sea tosses them to any one who wants them. Thus, as I tell you, my mind near its shores is occupied by the cares and duties of active life; but far out at sea nothing touches it, nothing passes over it, nothing is lost from its waves, except by the continual evaporation of my intelligence drawn up by some unknown star.

It will soon be a year since from the heights of Créhen I hailed Le Val, lying all golden on the hillside beneath the beautiful autumn sun. Dear anniversary, full of gentle melancholy like the season that brings it. Every morning, on the way to college, I cross the Tuileries where the ground is covered with the heaps of autumn leaves, the wind sighs through the branches as in a desert, and, like the ring-doves that build their nests in ancient chestnut-trees, a few of the poems of solitude flutter about in these city groves. Sometimes the murmur of a breeze among the boughs recalls to me the sound of the sea, and I pause to possess myself of the delusion, and isolate myself with it from the whole world: these are the waves, I am walking along the shore with you, wandering over headlands in the evening twilight; I am sitting on La {698} _Rôche-Alain_. Then when I feel the illusion is fading away, I resume my walk, all full of emotion, all full of you, and cry like the _Young Bard_: "Good God, give us back the sea!"

MAURICE DE GUÉRIN TO M. H. DE LA MORVONNAIS.

PARIS, Dec. 5th, 1835.

Your impatience to know how I dispose of my time, and all the turnings of the roads I am following, that you may go with me in thought, roused in me a very delightful feeling, and one that does not easily find expression in words. But your idea of my life is quite too elevated; you attribute to it a dignity with which it is not invested when you speak of my sufferings and the courage with which I bear them. No, my dear Hippolyte, my lot is not so beautiful as you would make it out. The difficulties of my life consist in a few material fatigues, to which the body easily becomes hardened, even deriving a certain strength from contending with them; and in the distaste for a profession which is conquering my antipathy through the slow but irresistible action of habit, which tames the wildest spirits, and reduces them to complete submission almost without their knowledge, everything becomes deadened, everything dissolves insensibly. The firmest revolutions yield each day something to the progress of the hours. All rebellions are absorbed again by degrees into the common soul. All things lie upon a declivity which opposes itself to continued ascent. I have chosen my course in life; I come and go in the leading-strings of habit, keeping my mind in the middle of the road, restraining it carefully from those thoughts that would draw it aside, and mar the blessed monotony which lends something to the pettiest existence. Being reduced to this state, I have no need of courage. I required, of course, some resolution to arrive at it, but it was not worth much and was borrowed from circumstances.

These are the principal features of my day: I set forth on foot at seven o'clock to give a lesson in the neighborhood; then I go to the College Stanislas; at the other end of Paris, and remain there until six in the evening. That leaves me an hour and a half to dine and retrace my steps again to the further extremity of Paris, where my last lesson awaits me, which ends at half past eight. My liberty claims possession of the night. Custom having worn away the asperities of this life, only one defect remains, but a capital one; and that is the difficulty of using the fragments of time that are left to me after using the larger portions for studies that are to raise me above my present condition. How to make the cares of self-subsistence agree with these exacting labors seems to me an insoluble problem in Paris. But time is so fertile in good advice, and sometimes unties knots so easily that would have defied a sword, that I await its solution in patience. You wish me to compose, to unveil the gifts which you think I possess. My friend, why interrupt the course of a wise resolution and mar a work that is so slow of formation and so costly? Let the waters flow in their natural hidden course, following their tranquil destinies in a narrow, nameless bed. My mind is a domestic animal, and shuns adventure; that of the literary life is especially repugnant to its humor, and excites its contempt, speaking without the least self-sufficiency. I see delusion in the career, both in its essence and in the prize we seek, charged often with the venom of a secret ridicule. Looking at life with the naked eye, in the severe, monotonous expanse she presents to some of us, seems to me more conformable to the interest of the mind, and more in accordance with the laws of wisdom, than unceasingly applying one's eyes to the prism of art and poetry. Before I embrace art and poetry, I wish to have them demonstrated with an eternal solemnity and certainty, like {699} God. They are two doubtful phantoms, and wear a perfidious gravity that conceals a mocking laugh. That laugh I will not bear.

MAURICE TO MLLE. EUGÉNIE DE GUÉRIN.

PARIS, Feb. 9th, 1836.

I saw Madame ------ (name illegible) day before yesterday. She is to leave Paris in a fortnight, and offered very obligingly to take charge of my commissions to Gaillae. I shall profit by her kindness to send you what you ask, the velvet neck-ribbons, the net for your hair (but, pray, why have you adopted this very ugly coiffure?) and the albe that Mimi asked me to send her. I hope the little articles I send will suit you both and fulfil your expectations exactly. But why be afraid of being indiscreet in drawing upon my purse a little? Think, dear friends, that I am your treasurer here, and that I wish you to consider me as such. If you had reminded me sooner of the cloaks, you would have had them now. I would gladly have deferred getting one for myself until next year, and should not now be regretting the fact that my shoulders are well covered, while I know that cold and damp air are penetrating to yours as you go to Andillac. I am quite provoked with myself for not having thought of it. Am I not very ungracious, never beforehand with any idea, but waiting to be urged out of what looks like indifference? Are you annoyed with me for this, and could you ever judge me by mere external signs? Never, I am sure. You have too much penetration to deceive yourselves for a moment about my affection, when it is most hidden or most ungainly.

I am glad to know that the union which has been so long uncertain is at last secured. I have no doubt that all the conditions of happiness will be found in it, if only health can be added to them.

The lime of papa's journey is drawing near. From a distance it is difficult to judge his course correctly; the moment itself must have arrived before one can appreciate it truly.

I am trying to find out at this moment what I may count upon in the future for the accomplishment of my dearest hopes.

The last sentences in this letter refer to Guérin's marriage with Mlle. de Gervain, which is so fully described in Eugénie's letters from Paris that it needs no comment here. Then followed a few months of tranquil success, a lingering illness at Le Cayla, a happy death-bed; and our story ends, as all true stories must end, in a graveyard. By the gateway of that old cemetery of Andillac, where Eugénie sunned herself one day sitting on a tombstone, while waiting for her turn to go to confession, is a white marble obelisk surmounted by a cross. Caroline placed it there as her last gift to her husband, and it bears these words:

Here rests my friend Who was my husband Only eight months. Farewell. Pierre George Maurice De Guérin du Cayla. Born August 4th, 1810, Died at Le Cayla July 19th, 1839.

Close by stands the little church whose chief ornament is a delicately wrought statue of the Blessed Virgin, presented by Queen Marie Amélie at Eugénie's petition. The belfry is crumbling to decay, and the tottering porch under which the dove of Le Cayla passed so often appeals pitifully to those who have a zeal for the preservation of God's house.

A record has been made of Eugénie's daily life by one who had hourly opportunities of watching her actions, and we cannot refrain from laying it before our readers. Nothing concerning the sister of Maurice can be inappropriate in an article devoted to him, and it will be well to see how holy and regular a life may be led in the world without singularity or narrowness.

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"She rose at six in the morning when she was not ill. After dressing she made a vocal or mental prayer, and never failed when she was in a town to hear mass at the nearest altar. At Le Cayla, after saying her morning prayer, she went into her father's room, either to wait upon him, or to carry his breakfast in and read to him while he took it. At nine o'clock she went back to her room and followed mass spiritually. If her father was well and did not need her assistance, she occupied herself with reading and writing or with sewing, of which she was very fond (fairy in hands as she was in soul); or in superintending the household, which she directed with exquisite taste and intelligence. At noon she went to her room and said the Angelus; then came dinner. When it was over, if the weather was good, she took a walk with her father, or sometimes made a visit in a village if there was any invalid to see or any afflicted person to console. If she resumed reading on her return, she took up her knitting also and knitted while she read, not admitting even the shadow of idle hours. At three she went to her room, where she generally read the Visit to the Blessed Sacrament by St. Alphonsus Liguori, or the life of that day's saint. This ended, she wrote until five o'clock if her father did not call her to be with him. At five she said her rosary and meditated until supper time. At seven she talked with the rest of the family, but never left off working. After supper she went into the kitchen for evening prayers with the servants or to teach the catechism to some little ignorant child, as often happened during the vineyard times. The rest of the evening passed in working, and at ten o'clock she went to bed, after reading the subject of meditation for the next day, in order to sleep upon some good thought. And, finally, it should be added that every month she prepared herself for death and chose some saint whom she loved best that she might imitate his virtues. Every week she went to communion, and even oftener during the last years of her life, when her failing health would allow her to go to the church, which was at some distance from Le Cayla."

The hour of release came at last for her too, after a lingering illness of which we possess few details. After receiving the last sacraments, she gave a key to her sister, saying: "In that drawer you will find some papers which you will burn; they are all vanity." She died in 1848 on the last day of the beautiful month of Mary, which she and Mimin had always observed with such tender devotion in the _chambrette_.

"All was ended now, the hope and the fear and the sorrow, All the aching of heart, the restless unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience."

The dear old father survived "his angel, his second self and much more," only six months. Grembert died in 1850. Three graves now surround Maurice's, and on one of them, which is already regarded with veneration by the country people, is a wooden cross, bearing a circular medallion that encloses a virginal crown with these few words:

"Eugénie de Guérin, died May 31st, 1843."

"Soft as the opals of the east at dawn, and sad as the gleams that die away so quickly in the twilight, she will be, for those who read her, the Aurora of her brother's day; but an Aurora who has tears too! May these tears fertilize the grave over which she wept, and make the flower of glory spring up rarer than ever now for poets! The materialism of our times has thickened the earth, so hard to break at all times. We know there is a flower that pierces the snow, but one that can penetrate the mind of an age devoted to matter is harder to find." (Jules Barbey d'Aurevilly's unpublished notice of Mademoiselle de Guérin.)

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From The Month.

SYRACUSE AND AETNA.

Tourists bent on the ascent of AEtna leave Catania at the end of the long straight street which terminates in the Piazza Giorni. The ascent begins at once. On both sides of the road luxuriant groves of orange, citron, almond, and carouba trees alternate with vineyards and cornfields rich in the promise of future crops. Yet all are growing on the lava, and lava meets you at every turn: the walls, festooned with the "Bourgainviller," the passion-flower, and beautiful yellow roses, are still of lava; so are the pretty villas and the _riant_ farm-houses and the lodges in the vineyards--all are built of it. The streets through the villages are paved with it. There is a sort of allegorical beauty and poetical justice in the way in which the great common enemy has been, as it were, conquered and subdued--at least for a time--and forced to repair the terrible mischief it has wrought. As the road ascends higher and higher, the vegetation diminishes, and you come at last to a wild waste of rock sprinkled with broom and dwarf oak. A twelve-miles' drive brought our travellers to Nicolosi, where their first visit was paid to the kind old professor and geologist, Dr. Gemmellaro, from whom every kind of assistance is obtained for the ascent of the mountain, which is, as it were, both his child and his home. He is a most good-natured and agreeable old man, whose whole life has been devoted to this one great interest, and whose greatest pleasure seems to be to make others share in the knowledge which he himself possesses. His house a museum of curiosities, and contains a carefully arranged collection of all the geological phenomena of the mountain. Among other things, he showed the party a ptarmigan which had been "caught sitting" by the lava stream, and had been instantly petrified, like Lot's wife! the bird preserving its shape perfectly. The village of Nicolosi is composed of low houses built up and down a long straggling street, with a fine church in the centre. Horse-races were going on the day of our travellers' arrival, and causing immense excitement among the people, who were all in the street in holiday attire. The horses ran, as at the carnival in the Corso, without riders, and were excited to a pitch of madness by the shouts of their starters and the _bandeleros_ stuck in their sides. After watching the races for some little time, our travellers returned to the kind professor's, who had seen the guides required for their ascent of AEtna, but who advised them to delay their expedition for two or three days to allow of a greater melting, of the snow, the season being backward, and to procure the requisite number of mules for so large a party. It was also necessary to send some one beforehand to clear out the snow from the Casa Inglese, the small house of refuge which the professor had built on the summit of the mountain, at the base of the principal cone, and where travellers rest while waiting for the sunrise, or before commencing the last portion of the ascent to the crater. He is very anxious to have this house better built and provided with more comforts, and tried to enlist the interest of our travellers with the English Government in its behalf. Having arranged everything with him, our party retraced their steps to Catania, having decided to visit Syracuse first, and take AEtna on their return.

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The following morning, consequently, at half-past three, they started for Syracuse, so as to arrive there before the great heat of the day, and also in time for mass. A long marshy plain occupied the whole of the first stage; after which the road wound through limestone rocks and rich cultivation, till they reached the picturesque village of Lentini. The lake of Lentini is the largest in Sicily, famous for its wild fowl, but also for its malaria. There is a beautiful view of the little town, with its wooded cliffs and deep ravines, from the Capuchin convent above. The scenery increases in beauty as you approach Syracuse, the road descending into deep glens full of ilex, myrtle, oleander, and a variety of aromatic shrubs, and rising again over rocky hills scented with thyme and every kind of wild flower. From hence comes the delicious Hybla honey, which rivals that of Mount Hymettus. Over the wide downs which stretch seaward, the picturesque town of Augusta was seen, perched on the edge of the broad sandy bay.

Our travellers had excellent horses; so that it was not more than half-pas ten when they reached the gates of Syracuse and found themselves in the comfortable little hotel near the port. One of the party started off at once to find a mass; but the good people of Syracuse are very early in their habits, and the lady wandered half over the city before she found what she sought in the beautiful little church of St. Philip, where there happened to be on that day the exposition of the blessed sacrament, and in consequence masses all the morning. On her return she found that the vicar-general had been kindly sent by the archbishop to show her the curiosities of the place. He first took them to the temple of Diana, now converted into a private residence, and of which nothing remains to be seen but some very ancient Doric columns. From thence they proceeded to the world-famed fountain of Arethusa. The spring rises from an arch in the rock, and is protected by a bastion, which defends it from the sea. The papyrus grows here in great luxuriance, and the party gathered some as a specimen, having first duly drank the anciently sacred water. Resuming their carriages, their kind guide now conducted them outside the town to the interesting church and crypt of San Marzian, the first church of Sicily, built on the spot where St. Paul preached during his three days' stay in Syracuse. It is a simple, massive building, of the shape of a Greek cross, and contains the episcopal chair of St. Marzian. Here also is the tomb of the saint, who was the proto-martyr of Sicily. Near the tomb is the rude stone altar where St. Paul said mass. A column of gray granite is shown as that to which St. Marzian was attached for the scourging previous to his execution: it is tinged with his blood. The crypt, however, is the most sacred spot. Here came the apostles St. Peter and St. Paul, with the evangelists St. Mark and St. Luke, on their successive visits to the holy bishop, St. Marzian; where also the local tradition affirms that St. Mark was martyred. The curious font now in the cathedral was found in this crypt, and was probably used for the baptism of many of the early Pagan converts. Adjoining is the place of St. Marzian's martyrdom. The church itself is built over the site of an ancient temple of Bacchus. Leading out of a side door is the entrance to the catacombs, which are more extensive than even those of Naples or Rome, and abound in Christian emblems: crosses, palm-branches, the dove, and other Catholic symbols, are rudely carved on all the vaults and niches, with here and there an early fresco of the Blessed Virgin and Child, or a Greek inscription.

From the catacombs our travellers crossed the plain, thickly studded with ancient columns, sarcophagi, and remains of Greek and Roman buildings, till they came to the little church of St. Nicolo. Underneath is a reservoir with an aqueduct, leading to the great amphitheatre; the principal monument left of Roman work in Syracuse, and {703} still in perfect preservation. Recent excavations have cleared the space, so that the seats and arena are clearly visible. From the amphitheatre, a five-minutes' walk leads to the Latomia del Paradiso--a quarry containing in its further recesses the famous Ear of Dionysius. This cavern was excavated by the tyrant for a prison, and so constructed that the faintest whisper could be heard in the chamber above, where he sat listening to the conversation of his victims. It is to be supposed that the listener, according to the proverb, rarely heard any good of himself. It is a wonderfully picturesque spot; the sides of the quarry being lined with fruit-trees and ferns and flowering shrubs, mingled with masses of fallen rock and fragments of ancient masonry. Pistols were fired off by the guides to let the party hear the full force of the echo, which is tremendous. Round a deep spring at the further end of the cavern grew the most beautiful maiden-hair fern. Close by is the Greek theatre, the largest in Sicily, hollowed out of the rock, and capable of containing more than 20,000 spectators.

Returning home to luncheon, the ladies visited on their way the Sisters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul, who are lodged in one of the fine old mediaeval palaces of Syracuse, with beautifully carved windows and doorways. But it is very much out of repair, and very inconvenient for their large orphanage. There are only six or seven sisters here. Their superior is a charming person, and only another proof, if one were needed in that wonderful religious order, of the way in which energy, zeal, and, above all, a burning charity can triumph over the sufferings entailed by a delicate frame and sickly constitution.

After luncheon our travellers started again to meet Monsignor B------ at the cathedral. It is built on the site of an ancient temple of Minerva, but has been ruined by modern church-wardenship and whitewash. There are two fine side chapels, however; one dedicated to the Blessed Sacrament, the other to St. Lucia, in which, is exposed a large silver figure of the saint of great antiquity. The font, of which notice has been taken above, is of marble, supported by seven fine bronze lions. There is a beautiful renaissance doorway leading to the sacristy. A beautiful benediction service with litany was being sung; after which the relics and treasures were examined, which include a beautiful chalice of amber, cut out of one piece, and a pastoral ring of great size and value. In the Place, or court of the cathedral, are fourteen fine columns of Cipollino marble, supposed to have formed part of the ancient temple of Ceres. Opposite the north door of the cathedral is the museum, containing all the antiquities lately discovered in Syracuse and its neighborhood. The finest is a beautiful torso, a Venus of the best date of Greek art. There are also some very fine cameos and medals. The day was closed by a sweetly sung benediction at the orphanage of the Sisters of Charity.

The next morning, after a daybreak mass at the cathedral, one of the party breakfasted with the archbishop, who afterward showed her his palace and gardens, which are very fine. In the latter grew the largest citrons she had ever seen, very nearly equalling the gigantic oranges at Jaffa. Adjoining his garden-wall is a convent of Benedictine nuns, which was likewise visited. The good-natured prefect then insisted on taking the whole party in his carriages to the Franciscan convent of St. Lucia outside the town. There is an interesting Norman church attached to it, raised over the site of the saint's martyrdom; and a granite column is shown as that to which she was fastened on the occasion. Her tomb is cut in the rock at the back of the altar, underneath which is a fine statue of the saint by Bernini.

From this spot a narrow lane, traversing vineyards fenced by stone walls, leads to the convent of Sta. Maria di Gesù, in front of which is a fine stone {704} cross. Passing by an aqueduct in very tolerable preservation, and by a succession of old tombs cut in the cliff, our party arrived at the Capuchin convent--a fortified building, with fosse and drawbridge and machicolated battlements. A little gate at the side led them into the Latomie, or quarries, from whence the stone was taken to build the city. Here is one of the most beautiful spots in the neighborhood of Syracuse. It is a vast pit, about a hundred feet in depth; and of many acres in extent, planted with oranges, citrons, pomegranates, figs, and cypresses, with an undergrowth of roses, arums, acanthus, ferns, and creepers of every kind, and overrun with ivy and wild vine. The whole is walled in by lofty gray cliffs hung with creepers; and from the midst of this wilderness of beautiful and almost rank vegetation rise two tall insulated masses of rock, with an ancient flight of steps cut in the side of one of them, but now inaccessible. The cliffs are hollowed into vast halls or caverns, in one of which the prefect told our travellers that he had given a _fête_ to Prince Alfred on his first visit to Syracuse. The kind old monk who had been their escort brought them fruit, bread, and wine in this deliciously cool retreat, and sat a long time talking of the Holy Land, where he had been, and which he was delighted to find was equally well known and appreciated by his guests. Here and there, embedded in the rocks, are traces of ancient sepultures; and one or two Protestant epitaphs on the cliffs prove that the quarries have, even in late days, been used for purposes of burial. Leaving this beautiful spot with great regret, and acceding to the request of the good old monk that they would first pray with him for a few minutes in the church for a blessing on the Holy Land Mission, our travellers visited one or two more of the antiquities in the neighborhood, including the recently excavated baths of Diana, full of beautiful marbles and mosaics; the sepulchral road, the perpendicular sides of which are lined, with niches for cinerary urns; the tombs of Archimedes and Timoleon, and other interesting remains of Greek and Roman times; after which they returned once more to the city and to the museum, where the collection of natural history had yet to be seen, which contains everything most interesting of the kind in Sicily, and also the library. The latter contains priceless treasures, of which the most remarkable are--a rare copy of the gospel of St. John, of the twelfth century; a Koran on paper, of 1199, brought from Egypt by Lord Nelson, and given by him to the Cavalier Landolina, who was the real founder of the library; a very fine block-book, a replica of one of those in the Wilton library; and many beautifully illuminated martyrologies and missals.

Nothing can be kinder or more hospitable than the residents of Syracuse. The visit of our travellers was necessarily too limited in point of time to enable them to profit by it; but every one offered their carriage and horses, and put their palaces, not figuratively, but actually _à leur disposition_. There are still some beautiful medieval palaces in the town, especially the Palazzo Montalto, with its pointed windows and dog-tooth mouldings. It bears also some curious Gothic inscriptions, like the houses at Avila, and with the date 1397.

A charming boating excursion was made by one or two of the party from Syracuse to the fountain of Cyane, up the river Anapus, the only spot in Europe where the papyrus still grows wild. Nothing remains of the temple of Jupiter Olympus, which one visits by the way, but two broken columns. But there is a lovely sketch a little further on of a ruined bridge, with a date-palm overhanging the stream, and a foreground of magnificent tangled vegetation of reeds, sugar-cane, acanthus, iris, and every kind of aquatic plants, and which the slow progress of one's boat through the weeds enables one fully to enjoy. The Anapus {705} leads into the Cyane, which is a far clearer stream, but very narrow. Here the papyrus grows luxuriantly among flags and castor-oil plants. It was sent from Egypt by Ptolemy to King Hieron II., and has flourished ever since. Struggling up the narrow stream and through the choking mass of vegetation, which threatened to close the passage altogether, our travellers' boat at last arrived at a beautiful circular basin, fringed with papyrus and purple iris; the water, very deep, was clear as crystal, and swarming with fish. This was known in old times as the famous "dark-blue spring," converted by heathen mythology into a nymph; and an annual festival was held here in honor of Ceres. Now it is utterly deserted, save by an occasional traveller or sportsman seeking food for his gun from the multitude of snipes and wild fowl which resort to its banks and make their nests in its undisturbed arid reedy shores. That same evening our travellers returned to Catania, charmed with their expedition, and full of gratitude for all the kindness which had been showered upon them.

The following morning found one of the party very early at the convent of her old friends the Benedictines, where the superior received her with his usual fatherly kindness, and presented her, as a surprise, with the deed of affiliation to their order, which he had obtained for her from Monte Casino; together with a picture of the saint and the miraculous medal or cross of St. Benedict, with its mysterious letters, _C.S.S.M.L._ (Crux sacra sit mihi lux), a medal always given by St. Vincent de Paul to his Sisters of Charity, as a defence in the many perils of their daily lives. Once more the traveller heard that glorious music, which, beautiful at all times, is so especially thrilling at the benediction service. The organ begins with a low, sweet, wailing sound, which those beautiful and cultivated voices respond: and then bursts into thunder, expressing, as far as mortal instrument can, the glorious majesty of God. It was the feast of St. Monica--that saint so dear to every widowed mother's heart; and the fact, in connection with the English stranger, had not been forgotten by the kind abbate, who came up and whispered to her as she knelt before mass: "My child, the prayers and communions of the community this day will be offered up for _you_, that you may follow in the steps of St. Monica, and finally reap her reward."

Returning at seven to the hotel, the whole party started once more for Nicolosi, on their way to undertake the more formidable ascent of AEtna. Arriving, after a four hours' drive, at the house of their old friend Professor Gemmellaro, they found he had kindly made every arrangement for their start; and after about an hour's delay in settling the pack-saddles, packing up provisions for the night, and arranging everything with the guides, they mounted their mules and began the ascent. For some miles they passed through a tract of lava, sprinkled here and there with broom and heather, till they reached a cattle-shed, called Casa di Rinazzi, where they came to a picturesque wood of dwarf oak looking like the outskirts of an English park. From thence to Casa del Bosco the road is both easy and pleasant, and our travellers began to think that the difficulties of the ascent (to people who had crossed, as they had done, the Lebanon in deep snow) would be comparatively trifling. They soon, however, discovered their mistake. At the Casa del Bosco they stopped to rest their mules and make some tea, while the guides advised them to put on as much additional clothing as they could for the coming cold. The peasants were at work round them collecting the snow in reservoirs close to the cavern called the Grotta delle Capre--that snow so invaluable to the dwellers in the plain, and the sole substitute for ice to the inhabitants of Catania.

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But here the real toil of the ascent begins. It is only nine miles from hence to the summit; but those nine miles are terribly severe, not only from their steepness, but from the nature of the ground, composed of a black loose ash, interspersed with sharply pointed lava rocks, on which you tread and stumble, and seem to recede two steps for every one you take. As you ascend higher the snow conceals the inequalities of the ground, but does not make them the less fatiguing. The cold, too, increases every instant, and our travellers regretted that they had not followed their guides' advice and brought both overstockings and gloves. After toiling up in this manner for two hours, they came to a pile of lava which marks the distance halfway between the Casa del Bosco and the Casa Inglese. The snow here increased in depth--the rarefaction of the air became painfully intense; while the clouds of sulphur from the eruption, which still continued on the opposite side of the mountain, driven in their faces by the wind, made some of the party so sick that they could scarcely proceed. The cold, too, became well-nigh intolerable. The mule of one of the ladies sank in a snowdrift, rolled and fell some way down the precipice, compelling her to continue the journey on foot; but her feet and hands were so numbed and so nearly on the verge of being frostbitten, that it was with the utmost difficulty she could go on. At last the Casa Inglese was reached. It is a low stone house, built on what is called the Piano del Lago, a small ledge of frozen water, 10,000 feet above the sea. In spite of the orders of the professor, it was still half full of snow when they arrived; and this had to be cleared out, and made into what the children call "snow men," before the frozen travellers could enter and endeavor to make a fire with the wood they had brought with them. The guides cautioned those who were still on their mules to descend very gently, as, in the semi-frozen state they were in, the least, jerk or slip might occasion a broken limb. One of the party was lifted off her horse at last and laid on some rugs by the fire, which for a long time resisted all efforts to light; and then her limbs had to be rubbed with snow to restore some kind of animation. When this object was attained, the overpowering smoke--for there was no chimney or fireplace--made the remedy almost worse than the disease. All this time they had been well-nigh deafened by the detonations from the mountain, which, at regular intervals, sounded like artillery practice on a large scale. Everything they had brought with them was frozen, including the milk they had got at Nicolosi, and of which they were obliged to break the bottle before they could melt any for their tea. After a time, the younger portion of the travellers lay down to rest on some straw arranged in wooden shelves or layers round the inner room, one at the top of the other, after the manner of pears and apples in a kitchen-garden house in England. A French geologist and two other professors had joined their party, and of course had no other place to go to; but the appearance of the company, roosting in this way on the shelves, was comical in the extreme.

At three o'clock, however, every one rose, and commenced the ascent of the cone, so as to reach the top by sunrise. The distance is short, but intensely steep; it is like going up the side of a house; and the difficulty is heightened by the loose ashes in which you sink at every step, and the hot fumes of sulphurous vapor which pour out of the sides of the cone. Only a portion of our travellers persevered to the top; the others being reluctantly compelled by faintness and violent sickness to retrace their steps. On reaching the crater, they at first saw nothing but a deep yawning chasm, full of smoke, which kept pouring out in their faces. The eruption, which one of the party had {707} seen in perfection two months before, was some miles off, and had burst out of a new crater on the Taormina side of the mountain. But with the dawning light the whole magnificent scene was revealed to them. It has been so admirably and accurately described by Mr. Gladstone, that any attempt at a fresh description could be but a poor repetition of his words. Sufficient, then, is it to say that the view at sunrise repaid all the sufferings of the ascent. AEtna, unlike other mountains, stands alone, rising straight from the plain, with no rivals to dispute her height, or intercept any portion of the glorious view below. The whole of Sicily is stretched out at your feet, the hills below looking like the raised parts of a map for the blind. Not only is the panorama unequalled in magnificence, but there are atmospherical phenomena in it which belong to AEtna alone. As the sun rises over the Calabrian coast, a perfect and distinct image of the cone is reflected--as on the sheet of a magic-lantern--on the horizon below, gradually sinking lower and lower as the sun becomes brighter, and finally disappearing altogether. As it was early in the season, the snow extended over the whole of the so-called desert region, while the wood below seemed to encircle the mountain as with a green belt, which added to the beautiful effect of the whole. Tired and exhausted, and yet delighted, our travellers descended the cone, and rejoined their companions at the Casa Inglese, who had been compelled to content themselves with seeing the sun rise from a green hillock just below the house. They determined on their way home to diverge a little from the straight route, in order to visit the Val del Bove, that weird and ghost-like chasm which had struck them so much when looking down upon it from the height of the cone. Floundering in the snow, which was a good deal deeper on that side of the mountain, their mules continually sinking and struggling up again, breaking their saddle-girths in the effort, and consequently landing their riders continually on the soft snow, the party arrived at last on the edge of this magnificent amphitheatre. It is of vast size, enclosed by precipices 3,000 feet in height, and filled with gigantic rocks, of wonderfully strange and fantastic shapes, standing out separately, like beasts--hence its name. The perfect silence of the spot reminds one of some Egyptian city of the dead. Smoke, explosion, dripping ice, or rushing torrents characterize the other extinct craters in this wonderful mountain; but in this one all is still and silent as the grave. It is stern as the curse of Kehama, and as if the lava had been cast up in these wonderful shapes in some extraordinary convulsion of nature, and then had been petrified as it rose. Our travellers lingered long, looking over the edge of the precipice, vainly wishing to be able to descend into the enchanted valley, and at last reluctantly turned their muels' heads in the direction of Nicolosi. The descent was intensely fatiguing, from the continual jerking and slipping of their beasts; and they arrived more dead than alive at the kind professor's house, after being more than eight hours in the saddle. A few hours later found them once more in the burning sunshine of Catania, where the thermometer in the shade, was 86°, while it had been 27° on the mountain, a difference in one day of 59° degrees of temperature. But no difficulties should discourage the traveller from attempting the ascent of AEtna, which is worth coming the whole way from England for itself alone. A few days later saw our party on the deck of the Vatican steamer, _en route_ for Naples, carrying away with them recollections of enjoyment and kindness such as will ever associate piety in their minds with pleasant thoughts and grateful memories.

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From The Dublin University Magazine.

THE FIRST SIEGE OF LIMERICK.

JAMES'S FAREWELL.

The fight at the Boyne was over; the English, Dutch, Danish, and French allies resting, or preparing to rest, as well as the ground near the Pass of Duleek would allow, and their defeated but not dispirited foemen marching wearily in the summer night toward Dublin. James accompanied by Sarsfield's horse was already far in the van, and in due time he reached the castle. We can scarcely fancy a more false or uncomfortable position than that in which James now stood, when, calling together his council, the lord mayor, and other notables, he addressed them for the last time. An ill-disposed historian might have invented this speech for him if no memory of the one really delivered had survived. "My dear and loyal Irish subjects, I believe I ought not to have risked the disastrous battle of yesterday against the advice of my judicious officers. After the fighting was determined on, I unhappily did much to discourage the undisciplined fellows who so well exhibited their loyalty and bravery at the Boyne. We are beaten, I am sorry to say, and I am getting away as fast as I can to place hundreds of miles between myself and the cannons and muskets of my callous relative. Make as good terms, my poor people, with William as he will grant you. I. can do no more for you than leave you my blessing, to which you are heartily welcome. Adieu!"

There is an ill-natured tradition still afloat that in his greeting to Lady Tyrconnell he alluded to the agility of the Irish in running away from the field, and was in return complimented by that lady for having outstripped such very fleet runners. The anecdote bears every mark of a lie about it. The orderly retreat at the Boyne was nothing like a dastardly flight, and James's disposition would have been worse than his ill-wishers have ever represented it, had he cracked that bitter jest on his loyal supporters. We prefer the following sketch of the final interview from the pen of a writer whose Williamite leanings, though strong, are regulated by calm judgment and generous feelings:

"In the cold grey of the winter's morning it were hard to imagine a drearier or less inviting spectacle than this group of loyalists presented. While they were waiting thus, James, a man of punctuality to the last, was employed in paying and discharging his menial servants, previously to his taking final leave of his Irish capital. At last however the door opened, and James followed by two or three gentlemen and officers, including Colonel Luttrell who kept garrison as governor of the city, entered the apartment. . . . There was that in the fallen condition of the king, in the very magnitude of his misfortunes, which lent a mournful dignity to his presence, and which in spite of the petulance which occasionally broke from him, impressed the few disappointed, and well-nigh ruined followers of his cause who stood before him with feelings of melancholy respect.

"'Gentlemen,' said the king after a brief pause, 'it hath pleased the Almighty Disposer of events to give the victory to our enemies. . . . The enemy will be in possession of this city at least before many days are passed. . . . Matters being so, we must needs shift for ourselves as best we may. Above all we do command you, we do implore of you, gentlemen, in your several stations, and principally you, Colonel Luttrell, as governor of this our city, to prevent all undue severities, all angry reprisals, all violences .... upon the suspected within its walls. We do earnestly intreat of you all to remember that this is our city, and they our subjects; protect it and them as long as it shall seem wise to occupy this town for us. This is our last command, our parting request.'"

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The poor king was overcome during his speech by the part his own daughters were acting in the bitter drama then in progress. However, that does not excuse the reference to the want of capacity or courage which he was pleased to discover among his Irish supporters. For from the beginning they appeared more interested in his success than he did himself.

WILLIAM IN DUBLIN.

But the speech came to an end, and the king departed, and conflicting and varying hopes and fears agitated the citizens, as the Irish troops marched in with drums beating and colors flying, and again quitted the city, and proceeded to Limerick, and so on till the arrival of the Duke of Ormond and the Dutch guards on Thursday.

The king rode in from the camp at Finglass on the next Sunday, attended divine service in St. Patrick's cathedral, and returned to the camp in time for dinner. On the 7th of the month he issued a proclamation from which a few extracts are here presented:

"WILLIAM, R.

"As it hath pleased Almighty God to bless our arms in this kingdom with a late victory, . . . . we hold it reasonable to think of mercy, and to have compassion on those whom we judge to have been seduced. Wherefore we do hereby declare, we shall take into our royal protection all poor labourers, common souldiers, country farmers, plough-men, and cottiers whatsoever: as also all citizens, trades-men, towns-men, and artificers, who either remained at home, or having fled from their dwellings, shall return by the first of August. . . We do also promise to secure them in their goods, their stocks of' cattel, and all their chattels personal whatever, willing and requiring them to come in, . . and to preserve the harvest of grass and corn for the supply of the winter."

Those who held from Protestant landlords were to pay their rent as usual, but tenants of Roman Catholics should hand their money to commissioners appointed to receive it. The term REBELS is applied in the proclamation to all in arms for King James, a proof that privy councillors dating from the royal camp at Finglass, 7th July, 1690, were determined to hold the adherents of James sternly to their constitutional position.

Devoted partisan as was our chaplain, [Footnote 200] he was sometimes blessed with kindly feelings toward his master's foes. He thus continues after copying the proclamation:

"This declaration was published in the camp two days after, and had it been punctually observed according to the intent of it, we had had fewer enemies at this day by at least 20,000. For though the king was punctual in his observance of it, some officers and soldiers were apt to neglect the king's honour, and the honour of our country and religion, when it stood in competition with their own profit and advantage."

[Footnote 200: Rev. George Story, chaplain in King William's army.]

DOUGLAS'S SLOW JOURNEY TO ATHLONE.

On the 9th of July, William divided his forces, sending one portion under General L. G. Douglas to force the pass at Athlone, himself conducting the rest toward Limerick. Douglas did not tire his soldiers with rapid marches. The first night they bivouacked at Chapel _Issard_, which place a citizen of Dublin will reach easily on foot in an hour. The second night they encamped at _Manouth_ (May-nooth?), but here we must quote our historian.

"Friday we encamped at _Glencurry_ (Clon-curry?) about five miles further, and we had not got this length till we begun to plunder, though the general gave strict orders to the contrary. Saturday the 12th, we marched to _Glenard_ (Clonard) bridge, and here we staid all Sunday. The soldiers went abroad and took several things from the Irish, who had staid upon the king's declaration, and frequent complaints came already to the general'; but plundering went on still, especially among the northern men who are very dexterous at that sport. . . At _Mullingar_ several of the Irish came in for protections, though when they had them they were of little force to secure their goods or themselves.".

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General Douglas and his soldiers arrived before Athlone, which our authority locates fifty miles north of Dublin, though it happens to be nearly due west, on the 17th, having marched out of Chapelizod on the 9th (six and a quarter miles per day). Not a whit fatigued or daunted, they summoned stout old Colonel Grace to surrender. Story says he fired a pistol at the herald, to show the value he set on his request. We must pronounce the old warrior a recreant, unless the charge was mere powder, or the muzzle pointed upward, which we opine was the case. Colonel Grace expressed at the same time his determination to eat his old boots rather than capitulate; hence the application of _Boot-eater_ to stout defenders of fortresses. So besiegers and besieged fired guns long and short, wide and small bores, at each other till the 25th, when General Douglas, hearing that Sarsfield was coming to the relief of the place, raised the siege, and marched southward to meet the main army near Limerick. Mr. Story says that about three or four hundred men were lost between Dublin and Limerick, of which number thirty only were slain before Athlone, say three men and three quarters of a man each day. Very indifferent gunners were those behind the walls of Athlone if this statement be true, Our observant author makes curious mistakes in topographical matters at times. In this portion of' his narrative he mentions the Shannon as falling into the sea beyond Knoc Patrick. Every child exercised on the map of Ireland, is able to lay finger on Cnoc-Patrick in Mayo, seventy miles or so north of the Shannon's mouth.

After laying the deaths of the three or four hundred men missing to sickness, hard marching, six and a quarter miles per diem, surprises by Rapparees, and sundry other disadvantages, he cracks a gentle joke by way of cheering up his reader's spirits. "W e killed," says he, "and took prisoners a great many thousands, but more of' these had had four feet than two." Having brought this division of the army safe through the "Golden Vale," let us see what the other portion under the immediate attention of the king were about.

HOW WILLIAM ENFORCED DISCIPLINE:

On the 9th of the month, William encamped at Crumlin, and the next night between the Ness [Footnote 201] and Rathcoole. It was well for the inhabitants of the line of march that the king commanded in person.

[Footnote 201: Naas was anciently the seat of the kings of North Leinster. The word means a fair or a commemoration. Rathcoole implies a lonely fortress.]

"Little hapned remarkable except the king's great care to keep the souldiers from plundering, and every night it was given out in orders that on pain of death no man should go beyond the line in the camp, or take violently to the least value from Protestant or Papist. The 11th the army marched to _Kill-Kullen_, Bridge, the king this morning passing by the _Ness_ saw a souldier robbing a poor woman, which enraged his majesty so much, that he beat him with his cane, and gave orders that he and several others guilty of the like disobedience should be executed on the Monday following. People were so wicked as (to) put a bad construction on this action of the king's, but it had so good an effect upon that part of the army, that the country was secured from any violence done by the souldiers during that whole march. Two of the sufferers were _Iniskillin_ dragoons."

Had General Douglas acted thus the worthy chaplain would not have had to record so much cruelty and injustice inflicted upon the harmless country people.

Story takes occasion, on Colonel Eppingar's proceeding with a party of 1,000 horse and dragoons [Footnote 202] to Wexford, to inform his English readers about the people in the south of the county.

[Footnote 202: In 1660, Marshal Brissae, fancying or feigning dragons to be in the habit of spouting fire out of their mouths, get the muzzles of short muskets adorned with the effigies of these monsters, and therewith armed some troops of horse. The early dragoons discharged the duties of infantry and cavalry. The Scots Grays formed in 1683 were the earliest British dragoons.]

"Hereabouts were the first English planted in Ireland. They were a colony of west-countrymen, and retain their old English tone and customs to this day. I am credibly informed that every day about one or two o'clock in summer, they go to bed, the whole country round; nay, the very hens fly up and the sheep go to fold as orderly as it were night." [Footnote 203]

[Footnote 203: The people of "the barony" are the descendants of a Flemish colony who had settled in Wales at the invitation of Henry I. Beans were the favorite crop, and dry bean-stalks furnished their chief fuel. If the gossip of the inhabitants of the northern part of the county could be credited, the barony of Forth formerly furnished priests for all Ireland.]

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Good Mr. Story was as fond of a bit of picturesque or romantic hearsay as Herodotus himself. The well-to-do farmers really indulged in a siesta, but as to the degeneracy of manners among the hens and sheep we are altogether incredulous. Some time before the _Ninety-Eight_, household and village councils were held for a month in a townland of the barony to decide whether a farmer, to whom a legacy had been left in Dublin, should relinquish his right to it, or encounter the risks of the journey to the city. At last it was decided that prayers were to be solemnly offered up for his safety in all the neighboring churches and chapels, and then let him in God's name brave the perils of the way.

A good deal of irresolution prevailed at this time in William's proceedings. Ill news came rife across the water, and at one time he retraced his route even as far as Chapelizod with the intention of crossing to England. There, however, he received tidings which reassured him, and he returned to the camp at Golden Bridge, which he reached on the 2d of August. On the 8th General Douglas arrived, and on the 9th the united forces approached the Irish stronghold.

INTERIOR OF THE IRISH COUNCILS.

The Irish and French chiefs who had collected to Limerick after the day at the Boyne were far from being of the same opinions or aspirations. According to Colonel O'Kelly, Tyrconnell desired nothing more than to give up Limerick and all the other garrisons to King William, and Count de Lauzun was more anxious to get back to that centre of delights, the city of Paris, than co-operate in the defence of their present hold, which, he said, required only a smart discharge of roasted apples to be made listen to terms.

THE PARLEY BEFORE THE FIGHT.

Limerick, now apparently devoted to destruction, consisted of an island within two arms of the Shannon, and a smaller area outside called the Irish-town, both portions being connected by Ball's-bridge. King's Island was and is connected with the Clare side of the river by 'I'homond-bridge, and contains a legacy left by King John in the shape of a castle. William's people set to work forming batteries and trenches as well as the balls coming from the ramparts of' Irish-town would allow them, and the moment they were ready they proceeded to exchange iron and leaden compliments with the folk behind the parapets.

Hostilities, however, did not really begin till some civil communications had taken place on both sides. A herald-trumpeter, blowing his instrument and displaying his white flag, entered the city with a polite request to the authorities to surrender the place. Monsieur Boiselieu, chief in command, calling the Duke of Berwick and Major-General Sarsfield to council, indited a politely expressed letter to Sir Robert Southwell, secretary of state, in which was implied some wonder at the request, and a determination on his part, and that of his officers and soldiers, to gain the good opinion of the Prince of Orange by defending the city against his forces while defence was feasible. On the return of the trumpeter firing began, the king inspecting the hot business from Cromwell's fort.

Story says that a Frenchman, escaping into the city the day the enemy sat down before it, gave accurate information to Sarsfield of the complete economy of the English camp, and of a battering-train, tin boats, wagons of biscuits; etc., approaching William's camp from Dublin. {712} Part of the sequel is given in his own words:

"Monday the 11th in the morning, came one _Manus O'Brien_ a substantial country gentleman to the camp, and gave notice that _Sarsfield_ in the night had passed the river with a body of horse, and designed something extraordinary. . . . . The messenger that brought the news was not much taken notice of at first, most people looking on it as a dream. A great officer however called him aside, and after some indifferent questions, askt him about a prey of cattel in such a place, which the gentleman complained of afterwards, saying he was sorry to see general officers mind cattel more than the king's honour. But after he met with some acquaintance he was brought to the king, who, to prevent the worst, gave orders that a party of five hundred horse should be made ready, and march to meet the guns. . . . Where the fault lay, I am no competent judge, but it certainly was one or two of the clock in the morning before the party marched, which they then did very softly till about an hour after they saw------"

What shall be told farther on.

SARSFIELD'S GREAT FEAT.

"From Limerick that day bould Sarsfield dashed away, Until he came to Cullen where their artillery lay; The Lord cleared up the firmament, the moon and stars shone bright, And for the Battle of the Boyne be had revenge that night."

Poor John Banim inserted these stirring lines in his romance of the Boyne Water as belonging to an old ballad; we suspect them to have been his own composition. Whoever might have given Sarsfield information--a rapparee was as likely as the Frenchman mentioned by the chaplain--he crossed Thomond-bridge at the head of five hundred horse on Sunday night as soon as it was sufficiently dark, and the party moved up as noiselessly as they could along the western bank of the Shannon to Killaloe, or _Killalow_, as Rev. Mr. Story spells it. There they crossed the river and penetrated among the Tipperary mountains, over which the Keeper and the "Mother of Mountains" towered in pride. Among the hills they spent the rest of the night and the whole of the next day, being kept aware of the movements of the convoy which meantime was working its slow way along the Cashel road. Toward evening Sarsfield and a few who were most in his confidence, lying among the dry grass and fern of the hill-pass since called Lacken-na-Gapple (_Lagan-na-Capal_, "Hollow of the Horses"), were inspecting the last stage of the convoy. At that hour the train had passed the village of Cullen, and were about taking their rest on and about the road leading up to the grassy platform on which stood the old fortalice of Ballyneedy. This was about five miles from the mountain pass where the Jacobite general was on the watch. He waited as patiently as he could till the sun had sunk some time behind the Galteigh mountains, and the watch-fires began to glimmer from the encampment.

The watch-word that night among the wearied men and their sentinels was SARSFIELD, an ill-omened coincidence. How the party conspiring their destruction found it out is not so very apparent; but when the officers were asleep in the waste castle, and the soldiers by their wagons, Sarsfield's men sang out the password to the sentinel placed in advance of the village, to the sentinels in the village, and to the sentinels immediately in advance of the unconscious groups. There the commander thundered out "Sarsfield is the word, and Sarsfield is the man." Deafening shouts came from the rushing horsemen, and of the awakened slumberers some were slain gallantly resisting, a few escaped, and a few others got quarter. The spoils consisted or eight pieces of heavy battering-cannon, five mortars with their carriages, a hundred and fifty-three wagons of ammunition, twelve carts loaded with biscuit, eighteen tin boats for the passage of rivers, and all the cart and cavalry horses.

The commander, wisely judging that troops were at the moment marching from Limerick to interrupt his plans, had the cannons charged to the mouth and set in the earth, muzzle downward. {713} These he surrounded with the wagons and their contents, and skifully laid trains of powder were not neglected. The successful party then withdrawing to a safe distance--they needed a wide berth, taking the quantity of powder into account--set fire at once to the lines of powder, and at one and the same moment all the contents of the great guns and the ammunition-carts were ignited. There was an intolerable blaze, a roar and its reverberations; accompanied by a blowing up in the air of pieces of metal and blazing wood, and the combined effect was sublime and terrible beyond conception. The darkest recesses of the mountain glens were lighted up as in the summer noon, and the shock was felt for many miles in every direction. Sir John Lanier, who was hastening when too late to protect the convoy, saw the blaze and heard the terrible explosion at several miles distance, and comprehended the terrible disaster in a moment. The concussion was perceptible even in William's camp at a distance of about thirteen miles, and it is probable that the general who had "_askt_" Manus O'Brien about the prey of cartel, felt (to use a provincialism) very lewd of himself. Sir John Lanier directed his squadron of five hundred horse to the left to intercept the Irish party, but it was not his fortune to meet with them, and Sarsfield recrossed the Shannon without the loss of a man.

The Rev. Mr. Story relates that no one was made prisoner at Ballyneedy "only a lieutenant of Colonel Earle's, who being sick in a house hard by, was stripped and brought to Sarsfield, who used him very civilly."

While the Irish chief is snatching a short relaxation after his successful sortie, and all within the walls are filled with a momentary joy for the signal benefit, let us introduce a slight sketch of the career of the brave Earl of Lucan, whose memory is still held in love and veneration by the great mass of the Irish people, and of whom no disrespectful word is ever pronounced by the descendants of the brave men against whom he often waged battle.

SARSFIELD'S CAREER.

The first of the name known in Ireland was Thomas Sarsfield, standard-bearer to King Henry II. In the reign of Charles I., Patrick, the then representative of the family, married Anne, daughter of Ruaighré (Roger) O'Moore, and their children were William and the subject of our sketch Patrick, who succeeded to the estate on the death of his brother. "He had received his education in one of the French military colleges, and saw some early campaigns in the armies of Louis XIV. His first commission was that of ensign in the regiment of Monmouth in France, after which he obtained a lieutenancy in the Royal Guards of England." He commanded for James in one of those skirmishes which took place with William's Dutch troops on their march from Torquay. At the commencement of the Irish campaigns his estates produced £2,000 annual revenue, so that it did not inconvenience him much to raise a. company of horse. We shall not here touch on his achievements during the war in Ireland, as these have found, or will naturally find their places in the course of our narrative. On arriving in Paris after the treaty of Limerick, "he was received with kindness and distinction by the ex-king of England and Louis XIV."

"The former appointed him colonel of his body guards, and his most Christian majesty bestowed on him the rank of lieutenant-general in the French armies. He might have obtained a marshal's staff had his life been spared. He fought under Luxembourg at Steenkirk in 1692, . . . . and on the 29th of July, 1693, a little more than one year and a half after his voluntary banishment from his own country, he was killed in the command of a division at the great battle of Landen. It was a soldier's death on a glorious and memorable field.

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"There are few names more worthy to be inscribed in the roll of honour than that of Patrick Sarsfield, who may be quoted as a type of loyalty and patriotic devotion. In the annals of Irish history he stands as a parallel to Pierre du Terrail, Chevalier de Bayard in those of France, and may be equally accounted 'Sans peur et sans reproche,' the fearless and irreproachable knight; in his public actions firm and consistent; in his private character amiable and unblemished. . . . (At the end of the war) William III. would gladly have won his services, and offered to confirm him in his rank and property; but he listened to no overtures, and left his native country attended by thousands of that gallant body, who, under the title of the Irish Brigade, filled the continent of Europe with their renown." [Footnote 204]

[Footnote 204: "Patrick Sarsfield, Earl of Lucan, a Biography;" Dublin University Magazine for November, 1853; the writer, John William Cole, Esq., formerly captain in the Royal Fusiliers. Mary, sister of the earl, was married to Colonel Rossiter, County Wexford, and to a lineal descendant of theirs, the gentleman just mentioned, we are indebted for the only life of Sarsfield yet given to the world. He could find but scant materials, though it is supposed they might be made available if the living representative of an old family of the Pale would take the trouble of a search among the archives of his house. Mary Sarsfield's great granddaughter was the wife of Lieutenant (afterward colonel) James Cockburn, who was on the personal staff of General Wolfe on the memorable day at Quebec. His portrait (to the right of General Moncton's) was introduced by West into his picture of the "Death of Wolfe." He afterward commanded the Thirty-fifth in the American war of Independence. Colonel Cockburn's daughter, Margaret, married Thomas Cole, Esq., of Callan, in the county of Kilkenny, major in the King's Fencibles. Our authority the issue of this marriage could not resist the martial impulses of his race; so he smelled powder along with Rev. R. Gleig at Washington and New Orleans and elsewhere. Since he laid aside the "spurtle blade and dog-skin wallet," he has usefully employed his leisure hours in literary composition of a healthful character. We suspect the papers in the University Magazine on ancient military tactics illustrated by plans of battles to be his. Among his other productions are biographies of General Vallancey, Tyrone Power, and other Irish theatrical celebrities.]

In his Military Memoirs of the Irish Nation, Mathew O'Connor speaks thus of his military qualifications:

"As a partisan and for a desultory warfare, he possessed admirable qualifications; brave, patient, vigilant, rapid, indefatigable, ardent, adventurous, and enterprising; the foremost in encounter, the last in retreat. He harassed his enemy by sudden, unexpected, and generally irresistible attacks, inspiring his troops with the same ardour and contempt of danger with which his own soul was animated. . . . No general was ever more beloved by his troops."

A SIEGE INCIDENT OR TWO.

Whatever William might have felt on being made acquainted with the loss of his cannon and ammunition, he said very little on the subject. He was one of those whose fixed purpose is not to be set aside for defeat or check. With his battering-train augmented by two great guns and a mortar from Waterford, he continued to pound the walls day after day. The trenches were relieved at midnight till the following unlucky mistake occurred, all the particulars of which are not very intelligible to civilians:

"Monday 18th August at night the trenches were relieved by Lieut.-General Douglas, My Lord _Sydney_, and Count _Nassau_, as major-generals, and Brigadeer _Stuart_. We made our approaches towards the fort outside the wall, and Lieut.-General _Douglas's_ and Brigadeer _Stuart's_ regiments were posted towards the right. It was dark when they went on, and they did not perceive the enemy to be so near them as they really were. [What brought the enemy outside their walls?] for there was at that time scarce twenty yards distance between them. They were ordered to lye down upon their arms which they did, and a great part, both of the officers and soldiers, fell asleep. The enemy perceived this, and attacked them, which presently put them into a confusion, and several of them gave ground, but presently recovered themselves and fired, but did not know at what. The _Danes_ to the left took our own men for the enemy sallying, and so fired upon them; they believed the Danes to be the Irish; and so returned the compliment. The Irish fired upon both, and they at one another. This confusion lasted nigh two hours, in which several men were killed; nor did the king or any body else know what to make of it. At last our men found their mistake, and the Irish were beat in, crying 'quarter' and 'murder' as they used to do. After this his majesty ordered the trenches to be relieved in the day, and our men marched always in and out in the very face of their cannon."

If truth lies in a well, it is a pity she should make choice of a muddy one, where her contours and lineaments are so admirably confused. Hear another version by John Banim, the novelist, from what, if any, authority we know not:

"While day after day the battering, at this one point continued, the garrison made a midnight sortie upon the besiegers. Taken by surprise, and thrown into such confusion as to be unable to discern friend from foe, they attacked each other, and the Irish {715} having retreated unperceived, so continued until the morning light showed them their mistake and the shocking havoc that resulted from it."

Our chaplain did not much relish that classic and severe style of composition which critics assigned to a great historical work. Moreover he was ever as ready as Homer to introduce a gossiping or traditional episode, and repose his pen from the dry or terrible details of the main course of events.

On the 19th of the month King William had another providential escape. He was riding slowly up toward Cromwell's fort, when, as he was entering a gap, an officer stayed him about some business. Within a second or two after the pause of the horse's feet, a cannon-ball swept through the spot where he and his horse would have been but for the interruption.

All this time the people within the walls were in ill-condition, their diet consisting of beans, or very coarse bread, and the enemy's mortars throwing bombs and carcasses among them with little interruption. These things disturbed them much, as Mr. Story says, for they had not seen the like before. The round or oval iron carcasses which flashed forth through it's holes a fierce and inextinguishable fire for some eight or ten minutes was nearly as terrible as the bomb. Still they doggedly held on, and made no complaint; Sarsfield's energy and hopeful spirits kept up their courage. The chaplain relates with a sort of remorseful feeling how his party and himself enjoyed the burning of a part of the town one night by the bombs and red-hot balls, "which made me reflect upon our profession of soldiery not to be overcharged with good nature."

HOW LIMERICK AS ASSAILED AND DEFENDED.

By the 27th of the month, a twelve yards breach being made in the wall of Irishtown, and William looking on from Cromwell's fort, the grenadiers, supported on either side by Dutch, Danes, and Brandenburghers, on hearing a signal of three cannon-shots, sprang out of their trenches, and cheering loudly, dashed forward to the glacis. [Footnote 205] They were hotly received from the covered way, whose occupants mounting the banquette, and resting their muskets on the edge of the glacis, poured a shower of balls among them; and the guns on the ramparts, great and small, volleying fast and fiercely, made wide lanes among the brave fellows. However, the guns from Cromwell's fort, enfilading the ramparts, soon silenced the engines of death stationed there, and the grenadiers, undaunted by the thinning of their ranks, gained the glacis, sprang into the covered way, and after a terrible struggle forced the defenders from that post, from their trenches in the ditch, and over the breach into the city.

[Footnote 205: For the behoof of young renders not conversant with the outworks of besieged towns, a few explanatory words are given. Outside the strong walls is a wide and deep, dry ditch. The sloping side from which the wall rises is the scarp, the opposite slope is the counterscarp, its upper line meeting with the platform called the covered way. This covered way is about thirty feet wide, its outward boundary being the face of the glacis or sloping plane, this last so situated that men marching along it to attack the fortress are in the direct range of the guns. The level of the glacis is higher than that of the covered way by seven or eight feet. The defenders standing on a small terrace called the banquette at the base of the glacis, and resting their muskets on its edge, can fire on the advancing foe.]

The guns on the ramparts to the right of the breach being silenced, the firing from the Danes and Dutch on the flanks of the storming party did considerable damage to those on the ramparts and in the ditch, but the guns of a fort constructed in King's Island opened on the foreigners, killed many, and afforded some relief to the defenders. While these were mowing each other down at a distance, the grenadiers, driving their opponents across the breach, cheered lustily, and flung in their hand-grenades, whose bursting and destructive iron shower were ill calculated to recall the self-possession of the fugitives. But the pikes and bayonets of their follows in shelter, now levelled full at their breasts, were {716} as much to be dreaded as what they expected from behind. Over the breach and inward dashed Lord Drogheda's grenadiers, but a battery snugly placed in front of the yawning breach on stones, timber, earth, and other stuff, all at once belched out a storm of grape upon them, and after struggling for some time, a second discharge sent them back over the ruins and into the ditch.

But no dastard feeling was to be found among the survivors. Re-enforced by new comrades who had yet done nothing, they returned once more to the assault, flung their grenades, and cleared the tumbled masses of lime and stone. Undaunted by the havoc made among them by a fresh discharge, they rushed on the battery, effectually silenced it, and now looked on the capture of the town as certain. But here they were met by fresh and untired foes, who being kept to that moment in inaction by Sarsfield, now rushed on from either side, and a dreadful struggle commenced, the badly armed defenders showering volleys of stones where more effective weapons were not at command, the mere townsmen and their wives and daughters mingling fiercely in the desperate fray. Those who had pushed on the furthest were slain to a man, neither asking nor receiving quarter, and the others, after effecting everything in the power of energy and dauntless courage, were for the second time driven forth from the rescued city.

"From the walls and every place (we quote our chaplain) they so pestered us on the counterscarp (properly the covered way), that after nigh three hours resisting bullets, stones (broken bottles from the very women who boldly stood in the breach, and were nearer our men than their own), and whatever ways could be thought on to destroy us, our ammunition being spent, it was judged safest to return to our trenches. When the work was at the hottest, the _Brandenburgh_ regiment, who behaved themselves very well, were got upon the black battery, where the enemie's powder hapned to take fire, and blew up a great many of them, the men, faggots, stones, and whatnot, flying into the air with a most terrible noise."

In some Jacobite memoirs mention is made of a sortie made by Sarsfield and his driving the wearied assaulters to their camp, and their rescuing many of the enemy from an hospital which had taken fire. The exploit is overlooked by the chaplain, who thus concludes his short account of the day:

"The king stood nigh _Cromwell's_ fort all the time, and the business being over, he went to his camp very much concerned, as indeed was the whole army, for you might have seen a mixture of anger and sorrow in every bodie's countenance."

William thus disappointed of bringing the Irish issue to a conclusion, and his presence being much needed in England, drew off his forces, and he himself made little delay till he set sail from Waterford to make matters in London comfortable, and keep a sharp lookout on the unfriendly proceedings of his bitter foeman, Louis XIV.

In September Count Solmes, who was left in command after William's departure, went to England, and Ginckell succeeded to his office. A better choice could not have been made; he established his head-quarters at Kilkenny.

TYRCONNELL'S POLICY.

Tyrconnell, who all along was no better than a drag on his party, who desired peace in order to secure his own estates, and who was accused of holding secret correspondence with William, sailed to France soon after the siege of Limerick. Previous to his departure he appointed the young Duke of Berwick commander-in-chief; giving him twelve councillors to aid him with their advice. Some of these were men after Tyrconnell's own heart, such as in our own days are called _Cawtholics_ by their own party. Sarsfield happened to be among them, because, if he were not, Tyrconnell's arrangements would have been little regarded by the men of heart and head among the loyalists. Count O'Kelly declares that Tyrconnell's reasons for repairing to the presence of Kings Louis and James were to nullify tile {717} effect that the gallant defence of Limerick might have made upon their minds. He would so twist and remould circumstances as to show that there was not a shadow of hope for ultimate success. James appears to have long entertained the notion of recovering England by losing Ireland, hence his enduring patronage of Tyrconnell. Berwick was influenced, of course, by what he knew were the cherished wishes of his father and his father's favorite, and by his inaction, and want of cordial co-operation with Sarsfield and the others, who, like him, were in earnest, did all that in him lay to make General Ginckell's task easy. On more than one occasion the Irish party were about deposing the young duke, but he managed by a show of compliance to still retain his power.

In September of this year the brave soldier but faithless adherent, Lord Churchill, afterward Duke of Marborough, took Cork, which the Duke of Berwick had previously advised the brave M. Elligot to burn, and then retire to Kerry, as its defence seemed hopeless. He rather chose to hold it out for five days. The Duke of Grafton, a natural son of Charles II., and who bequeathed his name to the Bond street of Dublin, commanding the navy, perished at the siege, fighting against his uncle's supporters. Marlborough next marched against Kinsale, which he entered without opposition, but the new fort commanded by Sir Edmund Scott held out for twenty days.

THE RAPPAREES: UNCOMFORTABLE WINTER QUARTERS, 1690.

Those patriotic and troublesome light-armed irregulars, the rapparees, continued during the decline and fall of the year 1690 to do the English in Leinster and Munster much mischief by unexpectedly visiting places supplied with provisions, either cattle or corn, and carrying off all they could seize. So General Ginckell finding himself straitened, conceived the idea of effecting a settlement in Kerry, from which Limerick obtained much provender. With this object he directed Lieutenant-General Douglas to march on Sligo, and take it if possible, at all events to move down the west bank of the Shannon, and co-operate with Colonel Richard Brewer, then at Mullingar, in attempts to pass the river at Jamestown and Lanesboro' above, and Banagher below Athlone. While the attention of King James's generals would be drawn to these proceedings in the north and east, Major-General Tettau would quietly proceed from Cork into Kerry, and take possession of that ancient "kingdom," seconded in his expedition if necessary by forces from Clonmel under the brave Ginckell himself. The advance was really made, and skirmishes and attacks of forts ensued, and after all, the English forces were withdrawn, leaving matters pretty much as before, except the damage mutually inflicted. Some desultory encounters took place on the east bank of the Shannon between portions of the hostile forces, and the rapparees improved every opportunity of despoiling the English foe, and collecting munitions into their boggy or hilly retreats. There are sufficient materials for a dozen romances in the adventures of Maccabe, Grace, O'Higgins, O'Callaghan, O'Kavanagh, the White Sergeant, Galloping Hogan. The last-named worthy indeed figures in the two standard romances of the Jacobite wars which we are happy to possess. It may be supposed that the deeds of these heroes smelt unsavorily in the nostrils of our chaplain, who thus descanted both in sorrow and anger on their proceedings. He prefaced his remarks with an expression of Lord Baltimore to King James I., namely, that "the Irish were a wicked people, and had been as wickedly dealt withal," and conscientiously adds, "I make no application of the expression to ourselves, the most people that have been in that country know how to do it."

{718}

One expedition of some moment was made by Colonel Foulkes into an island in the Bog of Allen. This was connected by two toghers or causeways to two points on the dry land, one of them being furnished with twelve trenches. These the brave colonel, who brought three field-pieces along with him, was obliged to fill up one after the other. When he arrived he found Colonel Piper, who had approached by the other causeway. The rapparee garrison had all carefully retreated into the woods when they became aware of their danger, leaving, as Mr. Story says, "only some little things for the invaders."

Of course no quarter was ever extended to the poor rapparees. However, the usual forbearance was exhibited by the regular forces on both sides toward each other. Opposite Lanesboro, on the other side of the Shannon, were posted three regiments of Irish, with the duty of watching the English on the east bank, during some days in December; and (in Mr. Story's words) "then little hapned of moment only some small firings, and sometimes they made truces, Colonel _Clifford_ and the other Irish officers drinking healths over to our men, and those on the other side returning the compliment."

It never entered the mind of the warlike chaplain to throw a halo of interest round one of his rapparee chiefs, though some were perhaps more worthy of the name of hero than Redmond O'Hanlon or Rob Roy. They were contemporaries of his, and were directing their chief energies to bring his master's rule in Ireland to an end. So it was against nature that he could see in them anything but "thieves, robbers, tories, and bogg-trotters."

The most distinguished of the heads of these free companies was Anthony O'Carroll, named _Fadh_ from his great height. After the first siege of Limerick he fixed his head-quarters at Nenagh, and _discomforted_ the English and their allies from that period to the beginning of the second siege. Though he or any of his followers if taken prisoners would be hung according to the laws of war, without mercy, he observed a different demeanor to his captives. Those who had money ransomed themselves; others were kept as prisoners. When he found himself crowded by his foes after the day at Aughrim, he set fire to the town, and brought his garrison of 500 men safe to Limerick Mr. Story says that he was able to collect 2,000 men to his banner at any moment while he ruled at Nenagh.

ORIGINAL.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

SERMONS PREACHED AT THE CHURCH OF ST. PAUL, THE APOSTLE, NEW YORK, during the years 1865 and 1866. 12mo, pp. 440. New York: Lawrence Kehoe.

The new volume of Sermons by the Paulist Fathers, which Mr. Kehoe has just issued in a very neat and tasteful shape, derives a special interest from the fact that it contains several of the hitherto unpublished discourses of the Rev. Francis A. Baker. In the earnest, vigorous, affectionate sermons on Penance, on the miracle of Pardon, on the power of the Holy Ghost as exemplified in good Christians, and on the duty of Thankfulness, it is easy to recognize the impulses of that beautiful soul which has now gone to its reward. We have spoken before of the characteristics of Father Baker's preaching. Here is an extract, taken at random from the first of the four discourses which we have mentioned:

"Do you know, my brethren, what it is that consoles the priest in his labors in the confessional? Why does he shut himself in that dark closet for hours? Ah! I will tell you, Like Elias in the cave of Horeb, he is watching for the manifestation of God; and as the prophet found the power of God, not in {719} the tempest or the earthquake, but in the still small voice, so the priest finds the greatest work of God, the most beautiful, that which consoles him for every sacrifice; not in the works of nature, not in sensible things, however great; but in the still small voice of the trembling, self-accusing soul, that has really come to shake off the slavery of sin, and to claim once more, through the blood of Christ, the glorious liberty of the children of God. Beautiful is the earth and sky, and glorious is the jewelled city of God; but if I may say what I think, I do not believe in all God's universe there is a work so stupendous, so grand, so beautiful, as the conversion of a sinner.

"Well, then, does St. Augustine say, that to convert a sinner is a greater work than to create heaven and earth. Well do the saints cry out, Glory and empire for ever to Jesus Christ, who has loved us and washed us from our sins in his own blood! Well do the angels in heaven rejoice over one sinner that does penance. It is a thing for heaven and earth to wonder at. But, my brethren, it does not speak well for us that we think so little of it. It shows that we have very imperfect ideas of the evil of sin, a very inadequate remembrance of what Christ has done and suffered for us, a very insufficient conception of the conversion that is required of us. It seems to me that some men imagine that God pardons sin in much the same way that a good-natured parent overlooks the slight offences of a child who owns his fault. Whereas, in fact, God is a holy God, who tries the reins and hearts, who demands of us, as the condition of preserving his favor, that we love him with all our mind and strength and heart. When I see a man who has recently been to confession, and who has had grievous sins to confess; when I see him no more thoughtful than before, no more watchful over himself, no more grateful to God; when I see him forget all about it, and take it as a matter of course, I fear that he has come away as he went; that no angel has smiled on his penance, no saint rejoiced over it; that no droop of the precious Blood has fallen on his heart. Surely if he had been pardoned he would think more of it. Let it not be so with us, my brethren. Have we been forgiven a deadly sin, then from reprobates and castaways we have become children of God. How sweet it is to receive any grace from God! To look on the sky and earth, and think that he has made it, to look on ourselves and think that we have come from his hands, fills us with delight.

"But to have sinned and to be pardoned, to have sinned and to be washed in the precious Blood, and then to belong to the family of God. To have tasted of the heavenly gift, and the powers of the world to come. To have the love of God, and the peace of God, once more to renew these dark and stubborn hearts. Where is our gratitude for favors such as those? Magdalene hath loved much because she was much forgiven. When is our love and our zeal proportionate to the pardon which we have received from God? Go, pardoned sinner--sin no more. Go, and ponder deeply the graces yon have received. Go, and by your life show what great things he has done for you. Once in darkness, but now light in the Lord, walk as children of light, living with St. Paul in the faith of the Son of God, who hath loved you and given himself for you."

The same fervent spirit and the same vein of practical exhortation which we see so admirably combined in the passages which we have cited, are conspicuous in many other pages from the anonymous hands which have contributed to the authorship of this volume. The Paulist Fathers have little to do in their book with controversy; and not a great deal with dogma, except in so far as it has a direct practical relation to the duties of every-day life. They seem, in this collection of sermons, to care more for exhorting than expounding; more for arousing sinners to the comprehension and performance of what the church requires of them, than for setting forth the church's sacred attributes. As discourses addressed to ordinary congregations, made up of people of the common run who are burdened with the common imperfections of average humanity, we know of few specimens of pulpit literature which we rate higher. And they have also the great and unfortunately rather rare merit of being very impressive and effective when read in the retirement of the closet.

J. R. G. H.

LYDIA, A TALE OF THE SECOND CENTURY.

Translated from the German of Hermann Geiger, of Munich. 12mo, pp. 275. Philadelphia: Eugene Cummiskey. 1867.

We are inclined to believe that the now world-renowned tales of Fabiola and Callista have prompted the composition of this beautiful story. The heroine is a young Christian of Smyrna, named Seraphica, who is cast into prison and condemned to death for her faith. A terrible earthquake, most powerfully depicted by the author, sunders the walls of her prison, and she is liberated; but learning that her {720} mother was carried off to Athens as a slave, she follows her thither. The captain of the vessel in which she embarks seizes her and makes a present of her as a slave to a wealthy Athenian lady named Metella, who names her Lydia from the place of her birth. In the service of this lady, who is a pious heathen, the Christian slave passes several years, exhibiting in her life many traits of that heroic patience, humility, love of suffering, and divine charity which were inspired by her holy faith; and which is beautifully contrasted with the pure, natural virtue of her heathen mistress.

Her Christian patience is rewarded at last by the conversion of Metella and her son. Freed from slavery, she goes to Rome to seek her mother, who she finds has in the mean time suffered martyrdom, and returns to Metella to become her bosom friend and companion.

We could scarcely wish anything added to the plot of this charming tale, but the impression made upon us during its perusal was that the different descriptions, scenes, and tableaux were wanting in a proper connecting link, being presented to us rather, as it would appear, for their own sake, than as necessarily united with, or dependent upon, the life and fortunes of the characters of the story. The translator has fallen into a common fault from a desire to be too literal; the intermingling of the historical present with the past. We have not observed it in any instance without feeling that it detracted very much from the force and beauty of the description. The volume does the enterprising publisher the highest credit, its typography and binding lacking in nothing that we could desire for elegance and taste. We predict and wish for it a wide circulation.

HISTORY OF A MOUTHFUL OF BREAD. By Jean Macé. Translated from the French by Mr. Alfred Gatty. New-York: American News Company, 121 Nassau-street.

This is a very popular work on the branch of physiology which relates to the organs and processes of nutrition. It is written in a pleasing, lively style, and with the express purpose of being readable by intelligent children. Excepting the absurd notion that the globules of the blood are animalculae, and the grovelling definition of the body as a digestive tube served by organs, we see nothing worthy of censure in the book, which, otherwise, imparts valuable information respecting the merely physical facts of animal life.

Goodrich's PICTORIAL HISTORIES OF GREECE AND THE UNITED STATES, and CHILD'S PICTORIAL HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES. New editions. Philadelphia: Butler & Co. 1867.

These new and improved editions of very popular and well-written histories are very suitable for elementary instruction. We have examined the history of Greece with some attention, and find it an excellent epitome. The illustrations are remarkably good.

LAWRENCE KEHOE, New-York, has in press, and will soon publish, Lady Herbert's new work, which has just appeared in London, entitled Three Phases of Christian Love--namely, Life of St. Monica, Life of Victorine de Galard, Life of Venerable Mere Devos.

BOOKS RECEIVED.

From AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY, New York. The New Gospel of Peace, according to St. Benjamin. 1 vol, 12mo, pp. 343; price $2. Alderman Rooney at the Cable Banquet. Pamphlet illustrated; price 50 cts. Olive Logan's Christmas Story. Pamphlet; price 50 cts.

From LEE & Shepard, Boston, Mass. Oliver Optic's Magazine for Boys and Girls. No. 1, pp. 12; price 5 cts.

From the OFFICE OF THE AVE MARIA, Notre Dame, Indiana. The Ave Maria Almanac for 1867. Illustrated, pp. 32; price 20 cts.

From HURD & HOUGHTON New York. The Riverside Magazine for Young People. No. 1, pp. 48; price 25 cts. Lalla Rookh, by Thomas Moore. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 332. Illustrated; price $1.50.

From P. O'SHEA, New York. The Rosa Mystica; or, Mary of Nazareth, the Lily of the House of David. By Marie Josephine. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 290; price $2. Spirit of St. Francis de Sales. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 372; price $2. The Manual of the Immaculate Conception, a collection of prayers for general use. Compiled from authentic sources. Published with approbation of the Most Rev. J. McCloskey, D.D., pp. 1122.

From John Murphy & Co., Baltimore. The Southern Poems of the War. Collected and arranged by Miss Emily V. Mason. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 456; price $1.50. Good Thoughts for Priest and People; or, Short Meditations for every Day in the Year, etc., etc. By Rev. Theodore Noethen, pastor of Holy Cross, Albany, N. Y. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 383; price $2.

From KELLY & PIET, Baltimore, Md. Sermons Delivered during the Second Plenary Council of Baltimore, October, 1866. And Pastoral Letter of the Hierarchy of the United States, together with the Papal Rescript and Letters of Convocation. A complete list of dignitaries and officers of the Council; and an introductory notice, with plates. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 244; price $3.

From BENZIGER BROTHERS, New York and Cincinnati. School Recreations; or, The Catholic Teacher's Companion. Compiled for the use of Catholic Schools, with approbation of Archbishop Purcell. l vol 12mo, pp. 94.

{721}

THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. IV., NO. 24.--MARCH, 1867.

ORIGINAL.

THE CATHOLIC CEREMONIAL.

BY REV. M. O'CONNOR, S. J.

Outside the Catholic Church there is a general opinion that we Catholics make all devotion to consist in the performance of a certain routine of ceremonies, and are entire strangers to what is called vital religion. These ceremonies to which we are supposed to attach such excessive, or rather such superstitious value, are looked on by those outside the church as an unnecessary and worse than useless display, or as an empty pageant. Our love of them is set down as one of the damning ingredients in that bug-bear which they have conjured up, and designated by the name of "Popery." We, on the contrary, look upon our ceremonial as one of the most beautiful things in the church, one of those that most clearly mark the finger of God, and operate most efficaciously in the work of true vital religion.

The point, therefore, is a most important one, and well deserving our most serious consideration. To understand it rightly, let us consider the principles on which ceremonial is based, and its practical-working.

It has been admitted by all nations, that worship is due to the deity; that worship needs an external and a public expression. Not only the people of God under the old and new dispensations have admitted this, but the Turk and the Pagan of every shade have admitted and acted on it. Many have erred egregiously, and have had recourse to disgusting and execrable· means to put it in practice; but the feeling itself is universal, and, therefore, may be enumerated among the first promptings of reason.

Its necessity is based on our relation to God; and on our own nature. God, as in himself infinitely perfect, as our creator, our ruler, and provider is entitled to our acknowledgment of his perfections and of his dominion over us, to thanks for benefits conferred, to supplication for their continuance. We owe him this duty not merely as beings having souls, but as that which we are--beings, having a body and soul--as men. The feelings of the soul, especially if earnest, cannot be pent up in it. They need expression. When strong and earnest they flow over into the body, they express themselves in bodily action. Man, as such, acts with the body and the soul. Moreover, we owe God worship not merely as individuals, {722} but as society. God made society and all that gives it charms. He is the author of the bonds that hold it together; he gave us those faculties that force us into it; the wants that in it alone are satisfied; and the powers that contribute to their satisfaction. Society, as well as the individual man, is one of those beautiful and bountiful works that call forth our admiration and demand our gratitude. Society can recognize and thank its author only by external and common public worship. The internal feeling needs something to lean on, as it were, to give itself strength and almost to give itself an existence. The internal act, is, of course, the soul of true worship, but, like the soul itself of man, it needs a body in which it may become incarnate to fill the end of its being. Without this it has neither life nor power. It needs this to give itself intensity.

The external act becomes as it were a depository in which the soul lays what is produced at one moment, while it is adding more and more. As the iron receives in deposit the powers of each of the circles of the magnetic wire that turn and turn again around it, and is ready to discharge their combined force at any moment, so the external act catches as it were the fire of the internal emotion, holds it until that of another is added, and enables the soul to seize again the power of those that have vanished and resume its work with redoubled vigor. Thus going on from faith to faith, from worship to worship, from virtue to virtue, all these rise higher and higher, strike their roots deeper and deeper, until the internal feeling becomes intensified and strong and as worthy of the great object to which it is directed as it can be in a mere creature.

The ceremonial is nothing else but this external expression of inward worship. It is an expression that gives it consistency and strength. It intensifies and preserves it. It transmits it from one to another, and to succeeding generations. In it society expresses itself. The individual man has his own organs of expression. The organ of the Christian body is the minister of the church. Through him she acts as a body; she expresses herself as a unit. On this account she very properly regulates minutely, how he shall discharge this duty. This gives his actions a meaning and a value over and above, and to some degree independent of, the value they possess, as expressions of his own individual devotion.

Worship does not consist, properly speaking, in receiving instruction. This is, of course, a good thing, but it is only a means to an end. It is like the ladder to ascend, or the scaffolding used in the erection of a building. To receive it with respect and other dispositions due to the word of God, may imply faith in him, and submission to him; but, properly speaking, in as far as it is mere instruction or information, it is not worship. Worship is our submission to God, a performance of the duty we owe him. As far as instruction shows us how, and leads us to do this in a proper manner, it is good, but in itself--as a mere expansion of the mind, or the storing of it with knowledge, it is not worship. In paying worship, we must act, not merely be acted upon; we must do, not merely hear. For this, the ceremonial affords most useful aid; not, of course, as far as it is a mechanical movement, which if it stop there would be useless, but inasmuch as it is the instrument of the inmost soul. Light and instruction must precede to give it significance, but when life has thus been breathed into it, it becomes itself an action, a practice of virtue, a discharge of the highest virtues, which are those that have God himself for their immediate object.

This ceremonial consists of the words that are used, and the acts that are performed. Words, said or sung, are a part of it, but only a part. Many acts often express the feelings more effectually. These are sometimes {723} more or less natural; at other times they may be said to be conventional. But though arbitrary as words themselves, when they receive a determined meaning, they become capable of effectually and powerfully expressing the internal feelings of the individual and of society. Kneeling or standing erect, raising up or clasping the hands or striking the breast, an uplifted glance to heaven or a reverent bowing of the head, will express adoration, reverence, sorrow, or supplication as well and often better than words. When you walk in a procession with torch in hand, accompanying the blessed sacrament, or to honor some other mystery of religion, you are professing your faith in it as effectually, and impressing that faith in your soul, perhaps, more deeply than when you recite the creed, just as the citizen expresses forcibly his political principles by analogous acts. These, of course in particular cases, may be acts of hypocrisy or hollow pageant, just as words may be a lie or an empty sound, but this takes nothing from their intrinsic appropriateness. Nay, acts of this kind would seem to draw the soul into what is intended to accompany them and be expressed by them more powerfully than words.

Some of the acts of this worship have, in themselves, a power and efficacy apart from any impression they may produce on the beholder. Such is the case in all the sacraments. The sacred rite, duly performed may be compared to the spark, which, however powerless of itself, when falling on the proper material, awakens a great power of nature, that will rend mountains, and hurl into shapeless masses, the proudest works of man. The sacred rite has been chosen by omnipotence, as his agent and instrument, and its power has only the limits which omnipotence has been pleased to assign. It is the same thing in the celebration of mass. The words of Christ, pronounced by his minister, effect a great change. For he who first took bread and said, "This is my body," and by his infinite power made true what he said, addressing his apostles, added. "Do this"--yes, even this, great as it is--"in commemoration of me." And they "do" it, and by doing it, "show forth his death until he come." The effect follows by the power of God, no matter who is present, no matter who is instructed or edified, even though no heart beat more in unison than did the hearts of the Jews, who stood by while the great offering was made on Calvary. But other parts of the ceremonial, which, though not of equal importance, occupy more time, realize their end only when they express our feelings of reverence, or give them strength and light. Many are directed to aid the priest alone, in the proper performance of his high duties. Many, while they have this object also, are likewise directed to instruct, and become expressions of the devotion of the people. The ceremonial, therefore, first of all makes provision for the priest. It is important for himself and for the people that he be a worthy minister of Christ; that he discharge the duty of offering up the holy sacrifice with all the reverence, the humility, the fervor which so great an act demands. The ceremonies become a means of his doing this. In performing them properly he exercises all these virtues. The church makes him descend to the foot of the altar, and there acknowledging himself a sinner before God and the heavenly court, express by words and acts his sorrow, demand pardon before venturing to ascend the altar on which is to be laid the holy of holies. He then ascends with trembling step, and having again silently prayed for forgiveness, he intones the noble hymn,"_Gloria in Excelsis Deo_." Whether the voices of the choir take up its thrilling notes and make the vault resound with a call to give glory to God on high or he continue it in a subdued tone, every word he utters, every motion he is called on to make, enables him to express more and more {724} earnestly his desire for God's honor, his homage to Christ, "alone holy, alone Lord, alone most high."

Prepared by this introduction and having admonished the people to turn to God, he pours out in simple but touching words his supplications for our various wants. He then reads choice extracts from the sacred volume conveying the most important teachings of our holy religion. I will not stop to describe to you the ceremonies at the offertory, nor speak of the sublime "Preface" preparatory to the most sacred part of the sacrifice. Having prayed for all conditions of the church, having appealed to the blessed in heaven with whom the church on earth is in communion, he approaches the solemn act of consecration. Every word he utters, every glance, every motion, is directed to fill him with awe, with reverence, to express a demand, an act of homage, of gratitude or of invocation; and when the sacred words are pronounced, and he stands before the incarnate God truly present, though not visible to corporal eyes, with profound inclination he expresses his adoration, while the victim is raised up, that all present may, like him, kneel down and adore. And so all through the holy sacrifice.

While these lessons are taught and put in practice by the priest, the people, before whom they are performed, learn from them to cherish similar dispositions, and to unite their spirit in the expression of his devotion. It is the same thing with all the ceremonies, which, like those alluded to, are expressive of the feelings we should entertain for God. They frequently express them more forcibly than words could. Even ordinary feelings often become too strong for language and seek expression in some action. The fond mother would find words too tame to express the love she bears her child. She hugs it to her bosom, and impresses warm kisses on its face. We meet a long-lost friend. Words would not express all we feel. We clasp him in our arms, and press him to our heart. The model of repentance, the prodigal, when he meets his father, forgets a part of the discourse he had resolved to pronounce, and folded in his father's arms, expresses his sorrow more forcibly in silent tears and heart breaking sobs, and is forgiven. Even anger, which cannot find an adequate expression in the most impassioned language, seeks to manifest itself in the uplifted clenched fist, if it cannot gain its object by striking a blow. Do not tell me, then, that all this action in the church ceremonial is mummery. It is often a higher expression of devotion than words would afford.

If yon wish to test this, look at a devout congregation of Catholics kneeling before the altar. The organ that had lifted up their hearts when singing the "Glory to God in the highest" is silent, or a few low notes are heard that make the silence of the congregation more sensible. No voice, scarcely a breath, is heard, when the priest, having raised his eyes to heaven, is now inclined over the sacred elements. Thousands are kneeling around in awe. A slight stroke of the bell announces that the act is done. The priest prostrates himself in silent adoration, and then elevates the consecrated host. Every head is bowed in the presence of a God. Will anyone who has witnessed that scene, who has tried to enter into the feelings of that congregation, please tell me the words, or write out the speech, that would have expressed so powerfully their reverence, their adoration, their gratitude, and their love? Yes, ceremonies are a noble expression of our highest feelings. They are even more; for they intensify them, embalm them, and preserve them from evaporating. They communicate them and spread them abroad, and transmit them from generation to generation.

All this is a consequence of human nature, and this is so true that it is made an objection to our system. It is said that we build too much on human nature. But if worship be made for man it must accord with his nature {725}--not, indeed, with that which is corrupt in it, but with his nature as it came from God. Now, this need, this power, this efficacy of the expression of feeling by outward ceremony, is no effect of the fall: it is in the very nature of man. Hence we have recourse to it in everything else. What is the shake of the hand when we meet a friend, or the salute, or the banquet to which we invite him, but a ceremony to express friendship or esteem? Look at our processions and various political demonstrations. What are they but ceremonies in which political or other feelings seek expression--an expression which we know will strengthen them, deepen them, communicate them to others by creating and giving force to what may be called a contagions influence? What are our national and party airs; our national and party festivals, but expressions of a similar character looking forward to similar results?

In these things, as I said in the beginning, the feelings of the soul seek an embodiment, that will give them consistency and duration.

No matter what the external manifestation be, even though it be merely conventional, when it expresses a feeling, it becomes an instrument for all these purposes. It becomes, as it were, a permanent part of a structure, to which another stone is added as often as the act is repeated, until the building grows up in solid beauty that defies the ravages of time. This is the case with our political or social sentiments, because it grows out of our very nature. Why then should it not be the case, or rather is it not evidently the case, with those also which are connected with religion? These external rites not only express and intensify the interior feelings, but let philosophers explain it as they may, they become as it were a depository in which they may be laid by to be recalled almost at pleasure, nay, even to be drawn out by others who wish to acquire them.

Look at that piece of bunting hanging from a flag-staff and flying before the breeze. What is it? A first glance will tell you that it is a piece of stuff purchased for a trifle a few days ago from the merchant, on whose shelves it lay unnoticed and uncared for, except as far as it was capable of producing some day a few dollars for its owner. But now it has received a new destiny. It bears the national symbols, and it is the flag of the country. And, oh! what a change has taken place! It recalls the glories of the past, the hopes of the future; it is the symbol of the majesty of the nation. The patriot heart warms in beholding it; the warrior-breast is bared to do it honor. Through a hail of fire he stands by it or bears it on, and will see unmoved a thousand of his companions strewed o'er the battle-field while this yet floats before the breeze. And, when victory has crowned his efforts, he salutes it as the genius that nerved his right arm during the contest. Though torn almost to tatters, he bedews it with his tears of joy. It is his pride in life. He looks forward to descend in honor into the grave wrapped in its folds.

Wherever that flag is raised, one glance leads us to behold the genius of our country standing up before us with all her claims to our devotion and our love. Let it receive but the slightest insult, and a thrill vibrates throughout the land, every heart is wounded, every hand is ready to be raised in its defence. Yet it is, after all, but a piece of bunting, worth so many cents per yard. But by becoming a symbol, by being the object of a rite, it has become the depositary of the enthusiasm of the nation. It is made capable of evoking this, of quickening and communicating it, whenever it is unfurled.

Look at our national airs: what are they? The scientific musician will find little in them that is soul-stirring; but the feelings of our fathers are deposited in them. They were the tunes in which we expressed our gladness in days of triumph, by which we were aroused on the national holiday, in which we sung our joy on all {726} important occasions. Our love of home, of kindred, of fatherland, has been embalmed in them; and when they fall on our ears, all these dear and stirring feelings, as if buried in their notes, are sent forth, now unlocked, and again take possession of our souls. They thus arouse the warrior and the patriot, calling out all the feelings that cluster around what is most dear.

The Swiss soldier in foreign lands was so vividly recalled to the memories of home, by the airs to which he listened in childhood, and the recollection of his native mountains, and the associations revived by them, had such power, that a special disease, called "home-sickness" was frequently the result. As this proved fatal to many, the playing or singing of such tunes was forbidden in Swiss regiments in foreign service. And who does not know the stirring effect produced on certain occasions, when Yankee Doodle or Patrick's Day has been struck up, no matter what musical professors may say of their artistic merits.

In a similar manner our feelings of devotion are consigned to some homely religious tune. They are first expressed in it. They cling around it. They become identified with it. They are recalled vividly when we hear it again. They all come back in their original freshness, with accumulated force. They are transmitted to others, and thus we inherit the treasure of the devotional feeling of preceding generations.

Though _our_ being supplied with music by great artists, who are constantly changing, if not improving their compositions, deprives us in a great measure of the advantages that might arise from this source, we can feel it at times, in what is allowed to retain this traditional force. Who is there that does not feel the devotion so often experienced in assisting at the benediction of the blessed sacrament, or on other occasions renewed by the tones of the Tantum Ergo or other familiar tunes, when the performers do not destroy, or at least smother the old airs by their exquisiteness? Where the songs of the church are in more general use, the intonation of the Miserere or the Stabat Mater or the Pange Lingua and many other tunes is like the opening up of a flood-gate, through which feelings of devotion rush as it were in a torrent and take possession of a whole congregation.

What is said of songs may be applied to other rites. The feelings of the past are deposited in them; they express them, they arouse them, they communicate them. This occurs, though they may be chosen arbitrarily. What more arbitrary, generally speaking, than the meaning attached to words? The word "home," for example, for all that is in the sound, might as well have been adapted to signify anything else of the most different character. Yet now having received a definite meaning, it recalls uniformly a whole definite series of ideas and feelings. So it is with a rite--say that of anointing with oil, that of sprinkling with water, burning incense, the use of candles, or the making of the sign of the cross. Many rites were established primarily for this purpose, others had their origin in necessity or convenience or usage; but the church, anxious to make even these things a source of edification and an instrument of devotion, gave them a meaning, attached to them a lesson which they reproduce forever after. Even those which have a certain intrinsic fitness to signify what they are established for, derive their chief efficacy in this respect from their having been chosen for the purpose, or having gradually received a social meaning, well understood in the Christian family. These have the additional advantage of speaking out, as it were, a whole instruction at a glance. The moment you look at one of these acts, a lesson is presented which could scarcely be communicated in many words, and in performing them the heart says more, and that more simply and more effectually, than it could in a long discourse.

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I have referred to the flag of the country; of its being raised, and how a look at it, or a salute, powerfully expresses at once the most important emotions and lively enthusiasm. Well, we do the same through the Christian's glorious standard, which is the sacred symbol of the cross. Be it of wood or of the most precious metal--be it the production of the most unskilful or the most cunning workman--it is for us the symbol of man's redemption, and around it cluster our most tender feelings of veneration and love. It is placed over our altars, over our churches; it hangs in our rooms; where Catholic feelings can save it from insult, it is raised up in the highways, and is made to meet our eyes wherever we turn. We impress its form on our persons whenever we call on God in prayer, whenever we find ourselves exposed to temptation or danger. In that one act the faith, the hope, the love of the church for Christ and Christ crucified, are all expressed. All these feelings are imbedded in it. All are called out again whenever that sign is made. What we have heard of him from the pulpit, what we have read in our private study, what has occurred, to our own minds in meditation, is all brought before us with the accompanying sentiments and feelings as soon as that sacred symbol presents itself to our eyes. All are a wakened, are revived, and seized again at its glance. No wonder, then, that the Catholic loves the cross; that he loves to prostrate himself in adoration before it; that he looks to it when he seeks consolation in suffering, support in affliction, light in his difficulties, purity of spirit in his joys. Do not tell me that it is of lifeless wood or of metal, that it is but the work of the craftsman, Oh! this is like stopping the soldier in battle, to direct his attention to the price per yard of his flag, or to the name and address of the store where it was bought, while he is advancing enthusiastically under its inspiration against his country's foes. Yes; who does not know that it is of wood or metal? but to me it is the symbol of my Saviour's love. As such, I love it; as such all my most sacred feelings cling around it: I impress kisses on it; I bathe it with my tears. And when, on Good Friday, the priest after bringing before us the whole scene of Calvary, having led us, in the service, to look on the death of Christ' as the great turning-point in the world's history, having shown us the woes of the past that were there to find a remedy, and the blessings for the future that were thence to spring forth, holds up the crucifix before the prostrate multitude, and sings out, in a solemn tone, "Ecce lignum Crucis," "Behold the wood of the cross on which did hang the salvation of the world," will we not all send up our whole souls in the deacon's answer, crying out, with him, "Venite adoremus," "Come, let us adore"? And when the priest looses his shoes, and on bare feet approaches the sacred symbol of redemption, that he may kneel down and kiss it with fondness, on the anniversary of the day on which the tragic scene was enacted; who is there that will not vie with him in kneeling and pressing the sacred symbol to his lips?

The same thing can be applied in different degrees to the various rites throughout the year, when succeeding festivals bring before us the other great mysteries of religion, or when we are called on to express the ordinary feelings of Christian devotion. He who has studied the simple devotions of the rosary, or the way of the cross, will be astonished at the mine of devotion, of enlightened piety contained in them, and at the treasures that are drawn from them by faithful souls, simple and unpretending as they are, and puerile as they appear to the self-sufficient.

But these acts and exercises intended to express and nourish our Christian feelings, can only be appreciated where there is faith. It is only into {728} hearts animated by faith that they can enter. It is only in such they can be aroused. A certain amount of instruction is even necessary to understand the conventional meaning of many. This instruction and training is received by the Catholic almost with his mother's milk. As he learns the meaning of words, which is still more arbitrary, and acquires a practical skill in the use of language, notwithstanding its complicated laws, so he learns the meaning of the ceremonial, and is initiated into its use. With clasped hands the child kneels before the crucifix, and imprints kisses on it. Little by little he learns the history of him whose figure is nailed to that cross, and knowledge grows in him with reverence and love. He goes to the church, and is struck with what he beholds. He catches reverence from those around, and infuses it into his own imitation of their mode of acting. As he learns more and more of what is there done, this reverence becomes more and more enlightened, and he grows up a devout and enlightened Christian, performing the acts expressive of worship with the same ease and intelligence with which he uses the ordinary expressions of social life. The looker-on who is without faith or instruction, who has no sympathy, and wishes to have no sympathy, with him, thinks his acts a mummery, if he do not give them a harsher name. Such a person may be compared to one who has no ear for music, to whom the enthusiasm of those who are aroused by a beautiful composition is incomprehensible; or to one who listens to an eloquent discourse in a tongue which he does not, and cares not to understand; or he is like Michol, who laughs at David dancing before the ark, because she has no sympathy with his jubilant gratitude. The Catholic ceremonial is made for Catholics. If it enable them to express and strengthen their reverence, it answers its purpose. Those who have no such feelings to be awakened cannot be surprised if it strike them without producing emotion. The ceremonial is useful, not only as an expression of feeling, it is eminently instructive and educational, if I may use the expression, by instilling and developing both the knowledge and the devotion it is intended to express. While it teaches, it leads to act in accordance with the teaching; properly performed it is itself such action. It thus instils truth into the mind, and shapes the heart in accordance with it, which is the highest aim of the best education.

Some are pleased to look upon the mass of our people as very ignorant in matters of religion. If by this it be meant to say, that all are not experts in quoting texts of scripture; that they know nothing of many controversies that appear of great importance to our separated brethren; that they do not understand the meaning of many phrases that have become households words amongst them, though, sometimes, I fear, passing round without any very, definite meaning, I am willing to acknowledge the charge. But if it be meant to say that they are ignorant of those great facts and truths of religion which it is necessary or important for men to know, I repudiate it most solemnly. Nay, I contend that there is a better knowledge of these amongst many or most Catholics who can neither read nor write, if they have only followed in the paths where the church led them, than amongst many of our opponents who are considered learned theologians; and this they owe chiefly to this very ceremonial of which I am treating. They may know nothing of Greek particles, or of many other things good enough and useful in their place, but which God has not required anyone to learn; but they know that the incarnate God died for the salvation of man. They know the mystery of the Trinity, which is implied in that of the incarnation. They know the sinful character of man, their need of such a Redeemer. They are led to thank him, to love him, to {729} obey him. They know his sufferings, one by one; they are familiar with his thorns and his nails; they have pondered over his wounds and mangled flesh; they penetrate into the side pierced for their love. He who knows even this much is not ignorant. Yet all this, and, much more, is familiar to every one accustomed to look with faith on the crucifix. He sees in the face of the crucified One patience, resignation, compassion for sinners, love even for his enemies. He sees the consequences of sin, and he beholds their remedy. Looking on this, the Catholic finds support in his trials or afflictions and moderation in his joy. Show me the volume he could ponder over and learn as much. All that he heard at his mother's knee and from the preacher's lips is brought before him in a single glance at his crucifix. All is brought up again when he makes the sign of the cross. Yet the cross, so fraught with instruction and moving appeals, is that which is presented to him a thousand times in the rites of the church, inasmuch as it is the great pervading principle that must animate all his devotion and all his actions. It is brought before him, not in a cold way, merely teaching him a lesson. He is taught to know and to believe; he is led to adore and to confide; he is brought to invoke through it all the graces of which he stands in need. All this is done every time that he makes the sign of the cross, pronouncing the blessed words, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."

While many of your learned expounders of scripture are comparing text with text on these subjects, trying to remove, but scarcely removing the doubts which they know to exist among their hearers, which they feel, perhaps, rising up in their own breasts, or what is worse while they are proposing theories in a Christian pulpit which make nought the cross of Christ and the mystery of redemption as ever taught in the Christian family, the poor Catholic, on whom they look with contempt, is making his starting point what others are but trying to prove, and while signing himself with the cross, believing, adoring, penetrating into the depths of the love of the incarnate God, and endeavoring to shape his own soul into conformity with its teachings. And you call him ignorant. Indeed, a pure though simple faith, among these people enables them to see the great truths of religion with a clearness that supplies frequently an apt reply to difficulties that seem very embarrassing to their opponents.

Yet, this is the first lesson that the Catholic child learns at his mother's knee, As he goes on, he learns more and more of God's works of mercy toward man, of his institutions for our salvation and our sanctification, and all he learns he sees reproduced in a glance in the ceremonial of the church, which speaks to him in accents more and more eloquent, as his knowledge expands and his heart is brought more fully into conformity with God's holy teachings. In the liturgy and the various other rites of the church, she has enshrined all the great dogmas of religion. There she teaches them, there she keeps them beyond the reach of the innovator. The priest himself, the bishop, and the pope, there see them inculcated, and from thence, as from a rich treasury, draw them out to present them to the faithful. This teaching by rites in use from the beginning of the church, addresses itself to all with power, for in it they find the teaching of the saints and the sages of by-gone ages, and feel themselves breathing the same atmosphere with them. The martyrs, who bore testimony to their faith with their blood, the apostolic men, who by their preaching, their labors, and their prayers, brought nations to the knowledge of Christ, the holy confessors and virgins, who, in frail vessels, showed forth his power in every age, practised these same rites, and were therefore animated by the same faith. The church, throughout the whole world, uses them, and therefore believes as we do. What {730} more powerful for bringing home to each one the faith of the universal, everlasting church!

There is great security for the faith of a Catholic in his receiving it through the teaching of a pastor in communion with the church of the whole world, and sanctioned by its highest authority; but I would venture to say that there is something even more solemn in this voice of the ceremonial, which is a voice of the living and the dead--of the church of the Catacombs, and of the church of this day--throughout the world. With all the force which this gives, leaning as the church does upon Christ, who died to sanctify her in truth, we are taught the great dogmas of the Trinity and the Incarnation; of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ; the plan and means of the redemption, the need in which we stand of divine grace, and the means of obtaining it. We are taught the character of the great Christian oblation, the nature and effects of the sacraments, as well as the dispositions they require, and the duties they impose.

Far be it from me to undervalue the oral teaching of the ministry. That found in the ceremonial presupposes it, and is based on it. Both are, as they should be, combined in the ministrations of the church; but the ceremonial fixes the oral teaching. It gives the Christian system a body, as it were, in which it enables it to prolong its life beyond the moments of the passing voice. When once embodied in a rite, the impressions of oral instruction, which otherwise so easily pass away, live for ever. They are seized in their whole entirety at a glance; they are brought down to the comprehension of the lowest; they are put forth with a majesty that the highest may admire. Men are taught there, and, what is most important they are led to act on the teaching, and thus conform their hearts as well as their minds, to the holy dogmas of faith, which is the best and most useful way of imparting Christian instruction. But I will be told that this teaching, however useful for those who understand it, is lost for the great mass of the people, as the language used is a dead one, which few understand. But, in the first place, it is not lost, even though the clergy alone should understand it. Is it not an important thing that the clergy themselves should have something to keep alive powerfully, amongst them the one, universal and everlasting faith? Will not all the faithful find strength in their strength, and light in their light? If they are kept right, the truth spread abroad by them will easily he preserved pure among the masses of the people. Almost all heresies--be it said to our shame--either had their source in the sanctuary, or could not have succeeded if they had not found support there. And is it not a great thing that he who would become a prevaricator, must first brand himself as unfaithful, must cease to minister today, all he did yesterday, and thus give public notice, as it were, that he seeks to devour the flock which he had undertaken to feed; that instead of keeping the deposit which was the first duty of his office, as dispenser of the mysteries of God, he is substituting some new-fangled theory of his own, palming it off as an institution of heaven? Luther can establish a new system only by ceasing to say mass. The church of Cranmer is not at ease until it has formed for itself a new liturgy. The Greeks and other orientals by preserving their ancient rites and ceremonies, have preserved almost all their ancient dogmas, and to re-enter the church have little else to do but to submit to the authority of its supreme pastor. But apart from this, the ceremonial itself speaks to all the people in a language which all understand. The rites are themselves a language easily learned, and speaking with silent eloquence to men of every tongue. They are to some extent what the learned have been so long looking for, a universal language. In fact, when the priest raises up the host, the Irishman and the German, the Greek and the Armenian, see the presence of Christ {731} preached to them, and they kneel down and adore. When the water is poured on the head of the child that is baptized, men of every clime know that the regenerating rite is being performed. The rite once properly explained ever after expresses to them better than any combination of words, the internal change that is effected in the soul. Then, it must be remembered that the main thing in the public service is what is _done_, not what is _said_. Every moderately instructed Catholic is fully aware of what there takes place, and with this knowledge he can assist, not only devoutly but intelligently, though he may not understand or even hear one word.

The great source of mistake, in this connection, with our separated brethren, arises from the fact that they go to church merely to hear instruction, or to have words put into their mouths, in which to address Almighty God. The Catholic also often goes for instruction, and this he receives in the language which he understands. But he goes for what is even more important--he goes to take a part in the great act that is performed in God's holy temple. He knows the nature and ends of this, and the dispositions required of him, and as I said before, he can perform his part though he may not even hear, much less understand one word that is pronounced. I will suppose a case of the surrender of a large army. The vanquished soldiers march to the place appointed. They lay down their arms, they lower their flag. The victorious general, with his warriors, stands, by and receives them. A speech perhaps is made. But all who are present take an intelligent part in the Proceedings, though many may not hear one word that is uttered. So it is with the great action at mass. I will not have recourse to the common reply, that all that the priest says at the altar is translated and published; that any one who desires may read and know for himself; for though the fact be true, it is not the true solution of the difficulty. I have no hesitation in saying that in assisting at the most solemn part of the celebration of the divine mysteries, it is best not to attend to the particular prayers recited by the priest, whether one hear them or not whether he be or be not capable of understanding them. It is better to assist with an enlightened faith in the action that is performed, and then give full play to such sentiments as this faith will awaken in each individual soul. This is evidently the view of the church. For this reason, after the offertory, that is, when the most important portion begins, the priest is made to recite almost all his part of the liturgy in a low tone, so that those present cannot hear him even if they be capable of understanding what he says. Among the Greeks a curtain is drawn across the sanctuary, so that they cannot even see him, but merely know by some signals, if I may so call them, given from time to time, in what part of the sacred act he is engaged.

The church, by, this evidently tells us, that by an assistance in faith, each one yielding to the promptings of his own devotion will derive more profit than by following the priest's words. Indeed, the parts of the priest and people in this sacred act are so essentially different, that it is scarcely to be expected that the same prayers should be best for both. While the church has minutely arranged the rites and prayers used by him who offers the sacrifice, she is satisfied with awakening the faith and enlightening the devotion of others who assist: and then leaving it to their enlightened faith what each shall say to God on such occasions. She acts like the master of the house, who prepares the banquet, where each guest finds abundance of everything agreeable to the palate, and nourishing to the body. With great care he has prescribed the parts of those who are occupied in preparing or serving it up, so that all present may receive substantial proofs of his interest; but when, this is done, he {732} leaves the invited to partake of what is prepared, as their own tastes will prompt. It is thus that the Catholic system, which is accused of tying men down to a performance of mere routine, is that which really gives more scope to individual liberty in public worship, while public decorum and dignity are effectually secured by an established ritual. With your extempore prayers, he who utters them has indeed full scope for his feeling and his fancy, but he is liable also to their vagaries, and his hearers are at his mercy. As he weeps or rejoices, all must weep or rejoice, or he becomes to them a hindrance. Their hearts move or try to move, not as the spirit, but as the leader willeth, and not unfrequently may he lend them into paths from which their instincts will recoil. They, whose whole time is engaged in following a prescribed liturgy, must ever go on in the same groove. Whatever be the feelings or the wants or the temper of mind of each individual habitually or at the moment, the same unchanging road is chalked out for all. What they hear may be beautiful, but it may be far from being the best suited for many at that moment. Hence disgust or cold indifference is sure to follow, of which beautiful forms may be only a pompous covering. Amongst Catholics on the other hand, while the church to secure order and truth and public decorum, has carefully regulated every word and act of the priest, and presents in the celebration of the divine mysteries the most powerful incentive to faith and devotion in all its bearings, she leaves each one else who is present to assist as his own wants and dispositions may prompt.

The ingenious zeal of pious men has provided helps for all in manuals of various kinds, and each one will select what he finds best suited for himself. He will use it or interrupt its use, or drop it altogether as experience will show him to be most useful in his own case. When it is not done through apathy or listlessness, he may find it better to dispense with them all, being satisfied with a look, with vivid faith, and such other interior acts as a faithful soul will soon learn to perform with alacrity. Knowing what he himself is, and who is before him, he will not be at a loss what to say. At one time he will weep over his sins; at another he will give thanks to God; at another he will lay open his wants, or ask pardon for his transgressions. Where can he do any of these things more effectually than in the presence of him who died for our sins, and to procure for us every blessing.

And many, in fact, thus assist in silent prayer, but with more intelligent and true devotion, though they neither use a book nor hear a word, than others who are pondering over most beautiful manuals.

The danger of cold formality from the steady use of prescribed forms, and nothing else, is so thoroughly realized by the church, and this fear is so fully justified by her experience that the priest himself is warned over and over against it. The remedy that is given him, is the practice of what might be called private individual prayer. All spiritual writers tell him that if he be not fond of this, if especially he be not careful to renew his spirit by it, in immediate preparation for the exercise of his sacred functions, they will degenerate into mere formalism. With this private preparation he will prepare and carry into them a proper spirit and will then find them a heavenly manna, having every sweet taste; without this, he will be but as the conduit pipe, carrying to others the refreshing waters, but retaining himself' none of the effects of their invigorating powers.

These remarks apply to the most sacred and most important part of' the mass. If the church do not wish us even to hear them, much less require us to understand them, if she be right in believing that we may thus assist most advantageously, it is a matter of no consequence what language the priest uses in addressing the Almighty {733} God, for he understands him, and that is enough. The rites he performs give all the instruction of admonition that is useful at that moment, and this instruction does not disturb our individual devotion. On the contrary, whatever turn it may take, it enlivens, supports, and directs it.

As to the first parts of the mass, to which these remarks are not so applicable, the "Gospels," which vary at every festival, are required to be read at least on festivals in their own language, and explained by each pastor to his people. The "Collects," are known to be all substantially supplications for grace, to which, therefore, we may heartily answer, _Amen_, though we do not understand each word. Little else remains but the "Kyrie," the "Gloria," and the "Credo," and these like the "Pater Noster," and a few other things sung by the priest, might be easily learned, so as to be understood by any diligent person. Indeed, I may say it is the wish of the church that all should learn them. She would be glad that all would take a part in singing them, as the people do in many countries. The study of Latin required for this is not much; for all that I have referred to might be contained in two or three pages, and is not beyond the reach of anyone, not even of those who cannot read. Many such learn it by heart, and understand what they have learned. Doing so would be but a light task in view of the many advantages gained. All might then join in the public chants of the church and be gainers in spiritual life, even if they did not discourse equally elegant music; or, if our apathy compels the church to let our parts be discharged, as it were, by deputies in the choir, we would assist and join in the beautiful sentiments which are expressed, and not merely sit inactive to receive the sweet impressions of their melodies.

But though this would better accord with the spirit of the church, if these parts also through our own apathy are unintelligible, the intrinsic character of the act for which we are preparing will suggest pious sentiments that will enable us to pass the time with substantial profit to our souls.

But, be it that there is some little disadvantage in having the mass in a dead language, what I have said, I think, abundantly proves at least that it is not very great. Look, on the other hand, at the immense advantages gained by keeping it uniform and without change, which implies keeping it in the language in which it was first established. By this, uniformity and steadiness is secured in the faith. The faith of every nation embalmed, as I said before, in the liturgy, is before the eyes of the universal church; it is transmitted untarnished from generation to generation. This uniform and steady liturgy becomes as an anchor to which every church is moored. As long as it clings to this, it is safe. And can anyone who knows the value of faith, of that faith for which legions of martyrs shed their blood, deem the little loss that is sustained, if any, by our Latin liturgy, not well compensated by the stability of faith which it secures. For this reason, though the world in the apostolic days was even more divided in language than it is now, yet in those times, as we know from all antiquity, the liturgy was celebrated only in three languages--the three languages of the cross. These are, the Hebrew, in its cognate dialects, which are but branches of the one Semitic tongue, as a homage to the ancient dispensation; the Greek, which was the language of the civilization of that age, and that adopted in the New Testament; and the Latin, which was the language of the people whose capital was to be the seat of the government of the Church of the New Dispensation. In these three languages was written the inscription over the bloody sacrifice on Calvary; in these, and in no others from the beginning, was the unbloody one offered to God by the church. No others having been adopted was a clear proof that in the apostolic {734} view it was not deemed necessary that all should understand the language used in the sacred mysteries; and, when even these ceased to be popular languages anywhere, what had always been the condition of the great number became the condition of all.

In after ages a few exceptions, and only a few, were permitted or rather tolerated. The liturgy was allowed to be celebrated in one other language in Asia, the Armenian; in two in Africa, the Coptic and the Ethiopic; and in one in Europe, the Slavonic. No others were used. But these were exceptional cases--they occurred at a later period, and under peculiar circumstances, showing rather the sufferance than the genuine spirit of the church, while she cordially adopted from the beginning, and ever clung to the three languages of the cross.

It is both beautiful and useful to the Catholic to assist at the divine offices in the same language, and in the main, with the same rites, in which they have been performed for eighteen hundred years. They seem like the voice of the martyrs, the confessors, the saints who have lived through these eighteen centuries. They echo their faith and their devotion. We feel that in them we are breathing the life of a church now and ever spread throughout the whole world, everywhere offering to God one sacrifice of praise.

A dignitary of the Protestant Episcopal Church in this country has lately written an angry letter against those of his brethren who are called "Ritualists," because they are anxious to introduce into their church many Catholic, or, as he calls them, "Romish" ceremonies. His ground of complaint is that behind these ceremonies stand the doctrines of the Catholic Church. "Their course," he says, "means return to what the reformation cast out with indignation." "It means Romanism in all its strength and substance," and he enumerates the various doctrines which it implies, which he considers abominations. I do not wish to pronounce an opinion on the extent to which his remarks are justifiable in their application to the parties against whom he writes; but he is certainly right in believing that behind the Catholic ritual stands Catholic doctrine, which is nothing else but Christian doctrine; and as the reformation "cast out" many of the rites in use in the Christian family from the beginning, with them it "cast out" a great portion of the Christian dogma. The good man's charge will only make those who preserve the dogma see more clearly the value of the rites in which it is enshrined, and cling more tenaciously to dogmas thus shown to be coeval with Christianity.

Every rite has thus a lesson, and becomes an act of devotion. The cross above our churches and our altars, continually reappearing in all our ceremonies, impresses on us the incarnation, death, and atonement of Christ crucified, as the great central point of all religion. To this we are constantly brought back in every prayer which concludes by asking what we demand, through Jesus Christ, the familiar closing of which, the "_per omnia saecula saeculorum_," known to every child, calls forth from all, the heartfelt _Amen_! To this, and to what should accompany it, the Catholic is constantly directed by the ceremonial. The church bell, signed with the cross, and anointed with oil, which is a symbol of Christ, swings in the tower, and as his messenger, calls us in his name to his house--now, ringing out with joy, when some great mystery is to be commemorated--now, in deep solemn notes, to pray for one of his departed members. Three times every day it summons us to the recital of the Angelus, in which we commemorate the great mystery of the incarnation, and invoke the merits of the Saviour's death, and ask the benefit of his resurrection. If we enter the {735} church, the font at the door, from which we take a drop of blessed water to sprinkle our foreheads, is itself a sermon on the purity with which we should approach, and bids us cleanse our souls before we come near to him in prayer. The burning lamp speaks to us of him who is the light of the world, now dwelling on the altar, as well as of the constant fire of devotion, and pure adoration, due to the present God. The priest whom you see at the altar, clad in those quaint old vestments, tells you at a glance that you are in the presence of a worship that has come down from the remotest ages. The burning lights on the altar, which have now become an emblem of gladness, speak to you of the catacombs, in which our fathers took refuge, and preserved for us the sacred deposit, at the cost of property, of liberty, and of life.

Like old heirlooms, with their quaint old forms and their several indentations, these vestments and rites tell at the same time of their real antiquity and of the many vicissitudes through which they have passed. They are not like those imitations of the antique in use amongst some of our friends got up by studying ancient drawings and descriptions, having all the inconvenience without anything of the venerable character of what is truly ancient. With us they are inherited through uninterrupted use from the beginning. Whatever changes have occurred in minor details, only render them more venerable, for if on the one hand we are brought back to ancient days, these are marks of the many ages through which they have passed. Everything in the rites of the church is fraught with instruction, with devotion. It enables you to know, and what is better, to practice--for while it teaches, it leads you to love and adore. Do you wish to know the efficacy of that ceremonial? Look at those who have been nursed under its training. See the all-pervading influence of religion, that exists among them. Long and powerful discourses may make men skilful talkers and ardent partisans. Those who have been reared under a divinely inspired ritual have religion deeply engraven on their hearts. It takes possession and enters into the whole nature of the man; and even when he gives way to the allurements of iniquity, it retains its hold on him. This may indeed make him appear, and be, an inconsistent object of pity or of scorn. But, happy inconsistency! For if he will not be consistent in good, far better that he be inconsistent or not consistent in evil. He would otherwise become a monster. The links by which he is yet bound to what is good, may one day draw him within the pale of that mercy to which no sinner appealed in vain, before which no sinner is too great to be pardoned.

To the Catholic, in every position, the ceremonial is light and nourishment--a plentiful source of vigor and life.

{736}

From Le Correspondant.

MADAME DE SWETCHINE.

BY REV. FATHER LACORDAIRE.

Many times already have I rendered to illustrious Catholics who have died in our day, a funeral and a pious homage. In turn, General Drouot, Daniel O'Connell, and Frederic Ozanam have heard my voice above their tomb, a voice far below that which their glory merited, but which, nevertheless, holds from a sincere admiration the right to praise them. To-day, after these familiar names for which praise can do nothing, I pronounce another name, a name which may appear almost unknown, perhaps even that of a foreigner, which, however, belongs to the nation of the great minds of our age. A superior writer, Madame de Swetchine published nothing; a conversationalist of the first order, the fame of her salon never penetrated beyond that circle which, though not public, is more than privacy; a woman of antique faith and of active piety, she neither founded nor presided over any orders; and yet, for more than forty years she swayed an empire, to which the Count de Maistre submitted, before which Madame de Staël inclined, and which retained around her, even to her last days, admirers accustomed to act on public opinion, but still more accustomed to enlighten their own by hers. To the Count de Maistre succeeded M. de Bonald. The Abbé Frayssinous, M. Cuvier, to these M. de Montalembert, the Count de Falloux, Prince Albert de Broglie, and many others, a younger generation, but not less submissive to the ascendency of a soul where virtue served genius.

Why should we be silent? Why not tell the living what they have lost in the dead? While a man lives, modesty should guard all his actions, and friendship itself should be restrained by it; but death has this of admirable; that it restores to memory as to judgment all its liberty. In taking away those from whom it strikes the double rock of weakness and envy, it permits those who have seen to lift the veil, those who have received to acknowledge the benefit, those who have loved to pour forth their affection. Even the obscurity of merit adds to the desire of making it known; and if this merit was illustrious, being all hidden, it is almost a religious duty to draw it forth from the tomb, and to render it before men the honor it has before God. So I hope I shall be pardoned these few pages; but did I not, yet I should still write them. I owe them to a friendship which began in the shadows and perils of my youth, and which since, through all the vicissitudes of a quarter of a century, never ceased to open to me perspectives of honor so difficult to recognize in the confused and agitated times when faith itself is troubled by earthly events, and seeks a route worthy of its mission.

Madame Sophie Jeanne de Swetchine was born in Russia, on the 4th December, 1782. Her family name was Soymonoff. She had a sister who married the Prince de Gagarin, a former Russian ambassador at Rome; she herself was united at the age of seventeen to General de Swetchine, Military Governor of St. Petersburg. She belonged by birth to the Greek religion, but her education had abandoned her to the scepticism of the eighteenth century, and {737} according to the natural course of things, she would have died an unbeliever or a schismatic in the depth of some half-oriental estate. God willed it otherwise, and hence arises from the first the lively interest attached to her life. For a Christian, a soul's predestination, and the mysterious ways by which God conducts it to its end without infringing its liberty, are a spectacle that has above all others an inexhaustible charm. The secrets of grace and free will, so intimate in our own hearts, are less enlightened in a history which is not our own; and the communion of saints which makes us all, believing and loving, one in a single light and a single goodness, gives us, in the account of a difficult conversion, the feeling of a conquest in which we ourselves have shared.

The young Sophie de Soymonoff was then a Greek and an unbeliever. She had been beguiled from her birth by the illusions of rationalism, and the snares of the most singular fortune which error ever had; for the Greek religion has this trait solely its own, that it presents a much restricted and very firm negation to the true faith, under an authority cut loose from its base; yet which, however, preserves all the rest with a profound respect for antiquity. In seeing this exact episcopal succession, this unaltered symbol, this inviolable discipline, these sacraments which Rome herself recognizes, we ask if an error, respecting so long and so well the limits which it traced when it first arose, does not seem like those rocks which an irruption has thrown from their foundations and which remain immovable under the eye and the action of ages? Whilst in the West, Protestantism is unable to create either dogmas or discipline or hierarchy, and floats as a wandering cloud from mind to mind, the East, on the contrary, sees produced the fixity of error. Here dissolution, there petrifaction; and between the two the truth which is immutable without being inert, progressive without being subject to change. However surprising may be this contrast, it is not difficult to account for it, if we consider, on the one hand, the difference of nature between the eastern man and the western; and on the other, the diversity of the political destiny assigned them. The eastern man contemplates and adores, while his rival, less happy in contemplation, is more so in acting. Thus the one has created generous institutions, under which he has from age to age extended his empire, while the other has passed from servitude to servitude, incapable of seating himself in the shade of a regular authority, and of developing in a free atmosphere either the evil or the good which, he has conceived. Hence in Europe error takes a character of life which conducts it to its most extreme logical consequences, at the same time that it wears at Constantinople a character of death, which leaves it what it was, by impotence, not by virtue.

Nevertheless, it is easy for a vulgar intelligence to be deceived, especially where family and national traditions give to error the reflex of patriotism, and when an absolute government, the jealous guardian of a religion of which it is the head, suffers no emanations of the truth to reach the soul. Sophie de Soymonoff was born a prisoner in an empire of seventy millions of souls. She was six hundred leagues from St. Peter's, and a thousand years from the true faith. But, however vigilant despotism may be, however thick its dungeon walls, God remains ever near, and he draws therefrom, when he wills, the instruments which his Providence uses to preserve for man the share which he assigns him in all his works. At an age when Madame de Swetchine could not yet sound either the poverty of the Greek schism or the abyss of unbelief, a man of God came to her. He was not a priest, but an ambassador of a king despoiled of the greater part of his possessions, shut up in an island of the Mediterranean, and who, in sending to St. Petersburg a {738} representative of his misfortunes, thought not that he sent there a _chargé d'affaires_ of divine grace, marked with the seal of the elect. Count Joseph de Maistre, tor he it was, detested with all his soul the two Colossuses of his day, the French revolution and the French empire, because in the one he saw the oppression of European nationalities; and the other, because he thought he saw it imprinted forever with an anti-Christian spirit. But he loved France, because, though it was the seat of the revolution and of the empire, he discerned there an indestructible faith, the faith of Clovis, of Charlemagne, and of St. Louis, and I know not what predestination that ravished his judgment, and rendered him the prophet of that very country which he esteemed so culpable and yet so great. Born in Savoy, in the country of St. Francis de Sales, and of Jean Jacques Rousseau, he was French like them in his genius, but even more so by his faith and his heart, which had but two pulsations, one for the church, the other for France; generous mortal who silenced his antipathies by his convictions, in whom blindness did not extinguish the light, and who, like Philoctetes, wounded by the arrows of Hercules, could be separated from Greece, neither in his accusations nor in his affections. Madame de Swetchine soon met this extraordinary man in the saloons of St. Petersburg, and it was the first great event of her life. A positive spirit, but amiable, as his posthumous correspondence proves, M. de Maistre loved conversation. He did not love it as a throne from which his genius could display its brilliancy, but as a free and delicate interchange of thoughts, in which grace unites with intelligence, taste with boldness, freedom with reserve, bringing together in an hour all times and all gifts; and forming a bond of union between men who are pleased with sentiments of kindness and esteem. Generous focus of cultivated minds of all countries, conversation is the last asylum of human liberty. It speaks when the tribune is silent; it supplies the place of books when books are not to be had; it gives currency to thoughts which despotism persecutes; finally, it warms, and agitates; it moves, and is, where it can live, the principle and the all-powerful echo of public opinion. It is not astonishing then that great men find in it a pleasure which is for them like the accomplishment of a duty. So long as society converses it is safe.

It did not look much as if the Count de Maistre could find at St. Petersburg an aliment for this noble want of his heart. The Russian is endowed with facility of expression, a quickness of apprehension, and it is no flattery disrobed of justice which has named him the Frenchman of the North. But he is closed up as soon as he comes into the world; deprived of all political liberty, he has not even in his religion room for his breast to expand, and the Christ he adores appears to him only under the sceptre of his masters and behind their implacable majesty. A fortress encloses at St. Petersburg the temple where sleep the Czars, and, once dead, their people cannot even freely visit their ashes. Fear, suspicion, doubt, all the shades of inquietude dwell in the Russian, and are translated on his brow by a calm which nothing destroys, on his lips by a reserve which nothing dissipates. To converse it is necessary to be open; and to open one's self, one must possess his life, his goods, his honor, his liberty. When therefore the Count de Maistre entered St. Petersburg, he might say that he entered the capital of silence, and that his genius would be there only a monologue.

He was deceived. I knew Madame de Swetchine only during the last twenty-five years of her life; and she was fifty when I first rested my eyes on her benevolent countenance. Doubtless age had ripened her art of thinking and speaking, but it is impossible that she should not have had something of it in that young outburst which early announced to others, and to herself, the treasure which was carried in her bosom. Certain it is that M. de Maistre had soon discovered it. In {739} the midst of that society of great lords and diplomatists, he discovered a young woman who bore in her language the marks of superiority, and whose conversation, springing from a source still purer than the mind, touched with remarkable tact the frontiers of liberty, without ever passing beyond them. Confidence is an irrepressible want of our poor heart; it cannot live alone; it opens itself unconsciously, and when life's experience has revealed the peril of abandoning it to itself, it becomes wiser but no fonder of reserve, and counts it a supreme happiness to meet with security in the intercourse of society. Less happy, however, than the greater part of men, the man of genius has need also of a certain elevation in the minds that come in contact with his own; and, though the crowd has its charm and its power, were it only in hearing him who rules, yet it is in the shock of two intelligences, each worthy of the other, that conversation has its highest flight, and reaches the last fibres of our being, and reveals to it the eternal pleasure of minds speaking with minds. Demosthenes discoursing before the Athenians, Cicero pleading in the Forum or the Senate of Rome, did not make, as perhaps some may think, a monologue: the multitude responded, and their eloquence was the fruit of a great soul heard by a great people. There is no solitary eloquence, and every orator has a double genius, his own and that of the age that hears him.

Madame de Staël, who was the first conversationalist of her time, said she was unhappy because of the universal mediocrity, and yet she conversed at Paris among the people the most prompt in the world to speak, and the most confiding: what would she have said at St. Petersburg? M. de Maistre was there, but he was there with a Frenchwoman, born in Russia, who would one day, recognizing the mistake of her birth, live and die in her true country, the country of an incorruptible faith, and of a liberty which had only an eclipse, because conversation has always sustained it. Louis XIV. conversed at Marseilles without suspecting that conversation would kill his despotism. In the East, the destined seat of absolute power, the prince does not converse; he gives his order, and is silent.

It is impossible for two souls to meet each other in a conversation which mutually pleases them, without having religion, sooner or later, enter into their discourse. Religion is the interior vestment of the soul. There are some who tear this vestment to tatters; there are others who soil it; but there are a few who despoil themselves of it all save some shred, and this shred, such as it is, is sufficient to prevent them from appearing absolutely destitute of divinity. Madame de Swetchine was an unbeliever, and, she had behind her, and beyond her unbelief, the Greek schism. The Count de Maistre was a Catholic, not only by faith, but by direct mental intuition. He was at that point where a man can say, so obvious was the truth to him: I believe not, I see. What were the talks of these two souls on a subject in regard to which they had nothing in common, except their genius? What did they say from 1803 to 1810, from the day when they met for the first time, to that on which one of them bent before the other, owned herself vanquished, and, on the bosom of friendship, sighed the last sigh of error? Doubtless God alone knows. God alone knows the stratagems which suspended for seven years the efficacy of an eloquence sustained by divine grace, and disputed with it, step by step, the victim and the victory. However, two immortal books of the Count de Maistre: Soirées de Saint Petersbourg, and the book Du Pape, may give us the secret of that controversy lost to the memory of man, but which we shall one day find in that of God.

It is manifest that the wife of the Governor of St. Petersburg opposed from the first to the ambassador of Sardinia all the negations of the eighteenth century, those shadows which Voltaire had invested with all {740} the transparency of his mocking spirit, and around which Jean Jacques Rousseau had thrown the poetry of his melancholy imagination. Doubt, which in all men is a profound abyss, is still more so in the heart of woman. Nature cannot be denied with impunity, and the nature of woman is to believe, for it is her vocation to love. Happily Madame de Swetchine was strong and sincere; she could follow with her mind's eye her friend's thought, and penetrate, little by little, as she became accustomed to it, into those regions of truth where mockery had not left even a trace, and where imagination raised not a single cloud. Laughter ceases as we ascend nearer to God, and so also do tears without cause; the intellect becomes serious, and the heart contented.

When the Count de Maistre had dispelled the phantoms, did Madame de Swetchine see at a glance the whole reality of Christianity, or did the Greek Church interpose itself, as a half-light between a doubt which was no more, and a faith which was not yet? In considering the slowness of her progress it is natural to believe, and the Count de Maistre's correspondence confirms it, that the neophyte took the longest route, and that she did not give herself up to any sudden illumination. It was then the book Du Pape which succeeded to the Soirées de Saint Petersbourg. M. de Maistre had dictated it with one eye on Russia and the other on France. Not that there was any relation between the two countries in the point of view of religion. France, since God had made her the eldest daughter of the church, had not been for a single day a traitor to the sacred unity of her mother; and from the battle-fields of Tolbiac to the scaffolds of the Reign of Terror, she held herself faithful on the only and immovable rock where God had sealed in this world the mystery of truth. But if is true that she was withdrawn from the public law of Europe, which during several centuries had accorded a political supremacy to the Roman pontiff and that she had derived from this sort of resistance, I know not what of personal independence, which without detracting from her theological submission, had given her in certain matters a more apparent reserve. Yet if Louis XIV. had not taken it into his head to establish as a maxim what was only a national instinct, regulated by a profound faith, the sentiments of France would never have assumed in the eyes of Christendom the doubtful coloring which after the ruins of the revolution struck the genius of the Count de Maistre and inspired him with the book, Du Pape. He saw in Russia the immense fall of the Greek Church, caused by this single point of infidelity to St. Peter, and without fearing for France what no one feared for her, he erected to the papacy that beautiful and proud, statue, which posterity will ever regard with honor, even though they should accuse the artist of having known the past less well than the future.

_Thou art Peter, and on this rock I build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it_. These simple words, regarded in the gospel and in history, taught Madame de Swetchine that the Greek Church, although preserving the traditions of episcopal authority, was detached from the centre of unity, and consequently from the throne itself of life. After this it was easy to recognize its effects in the spiritual miseries she had under her eyes. The clergy are not the whole church; they are only a portion of it. The church is the assemblage of all souls who know God, and do not consciously reject either the words he has given the world, or the authority which he has founded to preserve and propagate his words and his grace. Though a visible body in the faithful exteriorly marked with his seal, she yet embraces under the eyes of God, who penetrates and judges all consciences, a multitude unknown to herself, in whom invincible ignorance {741} creates good faith, and who live unknowingly the truth of which she is the depositary. This is the church. As to the clergy, all is said in these words of our Lord ascending to heaven: _Go and teach all nations, baptizing them and teaching them to keep my commandments._ The clergy are the apostolate of the church; they are the venerated summit of faith, the army of souls called by God to spread the only law which is infallible, the only force which conquers the flesh, the only unction which gives humility. "_Who hears you hears me_," our Lord has said: "_who despises you despises me_." All may and must befall the clergy, hate, exile, torture, death; there is but one thing which they cannot and should not merit, contempt. When Christ suffered in the judgment hall under the blows of the vilest executioners, when he bore his cross from Jerusalem to Calvary, when he was raised on it in the face of the whole world, there was against him from heaven to earth, from Satan to man, a hate deeper and broader than the ocean. But respect survived; and Pilate in washing his hands, the centurion in beholding the cross, the virgins in weeping, the sun in hiding its light, were the revelations of a conscience greater than the punishment, and which held the astonished universe in expectation and awe. Now, by a judgment of God, which is the chastisement of a fault of centuries, the Greek clergy are despised. They are despised not only by the unbeliever but by the believer; they are despised by the penitent whose confessions they hear, by the purified Christians to whom they give the body and blood of their God. This contempt is striking and universal; the pope or Greek priest bears it on his forehead as an avenging sign, and even the kiss of the Czar confirms and enlarges it.

Placed between this spectacle and the vision of the Count de Maistre, the whole light came to Madame de Swetchine, and then commenced for her the second struggle, the struggle of the truth against the holiest affections of the heart. Truth is, no doubt, the great country of the mind; it is father, mother, brother, sister, and native land; but man has on earth another family and another country, the better he is the more he loves them, and virtue; in so far as it is human, makes them the cherished centre of all that is good, amiable, and generous. To these ties already so strong, religion adds its divine influence, and from the same table to the same altar man leads his happiness, and there attaches by a single chain time and eternity. What a blow is that when some day, by an evidence which leaves no possible retreat, the daughter shall see God standing between her and her mother, between her and her husband, between her and her native country, and there shall be said to her in the same voice which Abraham heard: "_Go out from, thy land and thy kindred, and from the house of thy father, and come to the land which I shall show thee_." There are some, it is true, who think this voice should never be heard, but for three thousand years, since Abraham, it has commanded and been obeyed. God is stronger than man, and man is great enough to sacrifice to truth more than himself.

Madame de Swetchine had not only to fear the rending of her heart, she had before her an intolerance which the opposition of our century had only irritated. The Emperor Nicholas did not yet reign, but the conversion of a Russian soul to the Catholic Church was none the less an act of high treason, which exposed her to the severities of the morrow, if she escaped the inattention of the evening. After having endured this stormy situation for six or seven years, Madame de Swetchine turned her eyes toward France, and obtained from the Emperor Alexander, a generous prince, himself agitated by an unknown inspiration, the permission to live there. France received her in 1818 at the age of thirty-four, in the plenitude of her faculties ripened by a long intercourse with men and events.

{742}

It is not without a purpose that God draws to himself' a creature condemned to error by all the ties of family and country, and transports her far away to a foreign capital in the midst of a new people. Much less so is it when this grace falls on a choice intelligence, placed in the first ranks of society, and who unites in herself all the gifts of nature, and all those of the world. Paris since 1750 had been the centre of the European mind. It had by half a century's crusade against Christ, drawn the nations from those old certainties to which they owed their existence. An unheard of revolution had been the chastisement of this fault, a chastisement so much the more remarkable, as France had invoked just principles, conformed to its ancient traditions, and as it was the defect of a superior light to restrain herself, that she had traversed everything with a devastating impetuosity. She had remained faithful only to her sword, and still after twenty-five years of victory, worthy of her happiest days, she had just succumbed by excess in the battlefield, and twice the foreigner had soiled with his presence that superb city, the mistress, by the ascendency of her intelligence, of the modern world. It was there on the day after its reverses, that Providence conducted Madame de Swetchine. The question was to know if France, aware of the need she had of God to reconstruct her, would hear the voice of her misfortunes; if recalled to her ancient kings, and reconciled in her old temples, she would, consent to be again Christian in order to give her liberty the sanction of the faith which had always guided and always served her.

Few minds in either camp discerned this relation of Christianity with the institutions of a liberally governed people. The example of England, where the church had always supported the commons, said but little to the publicists who were the most charmed with her Parliament. Madame de Swetchine herself had had in the author of Considerations sur la France, a master who saw plainly the vices of the French revolution, but who without betraying civil and political liberty, did not well comprehend, perhaps, either all its necessity or all its future. Happily she had lived under absolute power; she had had under her eyes for nearly forty years a Christian Church in a servile land, and this lesson could not be lost on a mind as true as hers. The evils of liberty are great among a people who do not know how to measure it, who at every moment refuse it by jealousy, or go beyond it through inexperience. But these evils, great as they may be, belong to the apprenticeship of liberty and not to its essence; they still leave it daylight, space, and life, a resource for the feeble, a hope for the vanquished, and above all the sacred emulation of good against evil. Under despotism good and evil sleep on the same pillow; souls are invaded by a dull degeneracy because they have no longer a struggle to sustain, and Christianity itself, a protected victim, expiates in unspeakable humiliations the benefits of its peace. Madame de Swetchine saw this. Her great heart was full of this when she entered Paris, and amid the roar of tempests she knelt, for the first time in her life, at altars combated, but esteemed. It is necessary to have suffered for liberty of faith to know its price. It is necessary to have passed under the gibbets of schism, to be able fully to know what it is to breathe the atmosphere of truth. How often have I seen Madame de Swetchine's eyes fill with tears at the thought that she was in a Catholic country! How often has she been inwardly moved at seeing a good priest, a good religious, a good brother of the Christian Schools, in a word, our Lord's image on a sincere brow or in a virtuous life! Ah! this it is which here we never lose. We {743} can dishonor I know not how many human and even divine things; but in the shipwreck Christ remains visible to us in many who worthily love and serve him.

The life of Madame de Swetchine during the forty years she passed in our midst was one continual thanksgiving. More than once under a reign of persecution, like that of the Emperor Nicholas, she had fears for the security of her sojourn in France. Once, notwithstanding her great age, she believed it necessary not to leave it to the zeal even of her most tried friends, and rushed to St. Petersburg to implore the forgetfulness of the Czar. God still saved her. She had acquired such a prestige, that it might be said that she represented at Paris the honor and intelligence of Russia, and this, it is probable, was what, in the most difficult times, saved her from being recalled.

This dependence which she still had on her country, because her estates there might be held to answer for her personal conduct, imposed on her an extreme prudence in a saloon which was frequented by her compatriots and by men of all ranks and all opinions. But this reserve, which she had acquired as a habit in her own country, detracted nothing from the grace and sincerity of her discourse; whether she was silent or whether she expressed her thoughts, according to the degree of confidence inspired by those present, she never betrayed it; and in her silence even, she seized things on the side which remained accessible, and gave them clearness enough, to instruct without displeasing. An exquisite naturalness covered her speech, though tact and unexpectedness were its most usual characteristics. When she met Madame de Staël for the first time, each knew the other without being told; and happening to be placed at opposite corners of a large hall, they observed each other with curiosity. Madame de Staël, accustomed to homage, waited for Madame de Swetchine to come to her. Seeing she did not, she all at once crossed the long space which separated them, stopped before her, and said in a lively and caressing tone: "Do you know, Madame, that I am much hurt by your coldness toward me?" "Madame," was the reply, "it is for the king to salute first." This remark can give some idea of the ingenuous and submissive style of Madame de Swetchine's conversation. Different from Madame de Staël, who disserted rather than conversed, Madame de Swetchine raised her voice but slightly, and had no accent of domination; she waited her time without impatience, without caring for success, always more happy to please than ambitious to dazzle. An inexhaustible interest in those whom she had once loved, gave to her intimacy a sweet and maternal character. Her genius was approached as a focus of light, no doubt, but with a filial disposition which endeared its brilliancy, which was the fruit of a goodness as manifest as was her intellectual superiority. Introduced into the highest French society by the Duchesse de Duras and the Marquise de Montcalm, sisters of the Duc de Richelieu, she was not long in making felt around her that attraction which is produced in society by acknowledged eminence of character. What she had been when young at St. Petersburg in her husband's salons, she was in the heart of France; but what at St. Petersburg was only a conquest of suffrages and of admiration, became at Paris an apostolate.

When a soul passes to God's side, that is to say, to the side of Christianity, the only expression here below of the divine life, she can find nowhere else the principles and motives of her actions. All in her proceeds from the sacred height and returns to it, Madame de Swetchine lived in the world, but was not of it; she was held to it only by its good--only to make her protest for God, and to serve him; an admirable office in which the world assumes all its grandeur; in which fallen under the strokes of a mind that {744} knows what it is worth, it arises and occupies with him every instant of thought and every vibration of the heart. He who is disabused by the simple experience of life, despises the world, while he who is disabused by light from on High esteems it. Being then no longer in the world for the world, Madame de Swetchine was more than ever there for God; she followed his course with all-powerful interest, attentive to seize whatever might remove or approach her to the principle of all life. M. de Maistre was no more. A different school from his was forming; Madame de Swetchine saw unfold its first germs, and she surrounded with her counsels and her affection the young representatives of an idea which her recollections, perhaps, would have repulsed, but which the freedom of her mind rendered her capable of judging, for this was the character as the temper of her genius. In a time of intellectual dependence, in which parties bore away everything in their train, Madame de Swetchine made no engagement, and submitted to no attraction; she isolated every question from the noise around her, and placed it in the silence of eternity. Thus was one sure after having heard all that was said, to encounter on crossing her threshold something which had not been heard, an original view of the truth; and even when she was mistaken, a proof that her thought did not belong to herself alone, because she sought it in God.

It was after the failure of L' Avenir that I first saw her. I approached the borders of her soul as a seaweed broken by the waves, and I remember yet, after twenty-five years, how she placed her light and strength at the service of a young man unknown to her. Her counsels sustained me both against despondeney and exaltation. One day when she thought she noticed in my words a doubt or lassitude, she said to me with a singular accent, the simple words: "Take care." She was wonderful in discovering the point to which one inclined, and where it was necessary to bear assistance. The measure of her thought was so perfect, the freedom of her judgment so remarkable, that I was long in comprehending to whom and to what she was devoted. Where in others I should have known in advance what was to be said, here I was almost always ignorant, and nowhere did I feel myself more out of the world. This charm from above was not diffused over me alone. Other minds, my predecessors or my contemporaries, felt its action, and it is impossible to say for how many souls this single soul was a lamp. Not only the day, at fixed hours, not only the evening until midnight, but at almost every moment, confidence sought her with an importunity which was never complained of. Thus was formed around a foreigner I know not what country, which was of all times and of all lands, for it was the truth which was its ground, its atmosphere, its light, and its motion.

Nature, it is evident, could not suffice of itself to feed this inexhaustible conversation. It was nourished by an assiduous reading of all that was remarkable which appeared in Europe. No book, as no man, escaped her ardent curiosity. After the example of the Count de Maistre, who inspired the taste, Madame de Swetchine pencil-marked every page which struck her, and in her first leisure hour between two conversations she engraved on a light leaf of brass the thought which had illumined hers. She added her own reflections with the rapidity of a first glance, and this triple commerce with books, men, and herself, which was never interrupted, gave to her intelligence a spring which was never exhausted. What, however, in the midst of the contradictions of her century were the principles which guided her, and of which she shed around her the unfailing clearness? In recalling my recollections of her, I should say they were Our Lord the life of heaven and earth; the Catholic Church, the only society of the mind, because it alone possesses the foundation of faith and the {745} inspiration of charity; Rome, the centre of the world, because she is the centre of the church; the human family progressive on a basis that does not change; civil and political liberty, the daughter of Christianity; commerce, industry, science, all grand things, but under things grander still, honor and justice; all man's toil powerless to diminish poverty without virtue; France, a people loved by God--its revolution a vengeance and a mercy, a germ under ruins; philosophy, as old as man, the vestibule of Christianity when not as yet enlightened by faith, and its crown when faith has transformed it; reason, the inborn light whence philosophy proceeds, and which Christianity perfects; the future, an uncertain abyss, but in which God is ever found; error, a crime sometimes, a weakness oftener; tolerance, an homage to the truth, a proof of faith; force, which is next to impotency; authority, an ascendency which has its source in antiquity and in right; property, the union of man with the earth by labor, the first liberty of the world, without which no other subsists; liberty the guaranty of right against whatever is not right. These, if my memory is faithful, are the sound which at every hour and under every touch was given forth by that harmonious lyre which we now hear no more. A constant simplicity in an equal elevation, a goodness which came from Christ, gave to her doctrines, apart from their merit as truth, a personal influence. In hearing her this double charm might be resisted, but she could not be hated or despised; she could not but be loved, and inspire the desire to become better. Happy mouth, which for forty years made not an enemy to God, but which poured into a multitude of wounded or languishing hearts the germ of the resurrection and the rapture of life.

Yet, perhaps I deceive those who read me. They may persuade themselves that the friend of the Count de Maistre and of so many eminent Christians won their friendship only by the merit of a superior intelligence. That would be much, but in Madame de Swetchine it was not all. Intellect, when it comes from God, is inseparable from charity. Madame de Swetchine loved the poor. Like Frederic Ozanam, another blessing of Providence that we have lost, she knew how to forget science in presence of misfortune, and her lips, accustomed to things profound, had only divine things in the face of suffering and death. In entering her dwelling this might not be believed. Pictures by the great masters, dazzling candelabras, precious vases, books enclosed under crystals richly encased, flowers and drapery, all suggested the idea of costly magnificence hardly compatible with the secret love of the unfortunate. But, as I have said, Madame de Swetchine had in all things, even in duty, a point of view which was her own. Persuaded that she owed it to her family and to her country, to represent them worthily in the capital of a great people, she had the art of being simple in the midst of a splendor which she considered necessary, and to find economy in unseen privations. Long before her death, for example, she had no carriage. She walked with scrupulous exactness to the offices of St. Thomas of Aquina, her parish church, although she had a private chapel, and though her age as well as her infirmities would permit her to remain at home or go out only in a carriage.

One day her secret escaped her, Troubled, I imagine by something she had read, or some discourse which I had made her, she asked me with a kind of anxiety if I believed that in giving a sixth part of her income to the poor, she accomplished the precept of almsgiving. Another time, when some early vegetables were served at her table, at which I appeared surprised: "What would you?" she said to me; "there are people who raise these for us; would it not be ungrateful for those who can, not to recompense them for their labor?" This remark opened to me a new order of ideas. I understood that riches should not be {746} used simply to support those who cannot gain their own living whether from want of strength or want of work, but that they should also, according to their amount, be used to protect all the honest developments of human toil. It is thus that in the beautiful days of Venice, Genoa, Florence, and of Pisa, so many Christian merchants raised immortal monuments to their country, and that at Rome so many cardinals have built palaces. Magnificence is a virtue, says St. Thomas Aquinas, when it is regulated by reason, and very different from luxury, which is vanity and ruin.

At Madame de Swetchine's house was seen a mute, whom she had adopted as if in return for the gift of speech, which she had received in so eminent a degree. It was her custom to associate the care of the poor with the happy events of her life. Each of them recalled a happiness which he represented. She visited them on fixed days; she herself carried them assistance, and above fill the light of her presence. This intercourse kept alive in her the memory of the man, so quick to be effaced from those who have not the memory of God. She continued it even to the last days of her life; and when already the breath was uncertain and trembling on her lips, she asked for accounts of her poor. I saw, when we were seated around the sad couch of this beautiful light, her dear mute watching from an adjoining chamber, a vigilant sentinel of a life which had given her so much of itself, and which was fading away between friendship remaining faithful, and poverty remaining grateful.

Shall I speak, after the poor, of that beloved chapel, where the former unbeliever of St. Petersburg opened her heart before the God of her maturity? It was there, above all, that she lived, and there that she had gathered into a narrow space all that taste and riches could do to express and satisfy her love. Charming and pious sanctuary! you could not contain many souls, but there was one which sufficed to fill you, and which you filled also. Now you are no more. Death has despoiled the seats where so many friends came to pray; where prayer was so sweet, and peace so profound. We shall see you no more, nor your images, nor your precious stones, nor the tabernacle where at the side of the Lord reposed the virtue all entire of our friend. You had her last thought; it was of you she murmured at the moment eternity seized and carried her before God. Can I, then, better end than with you? For whom should I still ask a remembrance, a tear, an admiration?

For several years Madame de Swetchine had had preludes of her end. The consequences of a fall had left on her face a serious hurt which at intervals and without warning, rendered speaking very painful. This pain did not arrest the rapture of her communications. She remained what she had ever been, the mistress of herself, and occupied with all, winning hearts as in the days of her youth, when the Count de Maistre sent her his portrait with these words, written by his own hand:

"Docile à l'appel plein de grâce De l'amitié qui vous attend, Volez, image, et prenez place Où l'original se plait tant."

Happier than this great man who saw only the first dawning of Sophie de Soymonoff, we have enjoyed her perfect day; he formed her for us, and happier herself than her master, she could, by the clearness of a tempered reason, bring to her age a judgment in which hope surpassed fear, and which best indicated the true route to minds desirous of knowing and serving it. But at last we had to lose her. Every star below fades, every treasure vanishes, every soul is recalled. God did not spare his servant the agonies of death, but he left her to surmount them the influence which she had acquired over all things by seventy-five years of combat. Seated in her parlor to the last hour, she continued to receive those whom she loved, to speak {747} to them of themselves, and of the future, to foresee all, and to animate all. Her reclining figure raised itself to smile, she kept the accent and the thread of her thought, and her eyes with their serenity still brightened the touching scene in which we disputed for her with God. A last shock took her from us on the 10th September, 1857, at six o'clock in the morning, having a few days before received the viaticum and the unction of eternal life.

Alas! dear and illustrious lady. I cannot attach to your name the glory of those Roman women whom St. Jerome has immortalized, and yet you were of their race: you were of the race of those women who followed Christ through all the stations of his pilgrimage, who watched him as he died, who embalmed him in his tomb, and who were the first to salute him on the morning of his resurrection. You believed all and saw all. Born in schism, brought up in unbelief, God sent you to open your eyes, one of the rarest minds of this century; his hand touched your eyelids, and the sight which your country refused you, came to you from foreign skies. A Christian, you aspired to the liberty of Christ; conquered for, God through the language of France, you wished to live under the French speech, and quitting a country you always loved, you came among us with the modesty of a disciple and of an exile. But you brought us more than we gave you. The light of your soul illumined the land which received you, and for forty years you were for us the sweetest echo of the gospel, and the surest road to honor. No failure annoyed you, no success ensnared you; you were ever the same, because truth and justice do not change. Ah! doubtless your mission was to do us good in our pale West, but you had another mission, I believe; you were near us as an advance guard of the conversion of the East. Daughter of Greece! God wished to show us in your person, as he already had in several of your compatriots, what will, one day, be that old church of our first fathers in the faith, when, brought back from a fatal separation, she shall receive from the might of St. Peter that emission of unity which she formerly sent us from Jerusalem and Antioch, and of which we guard for her with fidelity the precious deposit. Yes, we trust the love which you preserved for your country; trust the presentiments of your Evangelist, the great Count de Maistre; trust in the long hopes of the Latin Church, and its constant respect for Christian Greece. Yes, sooner or later, the East will bend before the West, as a brother before a brother. St. Sophia will hear resound again in the two languages the symbol which has not ceased to unite us. Liberty of conscience, acquired by the human race, will no longer permit error to guard itself by persecution. Veils will fall; the obscure victims of political fear shake off their chains; all minds from one end of Europe to the other will follow the inclination of nature and grace; and if there remain, as there must, unbelievers and Protestants, at least there will remain no longer a nation crucified for error. In those days, dear and noble friend whom we have lost, and live here to weep--in those days, you will raise a little your cold stone at Montmartre, you will breathe an instant the air in which you lived, and recognizing at once the balm of your first and of your second country, you will bless God who called you before others, and to whom you responded with that faith without stain which enlightened us ourselves, and by that unconquerable hope which sustained us against all the failures of a century so fruitful in lapses and abortions.

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ORIGINAL.

THE CRY.

I sail on an ocean at midnight. With darkness above and below; And never a star in the heaven To pilot me where I would go.

Fierce tempests that roar in the midnight, The tempests both cruel and strong, Are driving me hither and thither; What wonder if I should go wrong?

Many thousands of others are sailing, Like me, o'er this tempest-vexed sea, All bound for the very same haven, All bound to the same land with me.

But some to the leftward are sailing. Whilst others they steer to the right; I oft hear the voice of the captains Who hail me aloud through the night.

Each one, though so diversely sailing, Calls out to me, "You are astray! For this is the course you should steer by To enter the kingdom of day.

"See, yonder the light shineth clearly, Right full on the way that we go." But which is the right and the true way, Oh! tell me, for how can I know.

I look where they're pointing before them, But never a star do I see; Where they tell me the beacon is shining Is nothing but darkness to me.

My soul is athirst with its longing To rest on the beautiful shore. Where is felt not the surge of the billows. Where the tempest is heard nevermore:

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Where the gardens of amaranth blossom, And meadows of green asphodel Fill the air with a fragrance immortal; Where the satisfied voyagers dwell

Who have passed o'er this ocean before me, And rest with the holy of old, In the city whose walls are of jasper. And roofs of the finest of gold.

O Lord of the wonderful city! O King of the kingdom of day! Let the light of thy truth shine out clearly To pilot me safe on my way!

THE ANSWER.

I hear thee, my child, in the darkness; I know where thou wishest to be: But why in a pilotless vessel Didst venture alone on this sea?

Thy way is in doubt and in darkness. Because thou dost voyage alone, Rejecting the old Ship of safety. To choose a frail bark of thine own.

That vessel is sailing beside thee. Its course the great Pilot controls. The tempest will ne'er overcome it-- It never will wreck on the shoals.

Who sail in this old Ship of safety, Know nothing of doubt or of strife. How can they with him who commands it-- The Way, and the Truth, and the Life?

And all through the mist and the darkness Faith shows a mysterious way, O'er which sails the good ship of Peter Straight on to the kingdom of day!

A.Y.

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ORIGINAL.

THE GODFREY FAMILY; OR, QUESTIONS OF THE DAY.