CHAPTER XI.

FOUND!

Yes, most undoubtedly, most undeniably, a strong likeness did exist between Lister Wilmot, old Thorneley's nephew, and Maria Haag, Thorneley's housekeeper,--a likeness that, as I walked home from the Old Bailey and recalled the various points in their features and expressions, grew yet more striking to my mental vision. The housekeeper was fair, with sandy hair; so was Lister Wilmot. The housekeeper's eyes were of that peculiar blue-grey, cold, passionless in their expression; so were Wilmot's. Mrs. Haag's features were cast in a perfectly Flemish mould, unmarked, broad, flat; Wilmot's were better defined, especially the nose, and yet they were of the same stamp, allowing for that difference. But the peculiar resemblance lay in a character of the tightly-drawn lips, in the dark, evil, scintillating light that gleamed from time to time in both his and her eyes; the expression so often alluded to in these pages, full of danger, of defiance; a glance that sent your blood shivering back to your heart; a look that told, as playing as words could speak, of unscrupulousness and utter relentlessness in the pursuit of any selfish purpose. And as this forced itself with distinct clearness upon my mind, I remembered the question put to me in Merrivale's office on the day of the funeral by Inspector Keene,--"Did you ever see a likeness to any one in Mr. Wilmot?" and my answer, "No, not that I know of. We have often said he was like none of his relative living." But how to account for this likeness established so suddenly? I tried to recollect all I had ever heard about Wilmot. Thorneley had acknowledged and treated him in all respects as his nephew; he was thus named in the will made by Smith and Walker, and Hugh Atherton had told me Lister was the son of Gilbert Thorneley's, his own aunt; that the marriage had been an unhappy one; that she died soon after her son's birth; and that of Mr. Wilmot, his uncle-in-law, he knew nothing. How had this strange and striking likeness arisen? Had he been privately married to Mrs. Haag? Surely not; and then I remembered what had come out in court to-day about her connection with Bradley, alias O'Brian. Old Gilbert Thorneley certainly was no fool; he would have been too wide awake to be tricked into a marriage with a woman of whose antecedents {95} he had not made himself perfectly sure. The conjecture of Haag being his wife was dismissed almost as soon as it was entertained. Fairly at a nonplus, and yet feeling that much might come out of this new conviction, I resolved to send for Inspector Keene as soon as possible, and impart to him all the crowd of thoughts and speculations and ideas to which the impression received this evening had given birth. Meanwhile it is necessary I should relate events as they happened after the trial.

Discharged and yet disgraced, Hugh Atherton left the court that day with his future blasted, with a blot on his shield and a stain upon his name. The jury could not convict him, but public opinion hooted him down, and the press wrote him down. His character was not simply "blown upon" by the insidious soft breath of undertoned scandal, but caught up and shivered to pieces in a whirlwind of shame and ignominy. Friends shunned him, acquaintances cut him; society in general tabooed him, and "this taboo is social death." Society set its ban upon him; but Lister Wilmot stuck to him. Stuck to him tight and fast--after this manner: He went about from one person to another, from this house to that, and talked of "his poor cousin Atherton, his unfortunate relative, his much-injured friend." He would ask So-and-so to dinner, and then when the invitation was accepted, he would add, "You won't mind meeting my cousin, poor Atherton; he is very anxious to do away with that unfortunate impression made at the trial; I do assure you that he is innocent."

The consequences are evident. You may damn a man with faint praise; you may doubly damn a man by overstrong patronage. And this was done to perfection by Wilmot. He--a young, agreeable, and not bad-looking man--was a far different person in the eyes of the world from rough old Gilbert Thorneley; and when he stepped into the enormous wealth of his uncle--when, in spite of the existence of the son and heir, no will was forthcoming, no legal grounds could be found on which to dispute his possession, the world made her best bow to him, and society knelt at his feet, offered up her worship and swung her censers before him. And I had to stand aside and see it all--stand aside with the bitter smart of broken friendship, of rejected affection, rankling in my breast. That fatal evening, oh that fatal evening! One word, and he had turned with me, friends for evermore; one word, and all the anguish and misery, the blight and the sorrow, of the past weeks had been saved!

Hugh and I never met after his trial but once. It was on the 3d of December, the day on which Ada Leslie attained her majority, that I saw him for the last and only time. I went to Hyde Park Gardens early in the morning, to offer her my congratulations for her birthday, to relinquish my guardianship, and to settle many matters which were necessary on her coming of age.

I need not say that it cost me something to give up the sweet relationship of guardian and ward; that it was like bidding a farewell to almost the only brightness that had been cast across my path in life. There was much business to settle that day, and perforce I was obliged to detain Ada for a long time in the dining-room. Just before I rose to leave, Hugh came in. He greeted Ada, and then turning to me simply bowed. My blood was up; now or never should he explain the meaning of his past conduct; now or never should the cloud which had intervened between us be cleared away; now or never should the misunderstanding be removed.

"Atherton," I said, "I have a right to demand the cause of this change in you; I have a right to know what or who it is that is murdering our friendship. No, Ada, do not go away. Be my interpreter with him. _You_ know how much cause he has had to doubt me."

{96}

I saw his face working as if powerful emotions were contending for mastery in him; but he answered in very cold, measured tones: "If I have been mistaken, if the heavy load of trouble I have had to go through has warped my judgment, I trust I may be forgiven; but I see no reason at present to wish that our former intimacy should be renewed."

"But why? in heaven's name, why?"

He looked towards Ada, who was standing near him, and then at me.

"If your own heart, Kavanagh, does not supply the reason, I have nothing more to say." And then, as if a sudden impulse had come over him, he stretched out his hand to me, and as I grasped it he said in a voice that shook with agitation: "It is best for us both, John; we can only forgive and forget."

"Hugh!" said Ada, laying her hand upon his arm, "do be friends with him. I cannot imagine what has made you think so ill of your best and truest friend."

But for reply he shook his head and quickly left the room. I took my leave of Ada and went away. And thus we parted--Hugh and I, after more than twenty years passed almost entirely together in the most intimate communion of friendship--a friendship that I for one had never thought could have been broken save by death, and which even then would have risen strengthened, purified, and perfect beyond the grave.

Weeks passed on after this last meeting. I was very much occupied with business that had been accumulating during the past three months, and I was thankful to plunge into it, and drown in the overpress of work bitter thoughts that rose but too constantly for my peace. I seldom if ever went to Hyde Park Gardens. How could I after Hugh Atherton's steady refusal of any explanation? for I knew I should constantly meet him there, and it would prove only a source of pain to us all. Poor young Thorneley remained under my care; Marrivale had then told by Hugh he should not interfere in any way, excepting to make over the 5000_l_. left him by his uncle to the idiot. Further, I learnt that he had withdrawn his name from the barrister's roll; but nothing more as to his future movements transpired. The housekeeper had suddenly disappeared, and with her had likewise disappeared Inspector Keene. Jones told me he believe he had gone, on his own responsibility, "to keep an eye on her." So December went by, Christmas had gone, and the new year had set in. "I shall hear of their marriage soon," I thought to myself. "Surely they will let me know _that_." And it was now the end of January, when one day, as I was deep over some papers, the door of my private office opened, and a young clerk who was replacing Hardy, laid up with a fit of gout, looked in. "A lady, sir, wants to see you."

"What is her name? I'm very busy. If it's nothing particular, ask her to call to-morrow."

"She says it's most particular, and she won't give her name. She's very young, and I think she's crying."

"Then show her in."

And in a moment Ada Leslie stood before me.

"Ada! my dear child, what is it?"

She was trembling violently.

"Gone!" she said in her heart-broken accents.

"Gone!" I repeated. "Who?"

"Hugh, Gone to Australia. Look here!" and she thrust a crumpled letter into my hand. It was indeed a farewell from him--a farewell written with all the passionate tenderness of his love for her, but admitting not the shadow of a hope that he would falter in his determination. It was more than he could bear, he said, the disgrace that had been heaped upon him; more than he could stand, to meet the cold averted looks, the sneers, the innuendos which fell so thickly on his path. Nor would he condemn her to share his lot; the shame that had come {97} on him should never be reflected on her. He bade her farewell with many a vow and many a prayer. She had been his first love, she would be his last; and to know she was happy would be all he would ever care to hear from the land he was leaving, even if that happiness were shared with another. Much more he said, and I read it on to the end.

"How could he! Oh, how could he!" she cried, wringing her hands, when I had finished and laid down the letter. "Did he not know my whole heart and soul were bound up in him? Did he not know that he was my very life? And he has gone from me, left me."

I could not answer for a minute. I was thinking deeply.

"Ads" I said at last, "this is not entirely his own doing. It is Lister Wilmot's."

"No, no!" she said, moaning and rocking herself backwards and forwards; "you are mistaken. He is in great distress about it. This letter was inclosed to him last night; he knew nothing of it."

"Ada, I feel convinced that he did and that he does know. Child, let me speak to you once more as your guardian and your dead fathers friend. Take your mind back to that morning before the inquest, and to a conversation which passed between us then. You remember that Wilmot had been at your house before me, and repeated something which poor old Thorneley said the evening of his death--something about you and me. You called it then, Ada, 'worse than foolishness;' so I will call it now. Do you remember?'

"I do," she said faintly, the color rising to her cheeks.

"That has been dragged out several times since, privately and publicly--always by Wilmot himself or at his instigation. Has Hugh never spoken about it with you?"

"Yes," she answered in the same low tones. "He spoke of it once, very lately. I was trying to persuade him to be friends with you. It was the only time he ever said an unkind word to me; but he was angry then." A sob broke from her at the remembrance.

"I don't wish to distress you; but just think if those thoughts and feelings were put into his mind and harped upon, traded with by one professing himself to be so staunch a friend just now,--can we wonder at the results?"

She looked at me as if she hardly understood.

"I mean," I said, speaking as calmly as I could, "that he was led to believe it true. He thought I was attached to you, and desirous of winning you from him."

She was silent for some moments.

"What am I to do?" she said at last.

And I too was silent. One thing presented itself to my mind, if only I had the heart to speak it out, if only the courage. Suddenly she looked up with a happy light in her eyes and almost a smile on her lips. She leaned forward with breathless earnestness. I felt instinctively she had thought on the same thing, and that she had resolved to act upon it.

"I can go after him. That is the right thing for me to do, is it not, guardian?"

For a moment my heart stood still. I knew she would go.

"Can you bear the voyage, Ada?"

"I could bear anything,--all for his sake."

And I felt that her answer was but a faint shadowing of the great truth that filled her heart.

"Then go," I said; "and may God's blessing go with you!"

I rose, turned my face towards the window, and looked out into the desolate square with its leafless trees, its snow-covered walks; looked out into the dull blank future, into the cheerlessness of coming years.

There and then it was settled she should follow Atherton to Australia by the overland route, and thus reach Melbourne before his ship could arrive. I asked her if she would not find great difficulty in persuading her mother to {98} accompany her, and without whom she could not go; but she told me she thought not; Mrs. Leslie would rather enjoy the excitement of travelling. We talked long and earnestly that morning, and I expressed to her my strong convictions that the day would come before long when we should see Atherton cleared from the remotest suspicion of his uncle's murder. All the sweet old confidence of former days seemed to have come back, and she opened her heart fully and freely to me. I learnt from her very much of Wilmot's late conduct, of which I mentally made notes; it was all, though she little thought it then, valuable information to guide me on to the one thing I had set my heart on doing, viz., sifting the mystery of Thorneley's murder and the discovery of the lost will. Before she left me I had exacted a promise that of her intended journey nothing should be said to Wilmot; and finally we fixed on the 4th of February for her to start.

The days flew by with more than usual fleetness, so it seemed to me; and the 1st of February found Ada and her mother with every preparation completed for their long journey. Up to that moment the promise made to me had been rigidly kept, and Lister Wilmot was still in ignorance of their intended movements. His absence from town for a fortnight rendered this a comparatively easy task, and he was not expected to return until after the 6th. On the evening of the 1st I received a note from Miss Leslie.

"I have been greatly taken by surprise and much distressed," she wrote; "this morning's post brought me an offer of marriage from Lister Wilmot. He speaks of Hugh's heartless desertion and his own _long_ attachment. Either he is mad or deliberately insults me. I entreat you to act as if you still were, and what I shall always consider you, my guardian, and answer it for me. A horrible fear of him possesses me, and all I pray is that he may know nothing of this journey until we are well on our road."

"This then," said I to myself, as I sat down to do Ada's bidding, "is the reason why Hugh was got so suddenly and secretly. The secret is out at last, Master Wilmot; but you have overshot your mark. This time you have not a trusting friend, not a confiding girl, to deal with; but with me, a man of law; and I'll be even with you yet. I've a heavy grudge to wipe out against you, and you shall smart with a bitter smart."

But before all it was necessary to be prudent, and I answered his letter to Ada with temperate words and calm politeness in her name. _At present_, I wrote, she had commissioned me to say she could not entertain the subject of his letter. In a month's time she would be glad to see him. Only let him fall into that trap, and she would be safely on her road to Hugh.

How anxiously I waited for a reply, I need hardly say. It came at last to Ada (I had told her what and why I had thus written). He would wait a month, a year, ten years, if only at last she could learn to love him. The bait had taken; and we breathed again.

The 4th of February came, and they started. I had engaged an experienced and trusty courier to travel with them, and they took an old confidential servant to act as maid. I accompanied them to Dover, and saw them on board the packet. Before it started Ada took me aside.

"John."

For the first time and the last she called me by my Christian name.

"Yes, Ada."

"Will you keep this for my sake, in case we never meet again? and remember, oh remember, that I shall always cherish you as the dearest friend I ever had!"

She took my hand and slipped on my finger a twisted circlet of gold, in which one single stone was set, engraven with the word "Semper." It lies there now, it will lie there when I am in my grave.

"I will keep it for ever and ever, Ada."

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One kiss I took from her uplifted tearful face--that too the first and last; and praying God to bless and guard her, left her. Until far out at sea, till the last faint speck of the departing vessel had disappeared beyond the horizon, till daylight had verged into the grey of approaching night, and shore and sea and sky were all blended in the thickening gloom, I watched from the desolate pier-head, with the winter wind whistling around me, and the dashing spray, the roaring waves, beneath. O Ada, fare you well! I have looked for the last time on your fair loved face, for the last time gazed into your tender eyes, for the last time pressed your kindly hand! Is it "worse than foolishness" now to kiss this little ring, and hold it to my heart to still the dull pain there? See now, as I write these lines my eyes grow dim looking back to the hour when I turned away from that distant view. Not on earth, Ada, shall we meet again, but in the better land, "the land beyond the sea."

. . . . .

Two months had passed away since they had all gone,--Hugh, Mrs. Leslie, Ada. By this time they had reached that distant land for which they were bound; and I sat one evening in April by my solitary hearth, with my books and pipe by my side, and little Dandie, Hugh's dog, lying at my feet. I had begged hard of Ada to leave him with me. Both my clerks had long since gone home, and office hours were past, when a sharp double knock came at the outer door. I went and opened it. A man rushed in, took the door forcibly from me, closed it, and then seizing my hand wrung it till my arm ached. It was Inspector Keene.

"_Found it!_" he cried, flourishing his hat in the air. "Hurrah! found it."

I thought he had been drinking; and lugging hold of him by the collar of his coat, I drew him into my room, and sat him down in a chair.

"What the deuce is all this about? What have you found? Can't you speak?" I cried, giving him a shake; for he had only flourished his hat again in reply to my first question, and cried "Hurrah!"

"Excuse me, Mr. Kavanagh, but I'm beside myself to-night."

"So it seems," I answered drily. "What have you been drinking for?"

He was sobered in a moment.

"I've touched nothing but a cup of coffee since this morning, sir."

"Then what is the matter with you? What have you found?"

"Mr. Kavanagh, I've found the _will!_"

"Nonsense! Where?"

"In the house in Wimpole street. Do you recognize this, sir?" he said, drawing a document from his breast-pocket, crumpled and dirtied.

"Merciful heavens! it is the will I drew up!"

"You could swear to it, sir?"

"Yes, ten thousand times yes!" I had it unfolded and laid before me. There was the firm, bold signature of old Gilbert Thorneley; and below the crooked, ill-formed writing of John Barker, footman, and Thomas Spriggs, coachman. In the corner the date, and my own name which I had signed.

"In the name of heaven, where and how did you find this, Keene?"

"In the housekeeper's bedroom in Wimpole street, concealed under a loose plank in the floor. You know, sir, I have had my thoughts and suspicions for long; I have watched and waited. To-day my time came. The house is being done up. The plumber who has the doing of it is a friend of mine. One workman more or less made no difference: I have done odder things before than use the white-washing brush. I have been in that house for the last three days, and to-day I whitewashed the ceiling in Mrs. Haag's bedroom."

"I understand. And searched it besides?"

{100}

"Just so, sir. She had done it cleverly; but I'm her match in cunning. I found the plank that had been disturbed, and I found the will under it and here I am."

A text came to my mind,--"Be sure your sin will find you out;" and I repeated it half aloud.

The inspector heard me. "Yes, sir, yes," he said gravely. "And there's another and a worse crime than stealing her master's will that I'm fearful she's guilty of."

"You mean the murder?"

"I do."

TO BE CONCLUDED IN OUR NEXT.

ORIGINAL.

MY SOLDIER.

"Dear heart," he said, "I love you so, I dare not offer you my love Till passion purified in woe Shall worthier offering haply prove.

"Then let us part. Mere absence is To love like mine enough of pain, As presence is enough of bliss; So welcome loss that leads to gain.

"Yes, let us part. The bugles call, For God and you I draw the sword: Your tears will bless me if I fall, And if I live your kiss reward."

He said, and parted. Long I staid To watch while tears would let me see, And longer, when he vanished, prayed That God might bring him back to me.

Ah me! it was a selfish prayer To rob him of the nobler part; And God hath judged more wisely. Bear His judgment humbly, bleeding heart!

Alas! I know not if I sin; In vain I wrestle with my woe. In vain I strive from grief to win That loftier love he sought to know.

Mine is a woman's love alone-- A woman's heart that wildly cries, "Oh! give me--give me back my own, Or lay me where my soldier lies!"

D. A. C.

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ORIGINAL.

DIVORCE LEGISLATION IN CONNECTICUT. [Footnote 22]

[Footnote 22: Divorce legislation in Connecticut. By Rev. H. Loomis, Jr., North Manchester, Conn. article in the new England, for July, 1865.]

The deadly and destructive epidemic of divorce legislation has crept through our social system with such stealthy and noiseless advances, and the Catholic community is so completely free from its contagion, that we were startled at the facts displayed in the able article which has suggested our present comments. Connecticut, it appears, stands pre-eminent among the states for the facility and frequency of divorce. Mr. Loomis says "that the name of Connecticut has become a name of reproach among her sister states, with a shameful notoriety surpassed by only one state in the Union." Nevertheless, many, if not most of the other states, are entitled to a fair share in the same reproach, having admitted the same false and ruinous principle into their legislation. We confine our remarks therefore to Connecticut, merely because it is a sample of the state of things generally existing, and because we are furnished with the authentic statements which are our necessary data by the principal periodical published in that state.

These statements are, briefly, that divorces are granted by the Superior Courts, under the statutes of the Legislature, _a vinculo matrimonii_, leaving both parties free to marry again, for the following causes: 1. Adultery; 2. Desertion; 3. Habitual Intemperance; 4. Intolerable Cruelty; 5. Imprisonment for Life; 6. Infamous Crime; 7. "_Any such misconduct as permanently destroys the happiness of the petitioner and defeats the purposes of the marriage relation._" Moreover, that within the last fifteen years 4,000 divorces have been granted, of one for every twenty families. To this we add the further statement that, more than one-fifth of the population being Catholics, who never ask for these divorces, the proportion is increased to one married couple out of every sixteen Protestant families.

These are the demonstrated facts in the case. And, in addition, we have the testimony of Mr. Loomis, published with the sanction of the editor of the New Englander, that the courts despatch these divorce cases with the most shameful levity and haste, in many cases without any due notice having been given to the respondent, and without any close examination of witnesses.

Mr. Loomis says:

"It need hardly be matter of surprise, in these circumstances, if a citizen of the state of Connecticut, entitled to the protection of the law in his most sacred rights, should chance to return from a temporary absence on business in another state, and find that in the meanwhile he had been robbed of wife and children, and of all which, for him, constituted home, on evidence which would not be sufficient before any jury in the state to take from a man property to the amount of five dollars, or even the possession of a pig; and to find, moreover, that both wife and children have, by the authority of law, been placed beyond his own control, perhaps in the hands of one who has conspired and paid for his ruin. The case supposed is not wholly imaginary. There is no reason, so far as the administration of the law is concerned, why it should not be frequent! In many cases the absence of the respondent is assured by pecuniary inducements, and in a yet larger number it must be confessed there is no opposition, because there is a common desire to be free from a burdensome restraint.

"It is doubtless true that, in the main, our courts have held themselves bound at least by the letter of the law, though their decisions are often hurried and based upon {102} wholly unsifted evidence. And yet lax as are even the terms of the present law, it is difficult to conceive how some of the decrees of divorce which have been granted during the past five years can be brought within the language of the so-called 'omnibus clause.' What shall we say of such cases as these, for instance, in which, in the western part of the state, a man and woman came into court with the confession that they had entered into the bonds of matrimony at the mature age of threescore and ten, but that now, after three weeks' experience, having become convinced of their folly, they desired relief from the court; or in which, after having failed to prove legal desertion, the counsel simply stated his ability to prove that the husband, from whom divorce was sought had called his wife by an opprobrious epithet, too vile and vulgar to be repeated; or in which the soul plea made was that the parties themselves had agreed through their counsel that a divorce should be had. And yet in each one of these cases, we are credibly informed, a decree of divorce was actually granted. Would not all this tend to show that the administration of no long can be wholly trusted to a court which is private in its proceedings, unwatched in its purity, unguarded in its power, with no barriers against abuse, and in which suits are practically contested only when property or reputation are sufficiently at stake to induce, in one case in eleven, a defence?"

Comment on our part seems hardly necessary. This page in the history of one state which has its counterparts in those of many others, is too black to need or admit of any deepening tints. As Mr. Loomis well remarks, such a complete subversion of the essential nature of the marriage contract by legislation endangers the very institution of marriage itself, and tends to reduce it to legalized concubinage. An ostensible marriage contract, in which both or one of the parties intends to contract for a union which may be dissolved whenever there is ground for complaint or dissatisfaction, is not a marriage. So far, therefore, as the idea on which this infamous legislation is based becomes common, so as to underlie the matrimonial contracts which are entered into, those contracts are invalidated, and the institution of Christian marriage is abrogated. This is sapping the foundations not only of the Christian moral law, but of our civil institutions and social organization. The extent to which this cancer has already spread reveals a moral condition truly alarming. It indicates much more than the discontent of certain married persons with each other, which is only a symptom of moral depravation lying deeper and more widely spread in the community.

We are glad to see that some influential clergymen and laymen in Connecticut are endeavoring to stem and turn back this tide of moral evil, and to effect a reform in the divorce laws. What have they been thinking of during these past years, while this destructive work has been going on? Why have they not preached against these infamous laws, written against them, agitated against them--in a word, shown the zeal and energy in a matter which concerns so nearly the public and private well-being, the very existence of the community in which they live, which they have displayed concerning the reformation and improvement of mankind at large? It is useless to ask the question now, for the mischief is done. The only thing they can do in reparation for their supine neglect, is to work and agitate now for a correction of public sentiment which will produce a reformation in public law. They will have all the influence of the Catholic clergy on their side, and the support of the whole mass of Catholic voters in any political measure which may be necessary for restoring a sounder system of legislation.

The Catholic law, which denies all power to any tribunal, secular or ecclesiastical, to grant a divorce _a vinculo matrimonii_ for any cause whatever, in the case of marriages validly contracted and consummated according to the institution of Christ, is manifestly the most perfect protection possible to the inviolability of marriage. Those who reject the authority of the church have no certain and indubitable basis on which to rest the doctrine that marriage is indissoluble. The author of the article we are noticing does not deny the right of the civil power to {103} dissolve the bond of matrimony in certain cases of grievous criminality. The civil power is consequently the judge of both the law and the fact, and the clergy cannot pretend to exercise any judgment whatever. They are left, therefore, to exert what influence they can on public sentiment, in view of the demoralizing and destructive effects of divorces upon society. If there is enough left of sound moral sentiment in the community to compel legislators to restrict the concession of divorces within the ancient limits, a great good can be effected in checking this gigantic evil. This is all that the Protestant clergy can accomplish, and their only means of doing it. They cannot impose their interpretation of Scripture or their ecclesiastical laws upon the state. Nor can we expect legislatures or judicial courts to take the New Testament as their code of laws, to interpret its meaning, or embody its principles in statutes and decisions. On Protestant principles, the doctrines of Christianity can be applied to legislation only as they are absorbed by public opinion, which sways the minds of those who make and execute the laws. Therefore there is no remedy in this case except the one we have indicated, namely, to form a public opinion on the deleterious effects of the divorce laws upon society, and, as far as this motive is still available, their contrariety to the spirit of Christianity. If a word of advice from a Catholic source can be received, we counsel the Protestant clergy of Connecticut to lose no time before putting all their energies at work to save their state from the moral desolation which threatens it; and the respectable lawyers to do something to wipe out the stigma which attaches to their profession on account of these infamous divorce laws.

From St. James' Magazine.

A SUMMER SORROW.

She began to droop when the chestnut buds Shone like lamps on the pale blue sky; She faded while cowslip and hawthorn blew, And the blythe month, May, went by.

I carried her into the sun-bright fields, Where the children were making hay; And she watch'd their sport as an angel might-- Then I knew she must pass away.

With the first white roses I decked her room, I laid them upon her bed; Alas! while roses still keep their bloom, My own sweet flower lies dead!

I felt that the parting hour was near. When I heard her whisper low-- "Take me once more, my father dear, To see my roses grow.

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"Take me once more to the sunny pool Where the dear white lilies sail, And below their leaves, through the crystal depth, The buds lurk mildly pale.

"Take me once more to the waterfall, That seems blithe as a child at play; Where the ivy creeps on the mossy wall, And the fern-leaves kiss the spray."

So I bore her along through the summer air, And she looked with a dreamy eye At the brook, the pool, and the lilies fair. And she bade them all good bye.

Next day my darling's voice was gone; But her yearning spirit-eyes Told how she longed for a nameless boon, And love made my guessing wise,

Again I bore her beneath the trees, Where their soil green shadows lay; But a darker shadow stole o'er my child, And at sunset she passed away!

From The Irish Industrial Magazine.

THE RISE AND PROGRESS OF BOOKS.

The manufacture of books has grown from obscure and insignificant beginnings, in a commercial point of view, to what it has become in our day--an industrial resource of great importance--and as such inviting our attention to see and examine its growth. The importance of literature, as the great agent for educating the intellect for good or for evil, is obvious to the most unreflecting; but it is not so generally thought of, in the subordinate or trade aspect, as giving employment to many hands and heads, that might not easily have found the means of subsistence elsewhere.

Let us begin the study with the brain that lays the eggs--golden or leaden, addled or prolific, as the case may be; thence to the publisher, whose province it is to bring them out; onward to the press in all its departments, that feathers the offspring for flight; pass out thence into the paper mill; and end with the poor rag-collector of delicate scraps, for "wearisome sonneteers" and well-woven and worn reviews. When you have ranked your items, and summed them, the total will be found something few imagine. Then we may search a little closer; and, as we pass through the busy department, it may strike us that this peculiar work requires a peculiar class, that might not have been by constitution of mind or body so well fitted for other employments as they are just suited to this. First the author: if we praise his head, he will not be offended if we say little of his hand; indeed, his handwriting is not always of the best. The publisher might {105} succeed in cheese and pickles; but for the _publishing trade_ a corresponding intelligence is required, he must be a man of tact and discernment in intellectual tastes and demands; then compositors, readers, _et hoc genus omne_, should be men of mind; and the neat and dexterous female can find work for her hands to do,--type-setting, stitching, etc. And thus, while they are ministering to the spread of civilization, civilization repays them by finding a place for them, where they may gain support and comfort in this working world.

Books, like the air which surrounds us, are everywhere, from the palace to the humblest cottage; wherever civilization exists, and people assemble, books are to be seen. But, though all know what books are, all do not know their origin and development, and by what process they have arrived at their present perfection. We therefore venture to present a sketch of their beginning and advancement, and the means by which they have become such a powerful agency to forward thought and accumulate stores of knowledge ever increasing.

Without affectation of any erudite speculative knowledge respecting the origin and progress of language from the first articulate sounds of the human voice to words, symbolic signs, hieroglyphic characters, letters, alphabets, inscriptions, writings, and diversities of tongues, we shall in business-like manner commence with the elementary raw materials of writing and book-making in the order of their use. Stone, wood, metal, in which letters were cut with a Sharp instrument, were the earliest materials. The art of forming letters on lead was known when the Book of Job was written, as appears from the memorable sentence "Oh, that my words were now written that they were printed in a book, that they were graven with a pen and lead in the rocks for ever!" Sheets of lead were used to grave upon; and inscriptions cut in rocks or smooth stones in Arabia, where Lot is supposed to have lived, have been discovered. But even more primitive materials were the barks and leaves [Footnote 23] of trees prepared for the purpose. Shepherds, it is said, wrote their simple songs by means of an awl, or some similar instrument, on straps of leather twisted round their crooks. Even in the days of Mahomet, shoulder-blades of mutton, according to Gibbon's account, were used by the disciples of Mahomet for recording his supposed inspirations. The introduction of _papyrus_ from Egypt into Greece produced great results, in increasing the diffusion of writings, and making books known by many for the first time. Previously, the Greeks had used the materials which we have enumerated. Vellum was brought into use about two centuries later; but not commonly, on account of its brittleness. Its introduction is attributable to a curious incident, remarkably illustrative of the fact that the protectionist system was acted upon at a remote age, when political economy was not understood, and the good effects of free trade were unappreciated. Ptolemy Philadelphus (B.C. 246, to whom the Septuagint version of the Hebrew Testament is due) had prohibited the exportation of papyrus from Egypt, to prevent Eumenes, king of Pergnmos, from obtaining that material, in hopes of preventing him from multiplying MSS.; for Eumenes like Ptolemy, was a patron of learning, and formed libraries. This unworthy jealousy on the part of Ptolemy was deservedly defeated by Eumenes, who ascertained that parchment would be a good substitute for papyrus. This far less abundant material was, however, used before; but Eumenes so improved the process of its preparation, that he may be almost termed the inventor of parchment. Vellum--the prepared skin of a calf--probably was brought into use at the same time; the deep yellow which both materials had was subsequently removed by some process {106} adopted at Rome, which made it white. The introduction of parchment led to the present form of books and it became the general material for writing upon not long afterward, though vellum was employed in all state deeds until the eighth century.

[Footnote 23: The terms library and folio are derived from _liber_, the _inner bark_; and _folium_, a leaf.]

Cotton paper was introduced into Europe from China about the ninth century, and superseded parchment. Documents in cotton, of that period, including diplomas of Italian princes, have been preserved in foreign museums.

The first manufactory of cotton paper was established in Spain in the twelfth century, also almost contemporaneously in France and Germany; but, its durability being questioned, all state and official documents for preservation were written, or at least engrossed, on parchment or vellum. Paper made from linen rags is supposed to have originated in Spain, and to have been introduced into England in the fourteenth century. It has been considered a pre-eminently good material, with which none of the various substances used from the earliest times to the present can victoriously compete.

Dr. Fuller, a noted and quaint writer of the seventeenth century, affected to detect national characteristics from the qualities of the paper produced in the respective countries; e.g., Venetian paper he compared to a courtier of Venice--elegant in style, light, and delicate. French paper corresponds with the light-heartedness and delicacy of the Frenchman. Dutch paper, thick and coarse, sucking up ink like a sponge, is in this respect, he says, a perfect image of the Dutch race, which tries to absorb everything it touches. Durability distinguished English paper, a quality essentially English.

In 1749 the Irish Parliment granted a sum of money to a Mr. Jay, for having introduced the first paper factory into Ireland, which probably had the distinction of anticipating England in this respect. Be this as it may, the first eminent establishment of the kind was not in operation in England until 1770, when a paper-mill was erected at Maidstone, by John Whatman, who had acquired much knowledge in the art by working at Continental factories.

In the British Museum is a book, dated 1772, which contains more than sixty specimens of paper, made of different substances. The paper called foolscap, so common in our use, derives its appellation from the historical circumstances following: When Charles I. of England found difficulties in raising revenue, he granted monopolies, among which was one for making paper, the water-mark of which was the royal arms. When Cromwell succeeded to power, he substituted, with cruel mockery, a fool's cap and bells for the royal arms. Though this mark was removed at the Restoration, all paper of the size of the "Parliamentary Journal" still bears the name of foolscap.

When books first appeared is quite uncertain; for, though the Books of Moses and the Book of Job are the most ancient of existing books, it seems from a reference Moses has made to them that there were earlier ones. Among profane writers Homer is the most ancient; he lived at the period when King Solomon reigned so gloriously. Four hundred years afterward the scattered leaves of Homer were collected and reduced to the order in which we have them; and two hundred years still later they were revised and accented, so as to have become perfect models of the purest Greek--the noblest language in the world. And, Greek words being so remarkably expressive of the meaning of the things or ideas which they are used to signify, they are now used in arts and sciences as descriptive of the subjects or things referred to; and very often in a ludicrously pedantic manner, especially among inventors of patent medicines and mechanical instruments. But it is not within the range of our subjects, or knowledge {107} even, to touch upon languages and literature, authorship and authors, and the gradual development and progress of literary composition, but simply the subject of books, as before intimated, as they have been presented to us, in their material development from age to age.

In a number of the Cornhill Magazine there has appeared an article, "Publishers before the Art of Printing," which presents a very interesting account of bookmaking in Italy during the Augustan age. The brothers Sosii, celebrated by Horace, issued vast supplies of manuscript books; fashionable literature was eagerly bought from Roman booksellers; and, to supply the demand for them, slaves were educated in great numbers to read aloud to indolent ladies and gentlemen as they reclined on couches. The copying of MSS. was done principally by slave scriveners, of whom a great staff was maintained, and, by their penmanship, books and newspapers could be multiplied quickly. From the dictation of one reader to several writers a large edition, comparatively with the number of the reading public, could be soon produced; in some private families readers and transcribers were employed in this way. The demand for school-books was also great. As slave labor was very cheap, bookmaking was then correspondingly inexpensive, yet authors of high reputation were well paid by publishers. They received much larger sums than were given long after the invention of printing. Martial received for his epigrams a vast remuneration--Milton, for his Paradise Lost, only 24_l_.

The number of what may be called books published by the fathers of the church in the first centuries of the Christian era was great. Origen wrote 6,000; many of these were more properly tracts; but his polyglot version of the Bible (most of which has perished), and his great work against Celsus, were laborious works indeed. Of the writings of the fathers generally (apart from the Evangelists) but few have descended to us. The Koran (partly compiled from the Bible) was composed by the imposter Mahomet, in the seventh century. At that epoch there were few books even in Europe, the most enlightened portion of our world, and this literary darkness prevailed three hundred years longer.

A curious episode in the history of early bookmaking occurred in the sixth century, Cornelius Agrippa has related, in his Vanity of Science, that a contrivance had been invented, by which the several parts of speech in any language could be combined by a system of circles worked in an ingenious manner. The component parts--nouns, verbs, etc.--come together so as to form complete sentences--a very convenient contrivance for writers who are deficient in what we consider essentials--intellect, learning, and invention. Sir Walter Scott, in his Life of Swift, says that the dean was indebted for his entertaining and witty satire on pretending philosophers, as displayed in his Flying Island of Laputa, to the above historical fact. The machine of the Professor of Lagado, in Gulliver's Travels, for imparting knowledge and composing books on all subjects without assistance from genius or knowledge, was designed to ridicule the art invented by Raymond Tully, the individual referred to by Cornelius Agrippa. Various improvements on this mechanical mode of composition were tried, but of course with utter failure.

During long periods of barbarism, entire libraries of rolls and books were destroyed by ruthless and ignorant soldiery, as in Caesar's time, when the library of 700,000 volumes which had been amassed by Ptolemy was burnt by Caesar's troops. The great library collected at Constantinople by Constantine and his successors was burnt in the eighth century.

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The number of books written and collected by King Alfred was extensive, when we take into account the extent of ignorance that prevailed in England during the ninth century--an amount which may be estimated from the fact that there was much difficulty in providing a tutor competent to instruct the royal youth when twelve years old. Yet he, like his celebrated contemporary, Charlemagne, became eminent for encouraging literature, and for his high repute in erudition and book-writing, when Anglo-Saxon literature was despicably low. The extreme paucity of books in England in the eleventh century may be inferred from a mandate of Archbishop Lanfranc to librarians of English monasteries, ordering them to deliver one book at the commencement of Lent to the monks in turn, and that any monk who neglected to read it should perform penance. Anciently every great church and monastery had its little library; and, as education was almost entirely limited to ecclesiastics during the middle ages, few books and transcribers were required.

The survey of the lands of England him Doomsday Book, in two volumes, was commenced by command of William the Conqueror, in the year 1080, and completed in six years. The book obtained its name either from a room in the Royal Treasury called _Domus Dei_, in Winchester, or from Saxon words signifying doom or judgment, no appeal from its record being permitted. The first volume is a folio, the second a quarto, and both are written in abbreviated Latin; the writing being on vellum, strongly bound, studded, and inclosed in a leather cover. A copy of _Magna Charta_, the great charter of British liberty, granted and confirmed by preceding monarchs, but re-enacted after a struggle between the Barons and that wicked man, King John, in the thirteenth century, is preserved in Lincoln Cathedral. There were twenty-five original sealed copies of it written on vellum; one copy was sent to each English diocese, and to a few special places besides. About twenty-five barons were present when this important document was drawn up, none of room signed it; it was only attested by the Great Seal of England. His majesty could not write; and it may be assumed that his twenty-five nobles were equally illiterate. If any of them were penmen, it was very courtier-like on their part to decline doing what their king was incompetent to do.

Whether Italian or Irish manuscripts were the earliest in which ornamental letters were employed, is an undecided question. The finest specimen of the illuminated is the Book of Kells, of the fifth or sixth century. This beautiful antique is preserved in the library of the King's College, and is thought to surpass in minuteness of finish and splendor of decoration the famous Durham Book, or Gospels of Lindisfarne, which, though probably executed in the north of England, is classed among Anglo-Hibernian books, because Irish literature was more advanced than English in the fifth, sixth, and seventh centuries. If this beautiful art of illuminating originated in the East, it reached its perfection in the west of Europe. In the British Museum there is a copy of the Gospels executed at Aix-la-Chapelle in the eighth century, known as the Golden Gospels, the entire text being in gold, on white vellum.

We are now to touch upon the variety and forms of books or booklings --if we may invent a name--after the art of printing was discovered, about the middle of the fifteenth century--a subject too familiar to occupy any space here for details as to invention or progress.

Chaucer expressed in rhyme the inconvenience of being obliged to correct every copy of his works after the scrivener's hands; he did not anticipate the invention of types in a century afterwards, and the employment of readers or correctors of the press.

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Almanacs shall have the precedents, not so much from their high rank in literary importance, but from their antiquity and pioneer character in the march of uninspired literature. The Arabians, who studied astronomy and astrology, noted the signs of the seasons, and regulated their field occupations by the direction of their almanac makers, who were their wise men; they would neither sow nor reap, nor trim their beards and nails, without consulting their almanacs; they introduced their rules of practice into Europe. A German named Müller constructed an almanac in its present form, suited to general writers. An English writer who called himself Poor Robin, published long ago an almanac remarkable for coarseness and eccentricity. The following are specimens of his style (they recently appeared in a public journal); we present but a few:

"Julius Caesar did the Britons came; Conquering will you him into England came; Brave Montrose was basely murdered; The Rev. Dr. Stewart lost his head; The plague raged very sore at London; London burnt, whereby many were undone; The crown on Anna's head was placed; She expired, and George's head it graced."

So much for historical records. There a calendar among his monthly observations:

"January--The gardens now doing healed no posies, And men in cloaks muffle their noses."

"March--A toast we plunged in March beer, Being sugared well, and drunk up clear, Revives the spirit, the heart doth cheer; And, had for three pence, is not dear."

This old Robin shamefully pecks at the fair sex. In his notes on April he says:

"Then let young people have a care, Nor run their heads in marriage snare; A woman's tongue is like the ocean. It ebbs and flows in constant motion; But yet herein a difference grows-- Her tongue ne'er ebbs, but always flows."

No booklings have multiplied more almanacs: we have now clerical, medical, naval, military, aye, horticultural, down to children's almanacs; and amongst these almanacs there is one entitled _Almanac des Voleurs_. Magazines swarm, ranging from the highest class of religious, literary, and social-scientific, not forgetting _industrial_, subjects, to the most commonplace and trifling matters. The Gentleman's Magazine is stated to have been the first of the class published in England. Of reviews we have a long array, distinguished by every shade of uniform and badge, and from them a vast amount of useful and pleasurable information is obtainable. This class of books first appeared in the middle of the last century; one entitled the Monthly Review was the first published.

The first newspaper was published in the time of Queen Elizabeth--The English Mercury, of which the earliest number is in the British Museum, and bears the date 1588. In the reign of Queen Anne there was but one daily paper, which made a slow and tedious course of circulation; whereas in these days newspapers are everywhere, and the leading ones convey intelligence of the whole world's transactions, and issue admirable essays, affording information on every subject, and this within a marvellously short space of time.

Books are so common, that it becomes necessary to be careful in the selection of them. Tares and wheat will spring up together; the earth produces noxious weeds with the most excellent fruit. If, then, we do not reject the tainted and imperfect grains, a diseased crop is the result. It cannot be expected in this age of inquiry and the rapid progress of learning, that all books should be of an improving character, but the good greatly overbalance the evil. "This advantage," said Gregory the Great (writing so early as the end of the sixth century), "we owe to a multiplicity of books; one book falls in the way of one man, and another best suits the level or the apprehension of another; it is of service that the same subject should be handled by several persons after different methods, though all on the same principle." A superfluity of good books is beneficial; I would {110} illustrate this proposition thus: The Nile as it flows fertilizes a vast tract of land; but if it were not for the streams and rivulets that are artificially constructed to diverge from it, in order to draw from the main supply of water some portion of the alimentary matter it contains, other tracts would not be fertilized: so the great folios in their wide expanse of text and margin have their important use, while the streams and rills which issue from the parent flood are illustrative of quartos, octavos, duodecimos, 24mos, and 48mos, that refresh and enrich minds innumerable.

ORIGINAL.

LUCIFER MATUTINUS.

From a heart of infinite longing the youth Looks out on the world; "Where, spirit of candor--where, spirit of truth, Are thy banners unfurled?

"O chivalrous chastity! lovely as morn. The dew on thy helmet, I hail thee afar; Like Lucifer, beautiful angel of dawn, I wear thy deep azure, I follow thy star.

"Not mammon, not lucre; though white as sea-gulls The broad sails I watch studding ocean's blue deep, To droop their gay pennons where dreamily lulls The tropical breeze, and the lotus-flower sleeps.

"But glory! but honor! the joy of a name Not written on sand; which for ages will stir All hearts that are noble, or kindle the flame Of devotion consuming the rapt worshipper."

Thus from heart of infinite longing the youth. Looking out on the world, Cries ever, "Woo wisdom, woo beauty, woo truth:"-- The sordid world, jaded with care, answers: "Ruth Waits on thy wild dreamings, O turbulent youth!" And with laughter uncouth Mocks life's fairest banners in brightness unfurled.

O heart of the ostrich! above its own graves Of innocent hopes the world every day raves, And moans, with a pitiful droon of despair, O'er candor and honor, once blooming so fair; Yet treads, with a wanton, unpitying scorn. To earth every sweet aspiration of morn, True mark of a soul to infinity born; Or leaves, to the chance of the desert, the good Which God, at creating, charged angels to brood, And martyrs have guarded with rivers of blood.

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TRAVELLERS' TALES.

The world has been so thoroughly explored now, at feast in all but its most savage and inhospitable recesses, that it seems not unnatural to suppose that travelers abroad find it hard to get listeners to their tails of sight-seeing and adventure; and that wanderers into foreign lands should no longer deem it a part of their duty, as soon as their peregrinations are over, to come home and write a book about them. We can't expect any more Marco Polo or Mendez Pintos, unless some adventurous spirits have a mind to travel beyond the regions of the Albert and Victoria Nyanzas, and risk their lives among the dirty tribes of Central Africa, whom even Mr. and Mrs. Baker were unable to reach; and with all its little differences of manners and customs, there is after all so much sameness in the untamed negro life that we doubt whether anybody will think such a journey worth his trouble. Now that the source of Nile has been found and the costly and useless problem of the north-west passage has been solved, there really seems to be nothing very new or startling which can be added to geographical science. But for all that there is, and undoubtedly their long will be, a certain fascination in every well-told narrative of life in a distant country, even though the main features of the story were familiar to us before. We know that a second Columbus can never come home to us from across the ocean sees, with news of unsuspected continents; that old ocean has loosed all the bonds which once shut us in, and disclosed long ago all the new worlds which he wants concealed; but we like to travel again and again over the lands we have already passed, to take a few repeated peeps at the inner life of distant peoples, even though their domestic interiors were long ago laid open to our inquisitive eyes. Now and then, moreover, it does happen that a traveller has something new to tell us, or at least something which has not been told often enough to be familiar to all the world. For example, in the spirited Sketches of Russian Life [Footnote 24] which we have lately received from an anonymous hand in England, there is, if nothing very new or surprising, at least a liveliness and an air of novelty which are almost as good. The writer is an Englishman who spent fifteen years in Russia, engaged in business pursuits of various kinds, which brought him into contact with persons of all ranks and conditions, and led him long journeys back and forth across the empire--now in the lumbering diligence, now in the luxurious railway train, and many a time and for long distances in rude sledges across trackless wastes and through fearful snows. In some parts of Russia there are seasons when the mere act of travelling is a perilous adventure. In March, 1860, our author, in company with a Russian gentleman, made a dangerous journey of two hundred miles in an open sledge, through a snow-storm of memorable severity. They had been struggling for some miles through drifts and hidden pits, when the driver alarmed them with the cry of "Volka! volka!"--"Wolves! wolves!" Six gaunt-looking animals {112} sat staring at them in the road, about one hundred yards in advance of them. The horses huddled themselves together, trembling in every limb, and refused to move. The Russian, who is known in the book only by the name of Fat-Sides, seized a handful of hay from the bottom of the vehicle, rolled it into a ball, and handed it to our author, saying "Match." The Englishman understood the direction, and as soon as the horses, by dint of awful lashing and shouting, were forced near the motionless wolves, he set fire to the ball and threw it among the pack. Instantly the animals separated and skulked away with their tails dragging, but only to meet again behind the sledge, and after a short pause to set out in full pursuit. The tired horses were whipped to their utmost speed, but in forcing their way through a drift they had to come to a walk, and the wolves were soon beside them. The first of the pack fell dead with a ball through his brain from the Englishman's revolver, and another shot broke the leg of a second. At that critical instant the pistol fell into the sledge as, with a sudden jolt the horses floundered up to their bellies in in deep drift: then they came to a dead stop, and there was a wolf at each side of the sledge, trying to get in. The Englishman fortunately had a heavy blackthorn bludgeon, and raising it high he brought it down with the desperate force of a man in mortal extremity, crash through the skull of the animal on his side of the vehicle; while Fat-Sides coolly stuffed the sleeve of his sheepskin coat down the mouth of the savage beast on the other, and with his disengaged hand cut its throat with a large bear knife. The pistol was now recovered just in time to kill a fifth wolf which had fastened upon neck of one of the horses. The sixth, together with the one that had been shot in the leg, ran away.

[Footnote 24: Sketches of Russian Life before and during the Emancipation of the Serfs. Edited by Henry Morley, Professor of English Literature in University College, London. 16mo, pp. 298. London: Chapman and Hall. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott and Co.]

After a day's detention at Jaroslav, where some irritating business about passports had to be transacted, our travellers resumed their journey in a "kibitka," or diligence-sledge--a rather more comfortable conveyance than the one they had left, because it had a canvas cover. There were no more encounters with wolves, but perils enough awaited them in the snow. The first day three of their horses died, and in sixteen hours, with three separate teams, they accomplished only twenty-seven miles. All along the road they passed wrecks of sledges, horses struggling in the drifts and men digging them out, and vehicles overturned and abandoned until spring. Opposite a hut in which they found shelter one night a cottage had been entirely buried, and the family were not rescued until after four days. They were none the worse for their long imprisonment; but the diggers had come upon a sledge with its horse, driver, and two women frozen to death and buried in the drift. Three months after this, when the snows disappeared from two hundred to three hundred corpses were found, all of whom had met their death in this fearful storm upon the Moscow road alone.

The wretchedness of the inns added a great deal to the sufferings of our travellers. A Russian hotel in the interior is the most filthy of all filthy places. As the floors are never washed, the mud and filth accumulate to an inch and a half in thickness; the walls are black and fetid; horrible large brown beetles, called _tarakans_, crawl in myriads over everything, invading even the dishes out of which the traveller eats and drinks; and the dirty deal tables are further defiled with a dirty linen cloth. The public rooms are constantly filled with the offensive odor of the native tobacco. The waiters are all men, dressed in print trowsers and shirts; the trousers stuffed into long boots, and the shirts hanging outside the trowsers; the particolored band or scarf round the waist completing the costume. Their hair, like that of all the peasants, is worn long, cut straight round the neck, and parted in front like a woman's, while the beard is {113} neither cut nor trimmed. We are not surprised that our author preferred to lodge with the horses and cows in the stable.

The distance from Jaroslav to Moscow out is about 160 miles, and the journey occupied seven days and the better part of seven nights.

Our author made another journey, accompanied by his wife and six children, and an amusing English "handy man", called Harry, who was for ever knocking somebody down and getting the party into all sorts of scrapes with the police. They started from Moscow, and rode about 500 miles into the interior. Their equipment consisted of two vehicles called tarantasses, each drawn by three horses. The baggage, and a good store of bread, tea, sugar, sardines, brandy, and wine, were stowed away in the bottom of the wagons, and over them were spread straw, feather beds, rugs, and other contrivances for breaking the severity of the jolting. The passengers reclined on the top. Many time they had no bed but the tarantass, and no food but what they had brought with them. Harry found plenty of employment for his fists, as well as for his ingenuity in bridge building and other useful arts. Once he detected a waiter, in the end where they stopped at Tula, stealing a bottle of castor-oil from the medicine chest. It was only fit punishment to make the thief swallow a large dose; but when the effects of the drug began to show themselves, the man declared himself poisoned, and was carried to the hospital, while the travelers and their effects were placed under the charge of the police.

"We were prisoners for nearly 2 hours, when a doctor from the hospital, fortunately for us, a jolly Russ, came with a captain of police. While the captain of the police tackled Harry, who, ignorant of the language, answered 'da, da' (yes, yes) to everything. I explained to the doctor of what had really happened. The worthy doctor having gotten hold of the oil bottle cried,

"'Bravo! Poison! The most excellent medicine in pharmacy. Look here, captain. The pig' (meaning the waiter) 'was taken ill with cholera, cramps, spasms, vomiting here--mind you, here in this room--before madame and mademoiselle. They run to the next room, so does my friend here, a great English my-lord. What could they do? But, sir, the case was desperate. This gentleman' (pointing to Harry) 'is a great doctor, accompanying my-lord and his family; there was no time to send for me. What does he do? He opens his great medicine-box--look, there it is--and gives the dying moushick a great dose of apernicocus celantacus heprecaincos masta, the best remedy in the world for cholera. I tell you, "Yea Boch!" there now, that's the truth.'

"'But,' said the captain, 'the moushick, doctor, how is he?'

"'Ah! the pig!' (and here he spat on the ground in contempt), 'I left the beast quite well and sleeping. I will answer for him. Come, captain, let us go. Poison! That is a good joke! Come, captain. Safe journey. Good-bye!'

"The police captain was satisfied, however reluctantly. With two bottles of something better than castor-oil, and a fee, which the doctor might or might not divide with the captain, I paid the cost of Harry's thoughlessness."

Having reached their destination, and purposing to remain in that part of the country for some time, our English friends obtained a house, and went to housekeeping. The torment they suffered from thievish and idle servants is pitiful to read. The lower-class of Russians seem to have no more idea of working without an occasional application of the stick than a sluggish horse; and an honest servant is the rarest thing in the empire. Our author began housekeeping with four--a key-keeper (housekeeper), cook, room-girl (housemaid), and footman. The dishes were put upon the table dirty, just as they had been taken away after the previous meal, because it was nobody's business to wash them; so a dish-washer was added to the retinue. At the end of a week it was found that nobody had time to scrub the floors; so scrubbers had to be hired. Then another was wanted to wash clothes (though nobody could be found who knew what it meant to get up linen, and the authors wife had to do it herself); another to clean boots; a man to cut and fetch wood; and another man to {114} split it and keep up the fires. Thus in one week the establishment increased to thirteen souls. Their wages, it is true, were small, but their pilferings were great. One day the master and mistress resolved to examine the servants' boxes. In the first one opened they found a canvas bag filled with lump-sugar, parcels him and of tea and coffee, needles, pins, buttons, hooks and eyes, tape, laces, soap, candles, children's toy», sealing-wax, pens, note paper, and a keep of small articles, all of which had been stolen. Every box had been opened in turn, and not one contained less than the first, and many of them contained more.

Dishonesty, as may be supposed, is not confined to the lower classes, but infects all ranks. The traders are the greatest cheats in the world; we were going to say the greatest except the government officials; but these are not exactly cheats, because their extortion is open and unblushing. When our author once told a Russian baron that English magistrates were incorruptible, the assertion caused an incredulous laugh, and a remark from the baron that he could buy any country magistrate in Russia for 50 kopecks (about 35 cents). Certainly our friend often found it convenient to prove their venality, especially when Harry of the strong arm had been giving his fists a little more exercise than was strictly according to law. Trade is a system of lying and cheating. The commonest purchase can rarely be made without a tedious and vociferous process of bargaining, very much such as goes on when a veteran jockey sells an old horse at a country fair. Our author had occasion to buy a pair of boots and a portmanteau at Tula. After over an hour's wrangling the price was reduced from 48 roubles to 16, and the letter some afterward proved to be about twice as much an the articles were worth. "How shameful of you," said the buyer to the seller when the transaction was concluded, "to ask three times more then you would take, and then to tell so many lies!" "Oh!" he replied, "words do not rob your pocket. I am no thief. It is all fair bargaining." The larger operations of commerce, if not so noisy, are at least no more honest then the retail dealing. It has been remarked that profitably to understand trading in Russia would require a course of many years training at university teaching the principles and practice of chicanery, bribery, smuggling, and lying. A rich trader of St. Petersburg gave our author of good deal of information about the way business is carried on. Contracts with the government, especially, are managed in a very curious fashion. Some one is appointed by the state to draw up plans and specifications of the work to be done, and to fix and "upset price." The contract is then offered at auction, and the lowest bidder under this upset price takes it. As there is a tacit understanding that the successful competitor shall pay the official who fixes the upset price a commission of 10 per cent on the gross amount of the contract, it follows, as a matter of course, that this price is always ridiculously high.

Smuggling is carried on very extensively, not as commonplace rascals do it, across the frontier, but through the custom-house itself. "Just look," said the merchant, "at this piano-forte--a first-rate 'grand' from Broadwood. Had that instrument come through the 'Tamoshny' a as a 'forte-piano,' it would have cost me 100 rubles, that is 15 pounds of your money. But, sir, I shipped it as a threshing machine--my children have certainly made it one--and it cost me no duty at all; machinery, you know, is the only thing duty-free. I paid my expediter his little commission, and he managed to convince the examining official, by what means I do not stop to inquire, that a threshing machine it was, and as such it passed." Not only is the temptation to dishonesty so strong, but honesty, on the other hand, is fraught with great danger. {115} A tradesmen, who was beginning business in St. Petersburg, imported a quantity of plain glass-ware, the duty on which was two roubles and twenty-five kopecks per pood. He meant to pay the duty in an honest, straightforward way; but this did not suit the custom-house officials, who wanted their little commission. They discovered by some singular optical delusion that the plain glass was all colored and gilded, the duty being thus raised to ten roubles per pood. Nor was this all, for the unfortunate tradesman was moreover fined fifty per cent for a false declaration, and his dear loss by the importation was about $500. This and a few similar transactions with the custom-house, in which he stood out for the payment of just dues and no corruption, ruined him. There is no redress for such outrages in Russia.

We have no space to go into details of the condition of the serfs, which our author represents as miserable in the extreme. The stewards on many of the estates are German adventurers of the worst description, who cheat their employers, oppress the serfs, and do all that man can do to ruin the country. Many of the lower class do not thoroughly understand the czar's ukase of emancipation, and even those who do understand what great things it does for them, show little or no gratitude. That is a virtue of slow growth in a Russian bosom. Some of the wisest land-owners anticipated the time set by the decree for the abolition of serfdom, and immediately began to work their estates with paid labor. The result was perfectly satisfactory. In a few districts, however, the publication of the emancipation ukase was followed by tumults and disorders, and now and then the peasants took a bloody vengeance on their oppressors. Our author witnessed one scene between a villanous steward and his emancipated serfs, which came near being tragical. The steward was roused from his slumbers one morning by a big strong mooshick, or peasant, who acted as his coachman. Entering the room rather unceremoniously, the man bawled out, in a peremptory voice:

"'Come, master, get up quick! You're wanted in the great hall.'

"The steward started at the unusual summons, and stared at the fellow in blank astonishment, unable to understand what he meant.

"'Come, I tell you; rise--you're wanted.'

"'Dog!' roared the steward, almost powerless with rage--'what do you mean by this insolence? Get out!'

"'No,' said the man, 'I won't get out. You get up. They are all waiting.'

"'Pig! I'll make you pay for this. Let me get hold of you, you villain!' and he jumped out of bed; but as he did so he perceived three of his other men-servants at the threshold ready to support the coachman.

"'Oh! this is a conspiracy; but I'll soon settle you. Evan, you devil, where are you? Come here.'

"Evan thus called--he was a lacquey--appeared at the door with a broad grin on his face.

"'Did you call, master?'

"'Yes, villain; don't you see? I am going to be murdered by these pigs. Go instantly for the policemen.'

"'No, no, baron; I have gone too often for the stan's men. We can do without them this morning.'

"'Come, come, master,' again struck in the tall coachman, 'don't you waste our time and keep the company waiting. Put on your halat; never mind the rest of your clothes; you won't need them for a little. You won't come--nay, but you must.' And he laid hold of him by the neck. 'Come along!' and so they dragged their victim into the great dining hall.

"There, sitting round the room on chairs and lolling on the sofas, were all the souls belonging to his domestic establishment, about thirty in all. Pillows were spread on the floor in the middle of the room; to these the steward was dragged, and forcibly stretched on them face down, with two men at his feet and two at his head.

"The coachman, who had been pretty frequently chastised in former times, was ring-leader. He sat down on a large easy-chair, the seat of honor, and ordered a pipe and coffee. This was brought him by one of the female servants. When the long cherry-tree tube began to draw, in imitation of his master's manner he puffed out the smoke, put on a fierce look, stretched out his legs, and said, 'Now then, go on. Give the pig forty blows! creapka (hard)!'

"In an instant the halat was torn up, and two lacqueys, standing at either side, armed with birch-rods, slowly and deliberately commenced the flagellation. The coachman told {116} off the blows as he smoked in dignity, 'one, two, three,' and so on to forty.

"'Now, then,' said coachee, 'stop. Brothers and sisters, have we done right?'

"'Right!' they all said.

"'Is there one here whom he has not beaten?'

"'Are you satisfied?'

"'Then go all of you home, and leave this house. Not one must remain. Release the prisoner.'

"Up jumped their tyrant, little the worse bodily for the beating he had got, but he was livid with rage. His face turned green and purple, he gnashed his teeth, and spat on his rebellious slaves. Speech seemed gone, and they all laughed in his face.

"'Master,' said the coachman, walking leisurely towards the door, 'we have not hurt you, but have given you a small taste of your own treatment of us for many years; how do you like it? We are free now, or will be soon, and will not be beaten any more. Good-bye; don't forget the stick. And listen. It you whimper a breath against any of us for this morning's work, your life is not worth a kopeck two hours after.' Each made a respectful bow as he or she went out, and the tyrant was left alone in the deserted house."

This, however, was not the end. In a short time the peasantry from a long distance began to collect in the courtyard. A mill belonging to the state stopped work, and its thousand hands joined the gathering crowd. The steward appeared among them, and in a terrible rage ordered them to work, They simply shrugged their shoulders and made him no answer. He struck one of them with his open hand, and the peasant in return spat in the steward's face.

"The Russian spit of contempt, the most unpardonable of Russian insults, is unlike any other kind of spitting. The Yankee squirt is a scientific affair; Englishmen who smoke short black pipes in bars, on rails, and elsewhere, expectorate in an uncleanly, clumsy way. But with an intense look of detestation, as he says 'Ah pig!' the Russian, with the suddenness and good aim of a pistol shot, plunges a ball of spittle right into the face or on the clothes of his adversary, making a sound like the stroke of a marble where it hits. It is a weapon always ready, I have frequently seen a duel maintained with it for a considerable time at short range.

"Matt, having thus shown his contempt, coolly leaned himself up against the gate, but the steward, insulted as he had never been before in this characteristic manner, before so many of his cringing slaves, lost any remains of reason his rage might have left him. He used hands and feet on the crowd of passive and hitherto quiet surfs, and seeing the old starost--Matt's father--coming up the road, he ran and colored the old man, dragged him to show where his son stood, and roared out his orders to take the devil into the stan's yard for punishment.

"'Old devil!' he said, 'you are at the bottom of all this rebellion, you and your son. You shall flog _him_; and then I shall make him flog _you_. Go, pig, and take him away!'

"The old man, for the first time in his life, openly disobeyed his tyrant's orders. He folded his arms across his sheepskin coat, gave the usual shrug, spat contemptuously on the ground, and said, 'No, steward, that is your work. Now, I will not.'

"'Dog! Devil! do you refuse to obey your master? I will, if it is my work, drag you to punishment myself.'

"With that he sees the starost by his luxuriant white beard, and began pulling him towards the next house, which, I have said, was the magistrate's and the police station. The old man resisted with all his might, and in the struggle he fell leaving a large mass of grey or rather white hair in steward's hands. The steward, finding he could not pull the starost by main force, lifted his foot, shod with heavy leather goloshes, and struck the old man twice on the head. The blood immediately ran down. Up to this moment the crowd of peasants, which had increased enormously, had been quiet spectators of the scene; but the site of the old man's blood gave the finishing touch to their patience. Without a word the crowd began slowly to move and concentrate itself around the steward and his fallen official. There might then have been five or six hundred people, and the numbers were increasing every moment, as the men came in from the stopped works. A rush took place, and the centre space was filled up with the mass. The bleeding starost was passed to the outside. The steward was surrounded, and many hands were laid on him. I do not believe there had been any premeditated designed to hurt the steward, cordially as they all hated him. Had he applied the listen given him that morning, and apprehended the changed feelings and circumstances of the serfs, he might have been passed from among them without further injury. But his passions were ungovernable, and he was slow to believe in the possibility of any resistance on the part of the poor slaves he had so long driven. The crowd swayed heavily from one side to another, tugging and pulling the poor steward about; and now he was in peril of his life. My window was wide open {117} He made a mute appeal to me for help. I signed to him to try the window. By some extraordinary effort he broke loose, and major rush and a spring to catch the sill. He succeeded so far, and two pair of strong arms were trying to drag the fat body through into the room; but we were too late, or rather he was too heavy for us. The crowd tore him down, and held him fast. Then a voice was heard, clear and decided as that of an officer giving the word of command--'to the water!' The voice was Mattvie's. A leader and an object had been wanted, and here there were both. Instantly the order was obeyed. The crowd, dragging the steward, left the front of my house and took the direction of the lake.

"We hurried through the court-yard down to the end of the cotton-mail, and came out on the banks of the lake, just as the raging crowd of serfs were tying a mat with a large stone in it to the stewards neck.

"Around the margin of the lake the ice was to some extent broken, and their evident intention was to throw him in. We ran to meet them, and if possible prevent the horrid act of retribution. But we were too late; they had selected the part of the bank nearest the road, as it was higher than the rest; and just as we came painting up, we saw the body of the steward swaying in the hands of a dozen of the man, and heard the fatal words given out by Matt: '_Ras, dwa, tree_' (One, two, three); then a cry of despair, above the yelling of the crowd; than a plunge in the water; no, two plunges. The ragoshkie, or bark mat, containing the heavy stone which was to keep the steward down, had not been a good one; for as the body passed through the air, the stone fell from the mat, splashing a second or two before, and a little beyond the spot where he came down. He disappeared under the water for a moment or two, then made desperate efforts to scrambled to his feet, in which he succeeded, standing up to his shoulders in the shallow water, and with the mat bag, drenched and limp, hanging from his neck. There he stood within twenty feet of the bank, facing a thousand yelling enemies. Outside was plenty of firm ice; but between him and them there might be thirty feet of deep clear water, the bed of the lake dipping many feet immediately beyond where he stood. He seemed to comprehend his position, and was evidently making up his mind to contend with the deep water rather than with the turned worms upon the bank. He had raised one arm, either for entreaty or defiance, and had taken off few steps toward the ice, when one of the many stones thrown at him struck the uplifted arm and it fell powerless to his side. Another, but a softer missile, struck him on the head. He fell down under the water, and again recovered his feet; but the stones were now--like hail about him. The serfs were as boys pelting a toad or frog--and their victim in the water did look like a great overgrown toad.

"Saunderson and I had made several attempts to be heard, or to divert the attention of the people; but it was spending idle breath: 'Go away; it is not your business,' some of the men said; others, more savage, asked how we would like the same treatment."

The contrivance is by which the unfortunate was rescued from his perilous situation was so theatrical that we can hardly help suspecting that the incidents of this story have been arranged with a sharp eye to effect. The man's fate seemed certain when our author espied a sleigh approaching at a considerable distance. No doubt it contained young Count Pomerin, the owner of the estate. If a little delay could be obtained, the steward might be saved. At this juncture are friend Harry interfered. "I'll try," he exclaimed; "blow me if I don't. The buffer's bad lot, but I sha'n't see him killed;" and with that he jumped into the water, and was by the steward's side in a moment. The noise and stoning ceased, for Harry was a prime favorite; but the mob was not to be baulked of its vengeance, and after a vigorous exchange of expostulations, in the course of which Harry made several remarks that were more forcible than polite, the chivalrous Englishman was pulled out of the water, kicking stoutly, and the pelting was about to be renewed.

Just at this moment the sleigh, drawn by three magnificent greys, dashed into the centre of the crowd. Three gentlemen occupied it. Two were in official costume. The third, a tall, well-built man, rose, and threw off Is rich black fox-skin cloak, and the mob beheld, dressed in the uniform of a general, not the young count, but his father, who had been exiled years before, and was thought to be dead. He had now come hack, with an imperial pardon, prepared to resume the management of his estates. The steward was extricated from the water, and immediately called upon to {118} settle his accounts. The old count had visited the estate before in disguise, and knew how it had been mismanaged. He had witnessed and all ready to Convict the steward of peculation, and the result was that the wretched man was compelled to refund on the spot $750,000 of stolen wealth, and then allowed twenty-four hours to leave the place.

The next scene in this pretty little drama was between the count and his serfs. He called them all together, and told them they were free from that moment. He did not intend to wait for the period of emancipation fixed by the ukase. Moreover, he gave to each male peasant three acres of land, free of price--parting thus with one-sixth of his estate. The whole assembled multitude then went down on their knees, and cried, "Thanks, thanks, good count, the illustrious master--God bless you!" And here, according to all dramatic rules, unless there was somebody to be married, the thing ought to have ended. But behold, ten grey-bearded peasants, who evidently had no idea of propriety, stepped forward and wanted to know what they were to do with their cows? Three acres would be enough for garden and green fields, but it would not give them pasture. Would not his excellency add to his gift? and so might God bless him! Well, the count allotted them pasture for ten years; and then the ten grey-beards advanced again, with the cry a Russian always raises when you give him anything--"prebavit" (add to it). Pasture was very good, but how were they to get firewood? "If it please your high-born excellency, add to your gift firewood. Prebavit!" So his high born excellency added firewood; and the incorrigible peasant stepped up again. "Prebavit! How were they to get fish? Would it please his high born excellency to let them fish in the lakes?" There were the usual thanks and the prostrations when this was granted; and then "prebavit" again; they wanted something else; but they did not get it, and the meeting broke up. A little while afterward our author revisited the estate, and found that it had undergone a marvellous change. The village was no longer a collection of mud huts, but a thriving town. The people were not like the same beings; and there was decided evidence of the rise of a middle class--a class once unknown in such places.

Our author gives us an obscure glimpse of a curious religious sect in Russia called the _starrie verra_, or "old faith," of whose peculiarities be knows little, and of whoso history be confesses that he know a nothing at all. It's members deem the present Russian Church an awful departure from the primitive faith and practice; deny the emperor's claim to be the head of the church; believe to any extent in witches; fast, scourge themselves; meet in secret, generally at night (for they are rigorously proscribed); hate the established religion of the realm has much as the old Scotch Puritans hated prelacy; and, if they had their wish, would probably advance the Czar to the dignity of martyrdom. It is said that many distinguished personages privately adhere to them, and submit to dreadful midnight penances, by way of compounding for the sin of outward subserviency to the modern heresy. People of the old faith are distinguished by a grim gravity and opposition to all dancing or light amusement. Our author had a woman-servant of this sect, who was remarkable for never stealing anything, and for continually smashing crockery which she supposed to have been defiled. There was a community of the old faith near his residence? An old wooden building like a Druid temple, set in the side of a hill among trees and rocks, was pointed out to him as the place of their midnight conventicles. It was said to be presided over by a priestess who never left the temple by night or by day. A roving fanatic, whom the writer sometimes encountered in the village, collecting {119} peasants around him and shouting like a street-ranter, was looked up to by the sectaries as a prophet; though he was certainly not a very reputable one, being often helplessly drunk, and not very decently clad. He wore no covering for head or feet, even in the severest frost. He carried a long pole, and danced some holy dance, to words of high prophetic omen. Our author was rather surprised to find that, thanks to his crockery-smashing cook, he himself was commonly reputed a priest of the _starrie verra_; the big volumes of the illustrated London News in which he used to read were supposed to be illuminated Lives of the Saints, and the little plays and dramatic scenes which his children used to perform on winter evenings were looked upon with holy awe as religious rites of dreadful power and significance. He bore his honors without complaining, and even when the cook, on the night of a party, broke all his best Wedgwood dinner-set, brought from England at a huge expense, he endured the loss with Christian patience: it was so delightful to have a Russian servant who would not steal.

From Russian servants to Italian brigands the transition is perfectly natural. Both are rogues of the same class, only external circumstances have made a difference in their modes of doing business. An English gentleman named Moens has recently obtained a more intimate acquaintance with the robber bands of Southern Italy than any of our readers need hope to make, and has given us the result of his observations in a very curious and interesting volume. [Footnote 25] Mr. and Mrs. Moens, and the Rev. J. C. Murray Aynsley and his wife, had been visiting the ruins of Paestum, on the Gulf of Salerno, on the 15th of May, 1865, when their carriage was stopped on the way home by a band of about twenty or thirty brigands.

[Footnote 25: English travelers and Italian Brigands. the Narrative of Capture and Captivity. By W. J. C. Moens. With a Map and several illustrations. 12mo. pp. 355. New York: Harper & Brothers.]

The ladies were not molested, but the gentlemen were hurried off across the fields, and through woods and thickets, until nearly daylight the next morning, when they were allowed to lie down to sleep for a short time on the bare earth. As soon as they felt themselves in a place of security the band halted, and their captain, a fine-looking fellow, named Manzo, got out paper and pen and proceeded to business. The two Englishmen were to be well treated, provided they made no attempt to escape, and on the payment of a ransom were to be released without injury. The sum demanded for the two was at first 100,000 ducats, or about $85,000, but this was afterward reduced one-half. It was now agreed that one of the two captives should be allowed to go for the money, and lots were drawn to determine upon whom this agreeable duty should fall. Good fortune inclined to the side of Mr. Aynsley, and the reverend gentleman set off under the care of two guides. He was hardly out of sight when the band was attacked by a party of soldiers, and for a short time there was a sharp skirmishing fire, in the course of which Mr. Moens came very near being killed by his would-be rescuers. He was forced to keep up with the bandits, however, and the whole party finally got away from the troops. Whatever plans he may have had of flight he now saw were futile. The brigands ran down the mountain like goats, while he had to carefully pick his way at every step. The robbers had eyes like cats: darkness and light, night and daytime, made but little difference to them. Their sense of hearing was so acute that the slightest rustle of leaves, the faintest sound, never escaped their notice. Men working in the fields, or mowing the grass, they could distinguish at a distance of miles, and they knew generally who they were, and to what village they belonged.

After four days of dreadful fatigue, during which the captive and his captors all suffered severely from hunger, {120} since the closeness of the pursuit prevented them from getting their usual supplies from the peasants, our party joined the main body of the band.

"On emerging from the trees we saw the captain and about twenty-five of his men reclining on the grass in a lovely glade, surrounded by large beach-trees, whose luxuriant branches swept the lawn. Several sheep and goats were tethered near, cropping the grass. The men, with their guns in their hands, their picturesque costumes and reclining postures, the lovely light and checkered shade of the trees, made a picture for Salvator Rosa. But I do not believe that Salvator Rosa, or any other man, ever paid a second visit to the brigands, however great his love of the picturesque might be, for no one would willingly endure brigand live after one experience of it, or place himself a second time in such a perilous situation.

"The band all arose, and looked very pleased at seeing me, for we had been separated from them since the fight on the 17th, and they were in great fear that I might have escaped, or have been rescued by the troops. I stepped forward and shook hands with the captain, for I considered it my best policy to appear cheerful and friendly with the chief of my captors. He met me cordially in a ready way, and asked me how I was. I said I was very tired and hungry, so he immediately sent one of his men off, who returned in a few minutes with a round loaf of bread, and another loaf with the inside cut out, and packed full of cold mutton cut into small pieces and cooked. I asked for salt, and was told it was salted. When cooked the meat tasted delicious to me, though it was awfully tough, for I and had not had meat since luncheon on Monday, in the temples of Paestum, four days before. I ate a quantity, and then asked for water, which was brought to me in a large leathern flask with a horn around the top, and a hole on one side serving to admit air, as the water was required for drinking. I had observed a large lump of snow suspended by a stick through its center, between two forked sticks; the water dripping from it was collected in flasks, and then drunk. There were two or three of these flasks. The captain asked me if I was satisfied. I answered 'Yes.'

"I was then told that there were two more companions for me. I was taken through a gap in the trees to the rest of the band, about seventeen in number. Here by found those who were destined to be my companions for the next three weeks. A young man about twenty-eight, with a black beard of a month's growth, dressed just like Manzo's band, who was introduced to me has Don Cice alias, Don Francesco Visconti, and one Tomasino, his cousin, a boy of fourteen years old. I shook hands with them, and condoled them on our common fate, which Don Francesco described as fearful. I was told to sit down on one side, which I did and looked around me.

"The spot seemed perfect for concealment. We were at the top of a high mountain, entirely surrounded by high trees, excepting two small gaps serving for entrances, opposite to each other. The surface of the ground was quite level. About twenty yards away, on the side opposite to where I entered, there was a quantity of snow, from which they cut the large pieces for drinking purposes. I saw five or six men bringing a fresh block, which they had just cut, and slung on a pole. It was now a little before mid-day, and they were preparing a cauldron full of _pasta_ (a kind of macaroni), which was ready by twelve o'clock. Some was offered to me, which I accepted. One brigand proposed putting the _pasta_ into a hollow loaf, but another brigand brought forward a deep earthenwere dish of a round shape. I thought milk would be an improvement, so I asked for some. Two men went to the goats and brought some in the few minutes. The _pasta_ was very clean and well cooked. What with the meat and bread, and this _pasta_, I made an excellent dinner, and felt much better. The _pasta_ was all devoured in a few minutes by the band, who collected round the _caldaja_, and dipped in spoons and fingers. I had now leisure to examine the men; they were a fine, healthy set of fellows.

"Here the two divisions of the band were united, thirty men under the command of Gaetano Manzo, and twelve under Pepino Cerino. The latter had the two prisoners, who had been taken on the 16th of April near the valley of the Giffoni, at five o'clock in the afternoon, as they were returning from arranging some affairs connected with the death of a relative.

"The smaller band had for women with them, attired like the men, with their hair cut short--at first I took them for boys; and all these displayed a greater love of jewelry then the members of men's Manzo's band. They were decked out to do me honor, and one of them wore no less than twenty-four gold rings, of various sizes and stones, on her hands at the same moment; others twenty, sixteen, ten, according to their wealth. To have but one gold chain attached to a watch was considered paltry and mean. Cerino and Manzo had bunches as thick as and arm suspended across the breasts of their waistcoats, with gorgeous brooches at each fastening. These were sewed on for security; little bunches of charms were also attached in conspicuous positions. I will now describe the uniforms of the two bands. Manzo's band had long jackets of strong brown cloth, the color of withered leaves, with large pockets of a circular shape on the two sides, and others in the breast outside; and a slit on each side gave entrance to a large pocket {121} that could hold anything in the back of the garment. I have seen a pair of trowsers, two shirts, three or four pounds of bread, a bit of dirty bacon, cheese, etc., pulled out one after the other when searching for some article that was missing. The waistcoats buttoned at the side, but had gilt buttons down the center for show and ornament; the larger ones were stamped with dogs' heads, birds, etc. There were two large circular pockets at the lower part of the waistcoats, in which were kept spare cartridges, balls, gunpowder, knives, etc.; and in the two smaller ones higher up, the watch in one side and percussion caps in the other. This garment was of dark blue cloth, like the trowsers, which were cut in the ordinary way.

"The uniform of Cerino's band was very similar, only that the jacket and trowsers were alike of dark blue cloth and the waistcoat of bright green, with small round silver buttons placed close together. When the jackets were new they all had attached to the collars, by buttons, _capuces_, or hoods, which are drawn over the head at night or when the weather is very cold, but most of them had been lost in the woods. A belt about three inches deep, divided by two partitions, to hold about fifty cartridges, completed the dress, which, when new, was very neat-looking and serviceable. Some of the cartridges were murderous missiles. Tin was soldered round a ball so as to hold the powder, which was kept in by a plug of tow. When used the tow was taken out, and, after the powder was poured down the barrel, the case was reversed, and, a lot of slugs being added, was rammed down with the tow on top. These must be very destructive at close quarters, but they generally blaze at the soldiers, and _vice versâ_, at such a distance, that little harm is done from the uncertain aim taken. Most of them have revolvers, kept either in the belts or the left-hand pocket of their jackets; they were secured by a silk cord round their necks, and fastened to a ring in the butt of the pistol. Some few had stilettoes, only used for human victims. Many wore ostrich feathers with turned-up wide-awakes, which gave the wearers a theatrical and absurd appearance. Gay silk handkerchiefs around their necks and collars on their cotton shirts made them look quite dandies when these were clean, which was but seldom.

"At last, tired of watching the band, I lay down and fell asleep. I slept for some hours, during which a poor sheep was dragged into the enclosure, killed, cut up, cooked in the pot, and eaten. I must have slept until near sunset, for when I awoke another sheep was being brought forward and I watched the process of killing and cutting up the poor beast. The sheep was taken in hand by two men, Generoso and Antonio generally acting as the butchers of the band. One doubled the fore legs of the sheep across the head; the other held the head back, inserting a knife into the throat and cutting the windpipe and jugular vein. It was then thrown down and left to expire. When dead, a slit was made in one of the hind legs near the feet, and an iron ramrod taken and past down the leg to the body of the animal; it was then withdrawn and the mouth of one of the men placed to the slit in the leg, and the animal was inflated as much as possible and then skinned. When the skin was separated from the legs and sides, the carcass was taken and suspended on a peg on a tree, through the tendon of the hind leg; the skin was then drawn off the back (sometimes the head was the end, but this rarely). The skin was now spread out on the ground to receive the meet, etc., when cut off the body; the inside was taken out, the entrails being drawn out carefully and cleaned; these were wound around the inside fat by two or three who were fond of this luxury--Sentonio, and Andrea the executioner, generally performing this operation. These delicacies, as they were considered, being made about four inches long and about one inch in diameter, are fried in fat or roasted on spits. It was some time before I would bring myself to eat these, but curiosity first, and hunger afterward, often caused me to eat my share, for I soon learned it was unwise to refuse anything.

"While these two men were preparing the inside, the other two were cutting up the carcass. The breast was first cut off, and then the shoulders; the sheep was then cut in half with the axe, and then the bones were laid on a stump and cut through, so that it all could be cut in small pieces. One man would hold the meat, while another would take hold of a piece with his left hand and cut with his right. As it was cut up, the pieces would be put into a large cotton handkerchief, which was spread out on the ground; the liver and lungs were cut up in the same way; the fat was then put in the _caldaja_, and, when this was melted, the kidneys and heart (if the latter had not been appropriated by some one) were put in, cooked, and eaten, every one helping himself by dipping his fingers in the pot. The pieces of liver were considered the prizes. All the rest of the sheep was then put in the pot at once, and after a short time the pot was taken off the fire and jerked, so as to bring the under pieces to the top.

"They liked the meat well cooked; and when once pronounced done, it was divided into as many equal portions as there were numbers present; the captives being treated as 'companions'--the term they always used in speaking of one another. I soon found that the sooner I picked up my share the better. If there was no doubt about there being plenty for all, the food was never divided. Then they dived with their hands, {122} whoever ate fastest coming off best. I could only eat slowly, having to cut all the meat into shreds, as it was so tough; so I always took as much as they would let me, and retired to my lair, like a dog with his bone. If I finished this before all was gone, I returned for more, it being always necessary to secure as much as possible, as one was never sure when more food would be forthcoming, and it is contrary to brigand etiquette to pocket food when eaten thus. When it was divided, I might of course do as I liked with my share, but even then it was prudent not to allow them to know that I had reserved a stock in my pocket, or I was sure to come off short on the next division taking place. The skin was now taken and stretched out to dry, and then used to sleep on."

There were five women with the band, all dressed just like the men, except that they wore corsets. Their hair was cut short, and two of them carried guns, the others being armed with revolvers. They had no share in the ransom-money, and were often beaten and otherwise ill treated by their lords. Doniella, the partner of Pepino Cerino, one of the subordinate chiefs, was a strapping young woman about nineteen years old, with a very good figure and handsome features, a pretty smile, and splendid teeth. She and her husband were prodigious gluttons, and Pepino was eventually deposed from his rank on account of his lawless appetite. Carmina, the companion of Giuseppe, was a good-natured creature, who was often kind and generous to the English prisoner. Antonina, the wife of a whole-souled rascal named Generoso di Salerno, had a thin, melancholy face, with magnificent great lotus-eyes. She was cheerful and generous, and did a great for Mr. Moens in the way of mending his clothes and sharing her food with him during the many periods when victuals were scarce. Maria and Concetta were both ugly and sulky, hardly ever spoke, and never gave away anything.

It was a terrible life these brigands led, very different from the free and picturesque career with which poetry and romance love to identify them. Hunted by the soldiers and fleeced by their friends the peasants; suffering the extremes of hunger, thirst and fatigue; passing long days and nights of apprehension among the perpetual snows of the mountain summits, where they often durst not light a fire to warm their benumbed limbs or cook their stolen sheep or goat, for fear lest the flame should betray them, and where they would scarcely snatch a few moments for repose, that they might be ready for instant flight; dreading even to take off their clothes to wash themselves, because the pursuit might be upon them at any moment; paying absurd prices for all that they obtained from the country people; wasting in gambling the sums they received for ransoms; and haunted every hour by the Nemesis of past crimes and vain longings for a lawful and quiet life--the most wretched captive in his dungeon seems almost happy in comparison with them. Mr. Moens passed about a hundred days in their company. The ransom, finally reduced to 30,000 ducats, was not raised without some delay, in a country where he had few acquaintances, and even after it was raised the getting it safely to the band was a work of time and difficulty, for the government punishes all intercourse with the brigands with great severity. The robbers meanwhile became impatient. Our author was forced to accustom himself to kicks, cuffs, starvation, and every species of ill-usage, and there was serious talk of cutting off his ears and sending them to his wife as a gentle incentive to haste. The money came at last, however, and he parted from the gang on very friendly terms, receiving from them before he left enough money to enable him to travel to Naples "like a gentleman," besides several interesting keepsakes, such as a number of rings, and a knife which had been the instrument of one or two murders.

There is a sort of relief in turning from these two narratives of rascality to the next hook on our list, though in literary merit it is very far inferior to {123} them. It is the narrative of a lady's travels in Spain. There is not much novelty in the subject, and only a very moderate degree of skill in the execution; but it is something to get into decent company. Mrs. William Pitt Byrne [Footnote 26] travelled from the Pyreneean frontier of Spain, through Valladolid, Segovia, Madrid, Toledo, and Cordova, to Seville. Her book, with all its faults, supplies some lively pictures of modern Spanish life, and the reader who has patience to hunt for them will also find in her pages some valuable bits of information about the condition and prospects of the kingdom. She has a great deal to say about the discomforts of travelling in Spain, and the horrors of the hotels and inns, which are scarcely less abominable than those of Russia. However useful these particulars may be to persons meditating a trip through the Peninsula, they can scarcely be thought very important to the public generally; and we shall therefore content ourselves with extracting from Mrs. Byrne's two handsome volumes an account of a bull-fight at Madrid, which, notwithstanding her sex, she was induced by a sense of public duty to witness. We pass over the description of the arena and the spectators, and the preliminary procession of the actors in the bloody spectacle, and come at once to the moment when the bull is let into the ring:

[Footnote 26: Cosas de España: Illustrative of Spain and the Spaniards as they are. By Mrs. Wm. Pitt Byrne, Author of Flemish Interiors, etc. 2 vols. 8vo. pp. 279, 322. London and New York: Alexander Strahan.]

"No sooner was egress offered him than he rushed headlong into the circus, dashing madly round as if he sought an escape; baffled in this, and scared by the fanfare of the trumpets, the glare of the sun on the yellow sand, and the vociferous shouts of the people, he suddenly stopped, raised his head, and stared wildly round. The blood was already streaming from his neck where the _devisa_, [Footnote 27] in this case a sky-blue ribbon, had been fixed. Meantime the _lidiadores_, fifteen in number, were scattered about the arena, each with a brightly tinted cloak of different colors twisted about his arm, the _picadores_ being drawn up in a defensive attitude, one behind the other, as far as possible from the centre of the circus. The horses, we observed, were blindfolded, _pour cause_. Some precautions were taken for the safety of the _toreros_; thus there were, here and there, slits in the barriers, [Footnote 28] through which an expert fellow could glide, in extreme cases, and there is a step all round, from which the more readily to vault over the paling. For the protection of the public, a tight rope was strained all round the circus, fixed to iron stays, to arrest the progress of the bull, if, in his fury, he should attempt to scamper upwards among the spectators. This frequently occurs, to the great delight of those who are far enough off not to be damaged, and who seem to forget that the next time it may be their turn. Frightful indeed are the accidents, both among actors and spectators, which sometimes happen during these games; and, as they are generally of some unexpected kind, one never knows whether some awful casualty may not be on the point of occurring; it is always on the cards.

[Footnote 27: The _devisa_ differs in color, and indicates the _ganaderia_ whence the bull has come.]

[Footnote 28: At Seville the _lidiadores_, at least those who are on foot, have an additional chance of safety in the wooden screens placed all around at intervals, about fifteen inches in front of the fenced ring, behind which they can glide, without fear of being followed by the bull.]

"The bull now discovered his adversaries, and seemed instinctively to recognize their treacherous intentions. The people became impatient for an attack, and the trumpets blew; the _capeadores_ hovered about, dazzling, perplexing, attacking and repelling the bewildered brute, according to the different colors of their cloaks, and always gracefully and ingeniously eluding his vengeance. At length one, emboldened by success, continued his provocations beyond the bounds of discretion; the bull abandoned the others, and selecting his persevering tormentor, defied him to single combat. Scattering about the sand with his hoofs, he ploughed the ground with his muzzle, and, putting himself in a butting attitude, he pointed the back of his head and the tips of his horns with a menacing determination towards the object of his just vengeance. The agile _torero_, however, knew his bull; he never lost presence of mind for a moment, but twisting about the _capa_ till it became inflated, he flung it before the beast's face, and, under cover of its folds, fled nimbly to the barrier. The bull, furiously enraged, tossed the crimson silk, tearing it with his horns, and then, discovering how he had been duped, made for his foe with redoubled rage; but the _capeador_ had just gained the time he needed to vault over into the fenced ring just as the bull came up with him. His eye was dilated, and seemed to glare with fire; he had pursued his foe with such fury that the impetus given to his course served him instead of address, and, never losing sight of his man, he followed him, tumbling rather than leaping over the barrier into the narrow passage, {124} within one short section of which man and beast were now shut up together.

"The approving roars from the amphitheatre were deafening; it was difficult not to be carried away by the general enthusiasm; it was a moment of intense excitement; the life of a fellow-being seemed to hang on a thread, and a moment more must decide his doom. It was a struggle between brute force and intelligent activity:--the man got the better of it. In that instant he made another desperate bound, and leaped over into the next division. The people, true to its character--

'Sequitur fortunam, ut semper, et odit Damnatos,'

and who but now had thundered a unanimous '_Bravo toro!_' changed its cry, and it was the _lidiador_ they hailed. But he was not saved yet; the next move--quick as thought--was on the part of the bull, who, making a second and almost supernatural bound, was seen coming up behind him a third time, when the active fellow, by a happy inspiration, leaped back into the arena, and his brethren in arms, rushing to the rescue, threw open the communications to give his provoked and angry foe free course, till, one of the barriers being opened, he spontaneously returned into the circus, when it was neatly closed, and the combatant was saved for _this_ time. Still panting from the desperate chase, the disappointed brute now turned upon the first _picador_, but received a check from the point of his lance; a broad stream flowed from the widening gash, crimsoning the sand, and, as might be expected, the wounded beast turned again with greater fury on his assailant, who by this time had driven his spurs into his horse, and by a bound had cleared the spot, so that the creature's horns struck violently, and with a fearful crash, into the wooden wall, and the bull, who as yet had gained no advantage, baffled and stung, coursed once more desperately round the ring.

"The men seemed to be taking breath; but the spectators had no intention of being satisfied with this tame dallying, and they vociferously signified their disapprobation. The trumpet sounded once more, and the _picador_ advanced a second time to the bleeding hero of the sport, and provoked him with his '_vara_,' at the same time siding up to the fence, so that, in case his horse should fall, he might secure an escape: the sagacious beast, albeit blindfolded, seemed to have an instinctive presentiment of the fate that awaited him; he trembled for a moment in every limb, as the bull, with a thundering roar, rent the air; but, obedient to the spur and to his master's voice, he recovered his pace, and advanced to meet the inevitable attack. The bull, lowering his head, rushed at the _picador_, and, with all the force of his weight, plunged his horns deep into the poor beast's right flank, turning him completely round as on a pivot, and lifting his hind quarters several times from the ground, the horse kicking violently. It was a ghastly group. The _picador_ kept his seat unmoved while the whole assemblage yelled it's savage delight. The attention of the bull, as soon as the lance had forced him to withdraw his horns, was called off by the _chulos_, who dazzled him with the evolutions of a yellow cloak, and the gored steed, now released, but frightfully torn, tottered on, a hideous spectacle, endeavoring with his fast-failing strength, to bear his rider out of danger. Arrived near the middle of the arena, however, his broken steps were arrested; his hour was come, and, making one last but futile effort, he fell with his rider heavily to the ground. When a _picador_ falls, and with his horse upon him, it is no easy matter for him to rise; and no sooner had the wretched steed succumbed, than the bull, dashing at the struggling and powerless man, 'in one red ruin blent,' attacked horse and man once more with all the vigor of his horns. The _picador_ was utterly helpless; imbedded in his deep saddle and ponderous stirrups, his lower limbs cased in iron, he had not the shadow of a chance of extricating himself. His lance he had dropped, and all he could do, and all he did, was to urge his dying horse with violent and desperate blows to rise and release him. The cruelly-used beast, willing and intelligent to the last, mangled as he was, and almost swimming in the crimson pool beneath him, made a supreme effort to rise; it was in vain, and all he could now do was to serve as a shield by receiving the attack of the enraged bull, instead of his master. Still the position was eminently critical; the struggles of the dying horse under the horns of the infuriated full complicated the position, and the next moment might decide the helpless man's fate. He looked around, dismayed, when another _picador_ advanced, and, driving his lance into the bull's shoulder, aroused him to the consciousness of a new foe. The _toreros_ and _chulos_ took advantage of the diversion to bear the bruised and wounded _picador_ off the field, and the expiring horse--not deemed worth of thought, because, pecuniarily speaking, he was valueless--was left there, not only to struggle in the agonies of a cruel death, but to form a butt for the frantic bull every time he passed in the fight.

"Meantime, as if to carry their barbarity to the lowest depth, two or three _chulos_, watching their opportunity, advanced to the moribund horse, and beating him violently with clubs and sticks, tried to force him to rise, but in vain; his feet, once so swift, were destined never to support him again, and, after several attempts to comply, he dropped his head heavily, and with an almost human expression of powerlessness and despair. His savage tormentors were not satisfied even now, and as if determined the noble beast should not even die in peace, forestalled the {125} few moments he had yet to breathe, by dragging off, with frightful violence, the heavy accoutrements with which he was incumbered; and, having possessed themselves of these articles, departed without having even had the grace to put an end to his miserable existence, the bull being engaged in a deadly combat with the second _picador_ on the other side of the circus. The second _picador_, indeed, came off better than the first. _His_ horse, after the first goring, and when just about to fall, was recalled by a sharp spur-stroke in his already lacerated sides; he started off at a convulsive gala, and for his rider nearly round the ring, a miserable spectacle. His entrails were dragging along till, his feet getting entangled in them, his master, with surprising skill, contrived to dismount before he fell, and abandoned the dying and defenseless creature to the fury of the bull, who again gored and tossed him violently, escaped scot-free.

"But the term of the persecuted _toro's_ own existence was shortening, and the people, fearing lest his end should arrive for they had had all the enjoyment that could possibly be extracted from his struggles, called loudly for the _banderillas_. The trumpets blew gets approving blast, and to bold _banderilleros_ presented themselves, after the bull had been provoked by the _chulos_ into the right position and attitude for these new tormentors to commence their attack. The _banderillero_ was an accomplished _torero_, who understood his business, and he took in at a glance the bull he had to deal with. His is a perilous office, but he executed it with intelligence, skill, and grace; he hovered about and around his bewildered victim, turning and twisting his _banderillas_ with provoking perseverance, and gliding aside with surprising muscular accuracy every time the poor bull tried to parry a feint; at last he succeeded in planting his gaudy instruments of torture into the exact spot in which a clever _artiste_ is bound to spike them, unless he can face the execrations of an assemblage of fastidious and disappointed _connoisseurs_. As it was, they testified their appreciation of the barbarous feat by the thunder of applause as the nimble _torero_ eluded the pursuit of his foe by swift retreat. The bespangled and befringed _banderillas_ drooped over with their own weight, and slapped violently on either side of the poor wretches neck, as with the sudden start and hideous roar at the unlooked-for aggravation, he bounded furiously across the sand, tearing up the ground with his horns and hoofs, and tossing everything in his way, in his frantic efforts to rid himself of the new torment; the blood, which had quite coagulated into a gory texture, hanging like a broad crimson sheet from either side of his neck, completely concealed his hide, now started in a fresh stream from the new wound, and his parched tongue hung from his mouth, eloquently appealing in its mute helplessness for one small drop of water. Strange to say, the pitiful sight touched no responsive chord in the hearts of that countless mass of humanity; on the contrary, like the beast of prey who has once licked up blood, this insatiate crowd seemed to gloat over the scene that had well-nigh sickened us; so far from being moved to compassion, regret, or sympathy, they urged on the remaining _banderilleros_, eager in their turn to show their skill, and after the usual flourishes, two more pair of fiery _banderillas_ were adding their piercing points to the smarting shoulders of the luckless bull, 'butchered to make a _Spanish_ holiday.' What must the Roman circus have been, if this was so unendurable?--and yet tender, gentle, loving womankind assisted--ay, and applauded at the ghastly human sacrifice.

"It was a relief when the trumpet blew its fatal blast, and the _espada_ came forward, bowed to the president, threw off his cap, and displayed his crimson flag. It was Cuchares--the great Cuchares himself: the theatre rang with applause. The Toledo steel, bright as a mirror, flashed in his practised hand, dexterously he felt his ground; he eyed the bull, and in a moment--a critical moment for him--perceived by tests his experience suggested to him the nature of the animal he had to deal with, and the mode in which he must be treated . . . and . . . despatched. All the other _toreros_ had retired, and he stood alone, as an executioner, face to face with his foredoomed victim. It was a supreme moment, and the attention of the amphitheatre seemed breathlessly concentrated into a single point.

"There is a wonderful power of fascination in perfection of any kind, and, notwithstanding the nature of the act in which it was to be displayed, we felt ourselves insensibly drawn under its influence.

"The _matador_ began his operations by dallying with the bull: possessing all the qualifications of a first-rate _espada_, the confidence he had in the accuracy of his eye and the steadiness of his hand was apparent in every gesture; the group formed a singular _tableau_, and the attitudes supplied a series of excitements. Every head was stretched forward with an eagerness which offered each individual character without disguise, to be read like the page of a book. The interest was intensified by a sudden and unexpected plunge on the part of the bull; it was vigorous, but it was his last; the poor beast was received with masterly self-possession on the point of the sword, which entered deep, deep into the shoulder, just above the blade, and with a fearful groan, the huge and bloody form fell, an inert mass, to the ground.

"The crimson tide of life burst like an unstemmed torrent from his wide nostrils and gaping mouth, and with a quiver which seemed to communicate itself to the whole {126} amphitheatre, he was still for ever. The air was rent with shouts of men, screams of women, cries of approbation and roars of applause, which were still at their height, when one of the barriers suddenly opened, and the mules, with their harness glittering, and their _grélots_ tinkling, trotted gaily in; a rope was fastened with great dexterity around the neck of the still palpitating carcase, which was then dragged off with incredible rapidity, leaving a purple furrow in the sand: the dead bodies of the luckless horses, one of which still lingered on, were mercilessly disposed of in a similar manner; the _chulos_ came in, some raked over the large deep stains beneath where the dead had lain, and cleverly masked the tracks they had left, and others sprinkled fresh sand over the spots. All traces of the deadly contest were obliterated, and in the few moments the arena, bright and sunny as ever, was prepared for a new _corrida_; the _toreros_ appeared again, as smart and dapper as the first, their costumes as fresh, their silk stockings as spotless; not a splash of blood had touched them, and their limbs appeared to retain their original pliability to the last. One _corrida_ is so like another, the routine is so precisely the same--never, apparently, having varied since the first bull-fight that was ever exhibited in the crudest times, and--unless there be an accident--the detail is so slightly varied, that it would be needless to add to the notes we have already recorded, especially as it is not an entertainment we would willingly linger over, even in recollection. We felt we ought to see it once; we saw, were utterly disgusted, and hope never to witness the horrid exposition a second time."

We have another book on Spain, just published in London, and much better written than Mrs. Byrne's, though it does not contain a quarter so much information as that lady's desultory journal. It is by Mr. Henry Blackburn, [Footnote 29] who made a trip through the kingdom, in 1864, with a party of ladies and gentlemen.

[Footnote 29: Travelling in Spain in the Present Day. Henry Blackburn. 8vo. pp.248. London: Sampson, Low, Son & Marston.]

He too went to see a bull-fight at Madrid, and he really seemed to have enjoyed it, his chief regret, when he thinks of the performance, being that the odds were too great _against the bull!_ If the beast had only been allowed a fair chance, he would have liked it a great deal better. He attended another bull-fight at Seville, and did not like it at all. The great attraction on this occasion was a female bill-fighter, who was advertised as the "intrepid señorita" She entered the arena in a kind of Bloomer costume, with a cap and a red spangled tunic, made her bow to the president, and then lo! to the English gentlemen's unspeakable disappointment, a great tub was brought, and she was lifted into it. It reached her arm-pits and there she stood, waving her darts, or _banderillas_. At a given signal the bull was let in, his horns having been previously cut short and padded at the ends. "As the animal could only toss or do any mischief by lowering its head to the ground, the risk did not seem great, or the performance promising." The bull evidently considered the whole thing a humbug, for at first he would have nothing to do with the tub, and kept walking round and round the ring. At last indignation got the better of him, and turning suddenly upon the ignominious utensil, he sent it rolling half way across the arena, with the intrepid señorita curled up inside. This seemed very much like baiting a hedgehog; but when the bull caught up the tub on his horns and ran bellowing with it round the ring, the sport began to look serious. There was a general rush of _banderilleros_ and _chulos_ to the rescue. The performer was extricated and smuggled shamefully out of the amphitheatre, and the bull was driven buck to his cage. The next act Mr. Blackburn characterizes by the appropriate name of "skittles." Nine grotesquely dressed negroes stood up in a row, and a frisky young bull was let in to bowl them over. They understood their duty, and went down flat at the first charge. Then they sat on chairs, and were knocked over again. This was great fun, and appeared to afford unlimited satisfaction to the bull, the ninepins, the audience, and everybody except Mr. Blackburn. The performance was repeated several times. After that came a burlesque of the _picadores_. Five ragged beggars, with a grim smile on their dirty faces, rode {127} forward on donkeys, without saddle or bridle. The gates were opened, and the bull charged them at once. They rode so close together that they resisted the first shock, and the bull retired. He had broken a leg of one of the donkeys, but they tied it up with a handkerchief, and continued marching slowly round, still keeping close together. A few more charges, and down they all went. The men ran for their lives and leaped the barriers, and the donkeys were thrown up in the air. So, with many variations and interludes, the sport went on for three hours; and at last, when night came, two or three young bulls were let into the ring, and then _all the people!_ "We left them there," says our author, "rolling and tumbling over one another in the darkness, shouting and screaming, fighting and cursing--sending up sounds that might indeed make angels weep."

The Spaniard does not always figure in Mr. Blackburn's book as the high-bred gentleman we are wont to imagine him. Take, for example, this picture of a señor travelling: "For some mysterious reason, no sooner does a Spaniard find himself in a railway carriage than his native courtesy and high breeding seem to desert him; he is not the man you meet on the Prado, or who is ready to divide his dinner with you on the mountain-side. He is generally, as far as our experience goes, a fat, selfish-looking bundle of cloaks and rugs, taking up more than his share of the seat, not moving to make way for you, and seldom offering any assistance or civility. He is not very clean, and smokes incessantly during the whole twenty-four hours that you may have to sit next to him; occasionally toppling over in a half-sleep, with his head upon your shoulder and his lighted cigar hanging from his mouth. He insists upon keeping the windows tightly closed, and unless your party is a large one you have to give way to the majority and submit to be half suffocated." Nor is it much better at the hotels: "A lady cannot, in the year 1866, sit down to a _table d'hôte_ in Madrid without the chance of having smoke puffed across the table in her face all dinner-time; her next neighbor (if a Spaniard) will think nothing of reaching in front of her for what he requires, and greedily securing the best of everything for himself. That is an educated gentleman opposite, but he has peculiar views about the uses of knives and forks; next to him are two ladies (of some position, we may assume; they have come to Madrid to be presented at the levée to-morrow), but their manners at table are simply atrocious. In his own house, it must be admitted, the Spaniard behaves better; but it is only among the few that one encounters the same degree of refinement and good manners that commonly prevail in England and America. The Spanish gentry read little and are very ignorant; and, as a rule, ignorance and refinement are hardly ever found together."

As a specimen of one of the lower classes take this extract: "Our beds are made by a dirty, good-natured little man, who sits upon them and smokes at intervals during the process. Our fellow-travellers, who have been much in Spain and have been staying here some time, say that he is one of the best and most obliging servants they have met with. He attends to all the families on our _étage_, and earns 18s. or 20s. a day! Every one has to fee him, or he will not work. We found him active enough until the end of the week, when our 'tip' of 60 or 70 reals, equal to about 2s. a day, was indignantly returned, as insufficient and degrading. The latter was the grievance: his pride was hurt, and we never got on well afterward. He had a knack of leaving behind him the damp, smouldering ends of his cigarettes; and on one occasion, on being suddenly called out of the room, quietly deposited the morsel on the edge of one of our plates on the breakfast table."

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The great feature of Spanish life seems to be its laziness. Crowds of idlers, wrapped in their picturesque cloaks, stand about the plazas from morning till night, doing noting, rarely speaking, and scarcely seeming to have energy enough to light a cigarette. Sometimes they scratch their fusees on the coat of a passer-by, in a contemplative, patronizing fashion, that takes a stranger rather aback. A young Madrileño is content to lounge his life away in this manner; and if he has an income sufficient to provide him with the bare means of subsistence, with his indispensable _cigarito_ and his ticket for the bull-fight, he will do no work. In the morning he lounges on the Puerta del Sol; in the afternoon he lounges (if he can't ride) on the Prado; in the evening he lounges in the cafe or the theatre. This is all he cares for, and about all he is fit for. The middle class--the shop-keepers--have as little energy as their betters. "We went into a confectioner s one day," says Mr. Blackburn, "to purchase some chocolate, and were deliberately told that, if we liked to get it down from a high shelf, we could have it; no assistance was offered, and we had to go empty away." Could we accept Mr. Blackburn's sketch, or Mrs. Byrne's either, as a true picture of Spanish society, we might indeed despair of the ultimate regeneration of the kingdom. But the author of Travelling in Spain at the Present Day has the candor to admit that he is only a superficial observer, and with the following honest and commendable passages from his concluding chapter, we take leave of him and our readers together:

"Spain is not a country to travel in, and there is no nation which is more unfairly estimated by foreigners who pay it only a flying visit. We have no opportunity of appreciating the Spaniards' good points, nor do we become at all aware of their latent fund of humor, their good-heartedness, and their true _bonhomie_. We jostle with them in crowds, we rub roughly against them in travelling, our patience is sorely tried, and we are apt, as Miss Eyre did, to denounce them as worse than 'barbarians. But we should bear in mind that Spaniards differ from other nations conspicuously in this--that they become sooner '_crystallized_;' and crystals, we all no well, are never seen to advantage when in contact with foreign bodies. In short Spaniards are not as other men; and Spain is a dear delightful land of contraries, where nothing ever happens as you expect it, and where 'coming objects _never_ cast their shadow before!'"

ORIGINAL.

ANNIVERSARY.

The brooding July noon, the still, deep heats Upon the full-leaved woods and flowering maize, The first wheat harvest, and the torrid blaze Which on the sweating reapers fiercely beats And drives each songster to its own retreats,-- Much less the stately lily of the field, Gorgeous in scarlet, whose large anthers yield The honey-bee meet prison for its sweets, A flame amid the meadow-land's rich green-- With the revolving year is never seen But o'er the sunny landscape creeps a shade Of solemn recollection. Lilies! lean Your brilliant coronals where once was laid A boy's brow grand in death, and "Rest in peace" be said.

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From The Month.

ST. CATHARINE AT FLORENCE.

The history of every race, every institution, every community, and even every family, has facts, phenomena, and characteristics of its own, which are the necessary results of the operation of certain elements or influences that belong to the subject of the history, or bear upon it with a peculiar force. It is the province of the philosophical historian to seize upon these characteristic features in each ease, and to give them their due prominence; and an intimate acquaintance with them and a due estimate of them are essentially necessary to any one who understands the work of such a historian. To be deficient in this point is enough to ruin the attempt. Thus, we might have a rationalistic writer on church history free from every prejudice, and endowed with literary powers of the highest kind--candid, impartial, industrious, judicious, full of generous sympathies, and large-minded and clear-sighted enough to take rank by the side of Thucydides or Tacitus--and yet he would fail even ludicrously as a Christian historian, because he did not recognize the ever living supernatural agency which the fortunes of the church are ordinarily guided--the force of prayer, the power of sanctity, the softening and restraining influences of faith, charity, and conscience, even on men or masses of men but imperfectly masters of their own passions, and by no means unstained by vice.

It is our object in these papers to give prominence to some of what may be conceded to be the more characteristic features of Christian history, which may nevertheless be left in the shade by those to whom it is little more than the history of Greece or Rome. Thus, a philosophical historian might see in the return of the Holy See from its long sojourn at Avignon a stroke of profound policy, by which it's emancipation from the straitening influences of nationalism was cheaply purchased, even at the cost of the great scandals which followed, and which a calculating politician might have foreseen. But to such a writer the manner in which the step was brought about would seem to be a riddle; for nothing is clearer than that it was consciously no stroke of policy at all. The wisest heads and the most powerful influences at the pontifical court were united against it; it was the work of an irresistible impulse on the conscience of a gentle and peace-loving Pope, the subject of a secret vow, a design conceived under the personal influence of one saintly woman--of princely race indeed, and reverend age, and large experience--but carried out under that of another in whom these last qualities were wanting; young, poor, the daughter of an artisan, yet who was able to succeed in her mission when success seemed hopeless, and to become the instrument of strengthening the successor of St. Peter in an emergency that might have taxed the courage of the great apostle himself.

Catholic art has sometimes represented St. Catharine of Siena as taking a part in the triumphal procession with which Gregory XI. entered Rome, and so terminated the long exile of the Holy See at Avignon. These representations, although true in idea, are false as to the historical fact; for St. Catharine never entered Rome in the lifetime of Gregory. After having seen him embark from Genoa on his {130} voyage toward the Holy City, she betook herself, with her company of disciples, to her own home at Siena, where she seems to have remained, with occasional excursions into the neighboring country, for nearly a year. She then reappears in public, having been sent once more by the Pope to Florence, in the hope that her presence there might strengthen the hands of the better party in the Republic, and bring it round again to peace with the church. In the interval she resumed her usual occupations, exerting herself in every possible way for the good of souls. Her letters at this time show great anxiety for the peace, which had not yet been obtained in Italy; for the crusade, which was always in her heart; and, perhaps more than all, for the most difficult, yet most necessary of the objects that were so dear to her--the reform of the clergy, and especially of the prelacy. It would be a thankless task to inquire into the many causes which had foster worldliness among churchmen at that time, and so prepared all the elements for the great scandal that was so soon to follow in the "schism" of the West. The best interests of the church had, in reality, more deadly enemies than Barnabo Visconti or the "Eight Saints" at Florence, in men who wore the robes of priests and even the mitre of bishops.

There is every reason to suppose that the corruption was not widely spread; but it had infected many in high station and authority, and even a few bad and ambitious prelates can at any time do incalculable mischief. The illuminated eye of Catharine had become familiar with the evil that was thus gnawing at the very heart of the church, manifesting its presence already by the pride, ambition, and luxury of ecclesiastics, and ready, when the moment came to give it full play, to break out into excesses still more deplorable than these. She saw passion and vice enough to produce the worst of the evils by which the providence of God permits the church to be afflicted, if only the provocation came that would fan into full blaze the fire that was already kindled. The B. Raymond tells us that, so far back as the beginning of the troubles in the Pontifical States, when the news came of the revolt of Perugia, he went to her in the deepest affliction to tell her what had happened. She grieved with him over the loss of souls and the scandal given in the church; but, seeing him almost overwhelmed with sorrow, she bade him not begin his mourning so soon. "You have far too much to weep for: what you see now is as milk and honey to that which is to follow."

"How can any evil be greater than this," he replied, "when we see Christians cast away all devotion and respect to Holy Church, show no fear of her censures, and by their actions publicly deny their validity? Nothing remains for them now to do but to renounce entirely the faith of Christ."

"Father," said Catharine, "all this the laity do: soon you will see how much worse that is which the clergy will do."

Then she told him that there would be rebellion among them also, when the Pope began to reform their bad manners, and that the consequences would be a widespread scandal in the church; "not exactly a heresy, but which would divide it and afflict it much in the same way as if it were." This prophecy was made about two years before the time of which we are now speaking. It is no wonder that, with this clear view of the existing elements of evil before her, Catharine should have urged upon Gregory XI. the apparently impossible project of a reform of the clergy. It was apparently impossible, partly from the circumstances of the time, partly from the character of the pontiff himself. The troubles of Italy still continued: all attempts at pacification failed, and the fortune of the war was by no means favorable to the cause of the church, Moreover, at Rome, the _banderesi_ or bannerets, who had for some {131} time had possession of the chief power in the city, had laid, indeed, their rods of office at the feet of Gregory at his entrance, but they still exercised their authority without regard to his orders for his wishes, and he found himself, therefore, not even master in his own capital. This was not the time to undertake that most difficult of all tasks, which was yet imperatively required for the welfare of the church. Nor was Gregory, with his feeble health, with the hand of death already upon him, and with his gentle and patient disposition, fitted rather for suffering than for action, the natural instrument for a work that called for sternness severity. Nevertheless, Catharine urged it upon him with a firmness that shows fact once the influence she had required, and her burning sense of the necessity of the measure. In one of the three letters to him that belong to this time, she tells him that the supreme truth demands this of him: that he should punish the multitude of iniquities committed by those who feed themselves in the garden of the Holy Church: "Beasts ought not to feed themselves on the food of men. Since this authority has been given to you, and you have accepted it, you ought to use your power: if you will not use it, it were better to renounce it, for the honor of God and the salvation of souls." She insists also upon the necessity of granting peace to the revolting cities on any terms that were consistent with the honor of God and the rights of the church. "If I were in your place, I should fear that the judgment of God might fall on me; and therefore I pray you most tenderly, on the part of Jesus Christ crucified, that you obey the will of God--though I know that you have no other desire than to do his will; so that that hard rebuke may never be made to you, 'Woe to thee, for that thou hast not used the time and the power that were committed to thee'" (Lett. xiii.) These were strong words. Catharine sent Father Raymond about the same time to Rome with a number of practical proposals for the good of the church. It appears from a letter to Raymond himself that Gregory XI. was displeased with her, either for her great liberty of speech, or, as is more probable, for the ill-success that seemed to have followed the step that he had taken at her advice. Nothing can be more beautiful or more touching than her humble apology for herself--she is ready to believe that all the calamities of the church were occasioned by her own sins.

Gregory had in fact continually occupied himself with endeavors for peace with Florence and the other confederated cities; but there had been the usual insincerity on the other side, and besides, the barbarities committed by the Breton troops at Cesena had produced their natural effect of alienating still more his revolted subjects. Negotiations had been recommenced even before the departure of the Pope from Avignon, at least so far that the Florentines had been desired to send ambassadors to meet him at Rome. He did not arrive there by the time appointed, and wrote again from Corneto to fix a later time. The negotiation failed, as we have said, not from any lack of a desire for peace on the part of Gregory, but on account of the bad faith of the rulers of Florence, who really wished the war to continue. Their cause seemed to gain strength with time; for Visconti now took their side, regardless of the treaty that had been made with him, and the English company under Sir John Hawkwood entered their service. A gleam of hope came when one of the revolted leaders, the Lord of Viterbo, made his peace with the church. Gregory immediately despatched two envoys to Florence, but their efforts were in vain; and in the autumn of 1377 the Eight, who still held the supreme power, ventured on a step which gave still greater scandal than any of their former excesses, and seemed to widen still further the breach between the Republic and the Holy See.

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Florence had now been for nearly a year and a half under an interdict, The churches were closed--the sacred offices could not be performed, nor the sacraments administered, except in private. This weighed heavily on the mass of the population. There were probably but few, besides the Eight and their immediate followers, who regarded it with indifference. The Italian character is in many respects unintelligible to those who have not studied it in Italy itself. We can hardly understand how nine-tenths of the population of a city or a duchy can submit quietly to be governed by a handful of usurpers, who proclaim themselves the representatives of the people--the great majority of whom have abstained from the nominal voting that had conferred that character upon them--and let things take their course under the tyranny of their new masters, though that course lead to financial ruin, burdensome taxation, and the spoliation of the best institutions of the country, as well as to open persecution of religion and deliberate attacks on morality. An Anglo-Saxon population would either have brought public opinion and general feeling to bear irresistibly upon the magistrates, or would have taken the matter into its own hands, and sent the "Eight Saints" floating down the Arno if they had not conformed their policy to the all but universal desire for peace. But the Florentines waited and suffered, showing their attachment to the church and to the services from which they were debarred in many touching ways, some of which have been specially recorded by the historians of the time. It was forbidden, for instance, that the divine office--at which, at that time, it was the custom of the laity to assist--should be sung publicly in the churches; but pious persons could not be forbidden from practising such devotions as might occur to them in place of the regular services; and we find that in consequence they organized themselves into confraternities, and went about in processions singing hymns in praise of God. Many of these seem to have been composed by followers or disciples of St. Catharine. There was a movement of popular devotion to make up for the solemn ecclesiastical worship which was suspended. No doubt it was a symptom of an irrepressible feeling in the public mind which frightened the "Eight Saints." At length the feast-day of St. Reparata approached--Oct. 8th. She was the titular saint of the cathedral, [Footnote 30] and her feast was usually celebrated with splendor and popular devotion. Were the people to be shut out of the church again on the day of their patron saint? The Eight had, as we have seen, just concluded their league with the lord of Milan, and strengthen their arms by the accession of Hawkwood, and their envoys had have returned from Rome without terms of peace. They determined to brave the Pope still further, and to plunge the city into still more flagrant rebellion against his authority, by ordering the violation of the interdict. They would indulge the religious wishes of the people, making them, at the same time, partners in a gross insults to religion. They would force the clergy themselves to the alternative of taking part against the church, or of suffering civil penalties and persecution if they refused to do so.

[Footnote 30: the Duomo of Florence, as it is signified by its name--S. Maria del Flore--is dedicated in honor of our Blessed Lady; but it was originally called after St. Reparata, an early martyr in Palestine, in gratitude for the deliverance of the city from a horde of Huns that besieged it in the fifth century; which deliverance took place on the date of the saint--Oct. 8th. The feast was kept as one of the first class, with an octave. The epithet "del Flore," added to our Lady's name in the present title, signifies Florence itself, the emblem of the city being a lily.]

St. Catharine, in one of her letters about this time, blames certain members of the clergy, and some of the mendicant friars, as having either counselled this outrage, or as having been induced by worldly motives to justify and defend it in pulpit. In a numerous clergy, connected by countless ties with every party and {133} every class, it is far more surprising that so few should ordinarily be found to help on tyranny and persecution such as that of the Eight, then that some should be weak enough to yield to its threats or its bribes. But the scandal was very great, and it would seem that the great body of the clergy, notwithstanding heavy fines levied on those who did not obey the order of the government, stood firm. The bishop--a Ricasoli--had already left the city rather than expose himself to the danger of coercion. But there was the greatest danger for the better party both among the people and among the ecclesiastics; and the state of things called for the most vigorous exertions on the part of Pope to provide a remedy before matters screw still worse. It may seem very strange to the ideas of our century to say that the remedy adopted by Gregory was the most fitting that could have been found, and the same of which the Florentines had bethought themselves when they had wished to make their own peace at Avignon. It had failed indeed, then, on account of their bad faith; but it had produced another great result for which Providence had destined it. The odious government that had plagued the Florentine republic into so many excesses was to be overthrown by the better and sounder part among the citizens themselves, who still might have been too timid to exert themselves on the side of peace and order if they had not had a saint among them to encourage and direct them. We should all think ourselves foolish if we were to deny that such results are the natural and lawful consequence of the exertion of personal influence: it is only that we cannot bring ourselves to conceive that the personal influence of great and recognized sanctity may be more powerful than any other.

Father Raymond, the friend and biographer of St. Catharine, tells us that he was then in Rome, governing the great convent of the Minerva. He had had some conversation, before leaving Siena, with Niccolo Soderini, a noble Florentine, who had told him that the great majority of the citizens wished for peace with the Holy See, and that it might easily be brought about if some of the present magistrates were deprived of their offices. He even pointed out the way in which it might be done. One morning the Pope sent for Father Raymond, and told him he had received letters suggesting that peace might be made if Catharine were sent to Florence to use her influence there; and he bade him, accordingly, prepare a paper stating with what powers it would be expedient to invest her. The bulls were at once drawn up, and Catharine received orders to go to Florence as legate of the Holy See. She was joyfully received, and at once set to work to confer with the most influential persons in the state. The first fruit of her exhortations was, that the interdict was again observed, and the first great scandal thus removed. The next step was a more difficult one. How were the obnoxious magistrates to be removed without a revolution? The friends of peace were obliged to have recourse to a curious institution, belonging to that long-established party organization which had been the fruit of the division of the Italian cities, and of each city, more or less, within itself, into the hostile factions of Guelphs and Ghibellines. Florence had always been Guelphs, and it appears that certain elected leaders of the dominant party had obtained a recognized right, in order to maintain the government of the city on their own side, to object to persons of the opposite party, and remove them from any post that they might chance to hold. A power like this was of course liable to great abuse: it has reappeared now and then in history in some of the worst times, and been the instrument of the greatest injustice and wrong. In Florence it seems to have been exercised with more moderation than in many modern instances; still it had sometimes been used {134} unscrupulously, and made the means of satisfying private malice and personal revenge or ambition. It was therefore very unpopular, and seems to have been practically disused at the time of which we speak. Catharine, however, thought that it might now be put in use with advantage, to take the reins of government out of the hands of the Eight, and break down their pernicious influence; and it is certain that a fairer use of such a power could never have been made. The plan seems to have been suggested by her friend Niccolo Soderini, whom we lately mentioned. It was urged on the Guelph officials by Catherine; and one of the Eight was accordingly "admonished," as the phrase was, that he was not to occupy himself with public affairs for the future. He was a man of much influence, but he does not seem to have resisted the admonition.

Unfortunately, the leaders of the Guelph party were willing to make peace with the Holy See, but their dominant idea was to restore themselves to power and ruin their enemies. They began to "admonish"' on all sides, and to use the name and authority of Catharine as vouchers for the purity of their motives and the wisdom of their policy. It is said that in the space of eight months they either removed as many as ninety citizens from posts of authority, or prevented them from acquiring them. It may easily be imagined that this could not be done without exciting furious passions; a storm soon began to gather, which did not wait long to burst. Catharine protested and entreated, and, to some extent, checked the evil. She had already prevailed on the government to entertain seriously the project of peace. It was agreed that a congress should assemble at Sarzano for the settlement of the troubles that agitated Italy. The Pope sent a cardinal and the Bishop of Narbonne as his representatives; France, Naples, Florence, Genoa, and Venice were to send others; and Barnabo Visconti was to be present in person to arbitrate between the Pope and Florence. A strange position for that inveterate plotter against the church; but one which shows, at all events, that Gregory XI. was willing to do a great deal for the sake of peace. Everything seemed to promise well; but while the congress was deliberating, Gregory died, and nothing could therefore be concluded. His death took place in March, 1378. Catharine was still at Florence, and seems to have had good hopes of bringing matters to a favorable issue, notwithstanding the failure of the congress. The new "gonfaloniere" seems to have been elected on the first of May. He bore a name afterward destined to become connected with the later splendors of his country--Salvestro dei Medici--and he was a man of firmness and standing sufficient to enable him to defy and check the extravagances of the Guelph officials. It was agreed between them that there should be no more "admonitions," except in the case of persons really tainted with Ghibelline principles; and that in no case should the "admonition" be valid after the third time. He was, moreover, bent on carrying out the peace with the Pope, and, as it seems at the entreaty of St. Catharine, sent fresh ambassadors to Urban VI., who had now succeeded Gregory on the pontifical throne.

These fair prospects were soon clouded over by the mischievous obstinacy of the Guelph party. The time came on, very soon after the installment of the new "gonfaloniere," for the selection of new "chiefs," into whose hands would pass the obnoxious power of "admonishing." The new men did not consider themselves bound by the promises made by their predecessors; they were not friends of Catherine, as some of the others had been, and they began to use their power in the former reckless manner. They especially threw down the gauntlet to Salvestro and to the other magistrates, by their exclusion of two men of distinction, which showed their determination {135} to carry things to extremities. Here, again, we meet with the historic name of Ricasoli. One of that family was among the captains of the Guelphs, and is said to have forced this exclusion on his less willing colleagues. The strain became at length too great, and Salvestro himself sanctioned a popular outbreak against the Guelph officials; a movement over which he soon lost all control, and which led in a few months to a still more terrible outbreak, known as the affair of the Ciompi. The fury of the people, led by the Ammoniti--those who had been excluded from office by the exercise of the power lately mentioned--and unchecked by any attempt on the part of the legitimate authorities to restraint it, was irresistible. Many lives were sacrificed; the leaders of the Guelphs saved themselves by flight, leaving their houses to be sacked and burnt. Niccolo Soderini and other friends of Catharine were among the fugitives, though they had not taken part in the excesses that provoked the rising. As the tumult gathered strength, and the people became blinder in their fury, ominous voices were heard calling for the death of Catherine herself. Her name had been freely used by the Guelph officials, though she had protested publicly against their violent acts, and had entreated them repeatedly to be guided by justice and prudence. The scene that followed, a kind of turning-point in her life, shall be told in the words of her simple biographer. When the rumor of the intended attack on Catherine spread, "the people of the house in which she dwelt with her companions bade them depart, for they did not wish to have the house burnt down on their account. She meanwhile, conscious of her own innocence, and willingly suffering anything for the cause of the Holy Church, did not lose a jot of her wonted constancy, but smiling and encouraging her followers to emulate her Spouse, she went out to a certain place where there was a garden, and first gave them a short exhortation, and then set herself to pray. At last, while she was thus praying in the garden, after the example of Christ, those satellites of the devil came to the place, a tumultuous mob armed with swords and staves, crying out, 'Where is this cursed woman? Where is she?' Catharine, when she heard this, as if she had been called to to a delightful banquet, made herself ready at once for the martyrdom which for a long time she had desired, and placing herself in the way of one who had his sword drawn, and was crying louder than the rest, 'Where is Catharine?' she cast herself with a joyous countenance on her knees, and said, 'I am Catharine; do therefore with me all that which our Lord permits you to do; but I command you, on the part of Almighty God, not to hurt any of my companions.' When she said these words, the wretch was so terrified and deprived of all strength, that he did not dare either to strike her or to remain in in her presence. Though he had so boldly and eagerly sought for her, when he found her he drove her away, saying, 'Depart from me.' But Catharine, wishing for martyrdom, answered, 'I am well here, and where should I go? I am ready to suffer for Christ and for his church, because this it is that I have long desired and sought with all my prayers. Ought I to fly now that I have found what I have longed for? I offer myself a living victim to my dearest Spouse. If thou art destined to be my sacrificer, do at once whatever thou wiliest, for I will never fly from this spot; only do no harm to any of mine.' What more? God did not permit the man to carry his cruelty any further against her, but he went away in confusion with all his companions." And then Fr. Raymond goes on to tell us how, when all her spiritual children gathered round her full of joy at her escape, she alone was overwhelmed with sorrow, and lamented that she had lost through her sins the crown of martyrdom.

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She was reserved for further labors, and for a martyrdom of another kind in the same cause; and she had soon the consolation of seeing that her mission to Florence had not been fruitless. The death of Gregory XI. dispersed the congress of Sarzona; but the Florentines remained, amid all their intestine troubles, firm in their resolution to make peace with the Holy See. Before the outbreak of which we have just spoken, they had arranged terms with Catharine, and ambassadors had been chosen to go to Rome to treat with the new Pope. Catharine, who had known Urban VI. when she was at Avignon, now wrote to him earnestly entreating him to accept the terms; she was afraid lest the scenes of violence and bloodshed that had lately taken place might make him less inclined to peace. Her entreaties were successful. The terms of peace were honorable to the Holy See. Everything was to return to the state in which it had been before the war; the Florentines were to pay 150,000 florins--a very moderate indemnity for the mischief they had caused in the Papal States; and two legates were to be sent to absolve the city from the censures it had incurred. Catherine, full of joy, returned to Siena. She had refused to leave the Florentine territory after the outbreak in which her life was threatened, saying that she was there by order of the Pope; but she had withdrawn for a while to the monastery of Vallombrosa.

The peace with Florence was of immense importance to the church at that moment. The great storm which Catharine had predicted was already gathering; she herself was to be called on for still greater exertions in the cause of the papacy, and within a year and a half to be in a true sense the victim of the struggle. After leaving Florence, she spent a few months in repose at Siena, during which she dictated to her disciples her only formal work, known by the name of the Dialogue. It has always been a great treasure of spiritual doctrine, though never so widely popular as the collection of her marvellous Letters. It is in the course of these few months that an author as fitted as any other to decide the question of time places a remarkable anecdote of the saint, to which we have already alluded, and which shall form the subject of the conclusion of this paper. [Footnote 31]

[Footnote 31: M. Cartier, who had paid great attention to the chronology of the life of St. Catherine, is our authority for placing the execution of Niccolo Tuldo at this time. As our acquaintance with the facts comes entirely from one of St. Catherine's own letters, which, like the rest, is without date, and which contains no internal notes by which to fix its time, it must be more or less than matter of conjecture. Fr. Capecclatro puts it much earlier--indeed, as it would seem, at a date when the letter, which is addressed to Fr. Raymond, who did not become her confessor until 1373, could not have been written. M. Cartier quotes the Venice copy of the Process of Canonization to support the date he assigns, in having access to which he has been more fortunate than the Bollandists themselves.]

As is so frequently the case in times of political instability, the various governments that so rapidly succeeded one another in the rule of the small Italian republics, seem to have been in the habit of attempting to secure themselves in power by measures of the most extravagant severity against any one who might seem to be disaffected to them. We have already seen the issue of the odious powers of "admonishing" possessed by the Guelph party in Florence; and at the very time of which we are speaking, that republic was suffering under a fresh tyranny of the lowest orders of her populace, who proscribed and excluded from all civil authority anyone more worthy of power than themselves. In Siena also the democratic party, so to call it, held sway; the chief power was in the hands of a set of magistrates called "Riformatori," who governed by fear, and by the exercise of the most jealous watchfulness over the rest of the citizens, particularly the nobles. We are told by the historians of Siena that it was made a capital crime to strike, however lightly, one of these officials, and that a certain citizen was severely punished because he had given a banquet to which none of them had been invited. In such a state of things, the anecdote of St. Catharine of which we are {137} speaking finds a very natural place. A stranger in the town, a young noble of Perugia, by name Niccolo Tuldo, had allowed himself to speak disrespectfully and slightingly of the government. His words were carried to the magistrates; he was seized, tried, and condemned to death. We do not know what sort of life he had led before; but he was young, careless, and had never, at all events, been to communion in his life. He was not a subject of Siena, yet he found himself of a sudden doomed to be legally murdered for a few light words. No wonder that his spirit revolted against the injustice, and that he was tempted to spend his last few hours of life in a fury of indignation and despair. Here was a case for Catharine--a soul to be won to penance, peace, and resignation, with the burning sense of flagrant injustice fresh upon it, from which it could not hope to escape. Word was brought to her, and she hastened to the prison. No one had been able to induce the poor youth to think of preparing for death; he turned away at once, either from comfort or from exhortation.

Catharine went to the prison, and he soon fell under the spell of that heavenly fascination which is rarely imparted save to souls of the highest sanctity. She won him to peace, and forgiveness of the injury he had received. She led him to make his confession with care and contrition, and to resign his will entirely into the hands of God. He made her promise that she would be with him at the place of execution, or, as it is still called in Italy, the place of justice. In the morning she went to him early, led him to mass and communion, which he had never before received, and found him afterward in a state of perfect resignation, only with some fear left lest his courage might fail him at the last moment. He turned to her as his support, bowed his head on her breast, and implored her not to leave him, and then all would be well. She bade him be of good courage, he would soon be admitted to the marriage-feast in heaven, the blood of his Redeemer would wash him, and the name of Jesus, which he was to keep always in his heart, would strengthen him--she herself would await him at the place of justice. All his fears and sadness gave place to a transport of joy; he said he should now go with courage and delight, looking forward to meeting her at that holy place. "See," says she, in her letter to Fr. Raymond, "how great a light had been given to him, that he spoke of the place of justice as a holy spot!" She went there before the time, and set herself to pray for him; in her ardor, she laid her head on the block, and begged Our Lady earnestly to obtain for him a great peace and light of conscience, and for her the grace to see him gain the happy end for which God had made him. Then she had an assurance that her prayer was granted, and so great a joy spread over her soul that she could take no notice of the crowd of people gathering round to witness the execution. The young Perugian came at last, gentle as a lamb, welcoming the sight of her with smiles, and begging her to bless him. She made the sign of the cross over him. "Sweet brother, go to the heavenly nuptials; soon wilt thou be in the life that never ends!" He laid himself down, and she prepared his neck for the stake, leaning down last of all, and reminding him of the precious blood of the Lamb that had been shed for him. He murmured her name, and called on Jesus. The blow was given, and his head fell into her bands.

Catharine tells her confessor, in the letter from which our account is drawn, that she had the greatest reward granted to her that charity such as hers could receive. At the moment of execution, she raised her heart to heaven in one intense act of prayer; and then she became conscious that she was allowed to see how the soul that had just fled was received in the other world. The Incarnate Son, who had {138} died to save it, took it into the arms of his love, and placed it in the wound of his side. "It was shown to me," she says, "by the Very Truth of Truths, that out of mercy and grace alone he so received it and for nothing else." She saw it blessed by each person of the Divine Trinity. The Son of God, moreover, gave it a share of that crucified love with which he had borne his own painful and shameful death, out of obedience to his Father, for the salvation of mankind. And then, that all might be complete, the blessed soul itself seemed to turn and look upon her. "It made a gesture," she says, "sweet enough to win a thousand parts: what wonder? for it already tasted the divine sweetness. It turned as the bride turns when she has come to the door of the home of her bridegroom; looks round on the friends that have accompanied her to her new home, and bows her head to them, as a sign that she thanks them for their kindness."

MISCELLANY.

_The Population of Balloons_.--A very curious apparatus for the above purpose has been devised by Mr. Butler, one of the members of the Aeronautical Society, which has been lately established. It consists of a pair of wings, to operate from the car of the balloon, and whose downward blow is calculated to strike with a force exceeding forty pounds, a power equivalent to an ascensive force of one thousand cubic feet of carburetted hydrogen. The action required is somewhat similar to that of rowing, and would be exactly so if at the end of the stroke the oars sprang backward out of the hands of the rower; but, in this case, the body is stretched forward as if toward the stern of the boat, to grasp the handle and repeat the process, during which an action equivalent to "feathering" is obtained. It is anticipated that these wings, acting from a pendulous fulcrum, will produce, in addition to the object for which they are designed, two effects, which may possibly be hereafter modified, but which will be unpleasant accompaniments to a balloon ascent, namely, the oscillation of the car and a succession of jerks upward, first communicated to the car from below, and repeated immediately by an answering jerk from the balloon.--_London Popular Science Review_.

_The Poisonous Principle of Mushrooms._--This, which is called amanitine, has been separated and experimented on by M. Letellier, who has quite lately presented a paper recording his investigations to the French Academy of Medicine. He experimented with the alkaloid upon animals, and found the same results as those stated by Bernard and others to follow the action of narceine. He thinks amanitine might be used in cases where opium is indicated; and states that the best antidotes in cases of poisoning by this principle are the preparations of tannin. The general treatment in such cases consists in the administration of the oily purgatives.

_The Conditions of Irish Vegetation_.--The inquiries of Dr. David Moore have shown that whilst Ireland is better suited than any other European country to the growth of green crops, it is unsuited to the growth of corn and fruit-trees. This is attributable to the following circumstances; the extreme humidity of the climate, and the slight differences between the winter and summer temperatures--a difference that in Dublin amounts to only seventeen and a half degrees, and on the west coast is only forty-four degrees. The mean temperature of Ireland is as high as though the island were fifteen degrees nearer the equator.

_Libraries of Italy_.--There are 210 public libraries in Italy, containing in the aggregate 4,149.281 volumes, according to the _Revue de l'Instruction Publique_. Besides these, there are the libraries of the two Chambers, that of the {139} Council of State, and many large private collections, easily accessible. Then there are 110 provincial libraries, and the collections belonging to 71 scientific bodies. In the year 1863, 988,510 volumes were called for by readers, of which 183,528 related to mathematics and the natural sciences; 122,496 to literature, history, and the linguistics; 70,537 to philosophy and morals; 54,491 to theology; 193,972 to jurisprudence; 261,869 to the fine arts; 101,797 to other subjects.

_The Poisonous Effects of Alcohol_--Supporters of teetotalism will be pleased to peruse an essay on this subject by M. G. Pennetier, of Rouen. The memoir we refer to is a "doctor's" thesis, and it treats especially of the condition known as alcoholism. The following are some of the author's conclusions: (1) Alcoholism is a special affection, like lead-poisoning; (2) the prolonged presence of alcohol in the stomach produces inflammation of the walls of this organ and other injurious lesions; (3) the gastritis produced by alcohol may be either acute or chronic, and may be complicated by ulcer, or general or partial hypertrophy, or contraction of the opening of the stomach, or purulent sub-mucous infiltration; (4) in certain cases of alcoholic gastritis, the tabular glands of the stomach become inflamed, and pour the pus, which they secrete, into the stomach or into the cellular tissue of this organ.--_Popular Science Review._

_The Influence of Light on the Twining Organs of Plants._--At a meeting of the French Academy, held on Oct 26th, a valuable paper on this subject was read by M. Duchartre. The memoir deals with the questions already discussed by Mr. Darwin, and in it the French botanist records his own experiments and those of other observers, and concludes that there are two groups of twining plants: 1. Such plants as _Dioscorea Batatas_ and _Mandevillea suaveolens_, which have the power of attaching themselves to surrounding objects only under the influence of light 2. Species such as _Ipomoea purpurea_ and _Phaseolus_, which exhibit this power equally well in light and darkness.

_Chronicles of Yorkshire_.--To the series of works published under the direction of the Master of the Rolls, the first volume of the interesting chronicles of an ancient Yorkshire religious house, the Cistercian Abbey of Meaux, near Beverley, has been added. Its title runs thus: "Chronica Monasterii de Melsa, a Fundatione usque ad Annum 1396, Auctore Thoma de Burton, Abbate, accedit continuatio ad Annum 1406, a Monacho quodam Ipsius Domus. Edited from the autographs of the author, by Edward A. Bond, Assistant-Keeper of Manuscripts and Egerton Librarian in the British Museum." The abbey was founded in 1150, by William le Gros, Earl of Albemarle, and its first abbot and builder was Adam, a monk of Fountains Abbey. Thomas of Burton, who was abbot in 1396, brings the history down to that year. This first volume ends with the year 1247.--_Reader_.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

The See of St. Peter, the Rock of The Church, The Source or Jurisdiction, And The Centre or Unity. By Thomas William Allies, M.A., etc. With a Letter to Dr. Pusey. 1 vol. 18mo, pp. 324. Republished by Lawrence Kehoe, 145 Nassau Street, New-York. 1866.

We cannot sufficiently praise and recommend this little work, by far the best on its topic for the ordinary reader, as well as really valuable to the theologian. It was written before the author had been received into the church, and immediately translated into Italian by the order of the Holy Father. Mr. Allies was a noted writer of the Anglican Church, and one of its beneficed clergymen. He held out long, before he became, by the grace of God, a Catholic; and made strenuous and able efforts to clear the Church of England from the charge of schism. In becoming a Catholic he sacrificed a valuable benefice, with the prospect before him of being obliged to struggle for a living, and, we believe, was for a time in very straitened circumstances.

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In this book, the argument for the Papal Supremacy from Scripture and Tradition is presented in a clear and cogent manner, with solid learning, admirable reasoning, and in a lucid and charming style, rendering it perfectly intelligible to any reader of ordinary education. It is impossible for any sophistry or cavilling to escape from the irresistible force of Mr. Allies's reasoning. It is a moral demonstration of the perpetual existence and divine institution of the papacy in the Christian church.

An attempt has been made to detract from its force by representing that the author himself had in a previous work drawn a different conclusion from the same premises. This objection would have force in relation to a matter of metaphysical demonstration; but has none at all in the present case, which is one of moral demonstration arising from the cumulative force of a great number of separate probabilities. The former conclusion which the author drew was not one totally opposite to his later one, but merely a partial, defective conclusion in the same line.

In his first book be admitted the primacy of the Roman See, but not in its full extent, or complete application to the state of bodies not in her communion. Preconceived prejudices, and an imperfect grasp of the logical and theological bearings of the question, hindered him from comprehending fully the nature of the primacy, whose existence he admitted. His second book is, therefore, a legitimate development from the principles of the first, although this very development has led him to quite opposite conclusions respecting certain important facts.

The policy of the enemies of the Roman See is, to accumulate all possible instances of resistance to her authority, disputes to regard to its exercise, ambiguous expressions concerning its nature and origin, intricate questions of law, special pleadings of every kind, gathered from the first eight centuries of Christianity. In this way they file a bill of exceptions against the supremacy of the Holy See. These disconnected, accidental shreds are patched together into a theory, that the supremacy of the Holy See has been established by a gradual usurpation. Starting on this _à priori_ assumption, the advocates of the claims of Rome are required to prove categorically from the monuments of the first, second, third, and other early centuries the full and complete doctrine of the supremacy, with all its consequences, as now held and taught by theologians. Whatever is clearer, stronger, more minutely explicated at a later period than at an earlier, is made out to be a proof of this preconceived usurpation. In this way, these shallow and sophistical writers endeavor to bewilder, and confute the minds of their readers amid a maze of documents, so that they may give up the hope of a clear and plain solution, and stay where they are, because they are there. A book of this kind has just been translated and republished in this country, from the French of M. Guettée, a priest who had left the Catholic Church for the Russian schism, under the auspices of the American Mark of Ephesus, Bishop Coxe. From a cursory examination of the French original, we judge it to be as specious and plausible a resumé of the materials furnished by Jansenists and Orientals--whose skirts the Anglicans are making violent efforts to seize hold of just now--as any that has appeared. Wherefore we trust that it may be soon and effectually refuted.

It is plain to every fair mind and honest heart, that this method of argument is, in the first place, false and unsound, and, in the second place, unsuited for the mass of readers. Greeks and Anglicans use it against the papacy, intending to hold on to the trunk of their headless Catholicism. It can be applied, however, just as well to ecumenical councils, and all of the rest of the hierarchical system. So, also, to the Liturgy, to the canon of Scripture, then to dogma, and finally to the doctrines of natural religion. The real order of both natural and supernatural truth is one in which positive, indestructible, eternal principles are implanted as germs, which explicate successively their living power. With all their sophistry, the enemies of Rome can never banish from Scripture and tradition the evidence of the perpetual existence and living force of the primacy of St. Peter.

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They cannot form a theory which can take in, account for, and totalise all the documents of fathers, councils, history, in the integrity of a complete Catholic idea. They deny, explain away, object, question. They have a separate special pleading for each and every single proof or document. But there still remains the cumulative force of such a vast number of probable evidences, all of which coalesce and integrate themselves in the doctrine of the supremacy. The true way is to interpret and complete the earlier tradition, by that which is later. This is done by our adversaries in regard to the canon, to sacraments, to episcopacy, to the authority of councils. It ought to be the same in regard to the papacy. The grand fact of one Catholic Church, centred in Rome as the See of Peter, stares us in the face. If we can trace it regularly back, without a palpable break of continuity, to its principle and source in the institution of Christ, that is enough. Those who set up another Catholicity are bound to exhibit to the world something more palpable, more universal, more plainly marked by the characteristics of truth, which can be legible to all mankind. They must solve the problem of all the ages, explain all history, assert a mastery over the whole domain of the earth, and prove that their doctrine and church can fill all things like an ocean; or, they must step aside out of the way of the two gigantic combatants, who are now stripping for the fight, Rome and Lawless Reason.

Besides, it is absurd to think that any except scholars can be expected to wade through a discussion like that of a dry law-book, or abstruse treatise on politics, examining the history and decisions of councils, and all kinds of official documents. The essential signs and marks of the truth and the church must be plain, obvious, level to the common capacity. If the Roman Church be the true church, she must be able to show it by plain signs, which will put all doubt at rest, where the heart is sincere. So of the Anglicans, so of the Russians.

Therefore it is that Mr. Allies's book is especially valuable. It brings out the clear, unmistakable evidence of the supremacy given to St. Peter and his successors by Jesus Christ. It shows the great sign of Catholicity to be communion with the Holy Roman Church, the See of Peter. We recommend it to all, but especially to converts or those who are studying, and who wish to instruct themselves fully on this fundamental topic of Catholic doctrine. There cannot be a topic which it is more, important to study at the present time. The cause of the papacy is the cause of revelation and of sound reason, of law and of true liberty, the cause of Christ, the cause of God. Whoever defends it successfully is a benefactor to the human race.

Felix Holt, The Radical. A Novel. By George Eliot, author of Adam Bede, The Mill on the Floss, Silas Marner, Scenes of Clerical Life, Romola, etc. 8vo. pp. 184. New-York: Harper and Brothers. 1866.

Whatever may be thought of the philosophy of this book, there can be no question that, considered simply as a work of art, it is one of the most admirable productions of the day. There are passages in it which deserve to be classed among the gems of English literature, and characters which will live as long as English fiction itself. With Felix Holt, the hero, we are less satisfied than with any of the other personages in the story. Full of generous impulses, and burning with half-formed noble thoughts, he is, after all, when you look at him in cold blood, only an impracticable visionary, who wastes his energy in vain striving after some dimly-seen good, which neither he, nor the reader, nor, we are persuaded, the author herself, fully understands and at the end he drops quietly into a grumbling sort of happy life, no nearer the goal of his indefinite aspirations than he was at the beginning, and having succeeded no further in his schemes for the elevation of the people than persisting in his refusal to brush his own hair, or wear a waistcoat. It is very true that such is generally the end of reformers of his character; the fundamental defect of the book is that the author seems unconscious of the hollowness of Felix's philosophy, and we are not quite sure that she is even conscious of his ultimate failure.

Mrs. Holt, the hero's mother, is an exquisitely humorous conception, who deserves a place by the side of Dickens's Mrs. Nickleby. She never presents her austere "false front," or shows the "bleak north-easterly expression" in her eye, without arousing a smile; and her {142} rambling, inconsequential, dolorous conversation is a spring of never-failing merriment. There is a plenty of humor too in several of the minor characters, and there is delicate and unaffected pathos in the fanatical and somewhat wearisome little preacher, Mr. Lyon, and the proud, suffering Mrs. Transome, whoso youthful sin pursues her like an avenging fury, and whose whole sad life, "like a spoiled pleasure-day," has been such an utter, pitiful disappointment. But the charm of the book is in the heroine, Esther Lyon. Never, we believe, has the conception of refined physical beauty been so perfectly conveyed by words as in the delineation of this exquisite character. We are told nothing of Esther's features; we get no inventory of her charms, no description of her person: a few words suffice for all that the author has to tell us of her appearance; but she floats through the book a vision of unsurpassed loveliness. She never enters a room but we are conscious of the tread of dainty little feet, the fine arching of a graceful neck, the gloss of beautiful hair, the soft play of taper fingers, and a delicate scent like the breath of the violet-laden south. The art with which this exquisite effect is kept up all through the book, without repetition, and without the slightest approach toward sensuality, is so perfect that we are tempted to call it a stroke of genius. And the character of Esther is as fascinating as her beauty. The author has thrown her whole heart into the description of the ripening and development of this girl, and the casting aside of the little foibles of her fine-ladyism under the influence of Felix. The scenes between these two strongly contrasted characters are scenes to be read again and again with never increasing delight.

The pictures of English provincial life; the petty talk of ignorant farmers and shopkeepers; the election scenes, the canvassing, the nominations, the tavern discussions, the speeches, and the riot at the polls, are all admirable, and their naturalness is almost startling. There is no exaggeration in any part of the book, and not even in the richest of the humorous scenes is there a single improbable passage.

Essays on Woman's Work. By Bessie Rayner Parkes. Second Edition. 16mo. pp. 240. London: Alexander Strahan, 1866.

The serious questions discussed in this little book have happily a less pressing significance in this country than in England; but even here the problem of how to find suitable employment for destitute educated women is often one of no slight importance, and as years pass on, it will more and more frequently present itself for solution. Miss Parkes approaches the subject not with the visionary notions of a social "reformer," but in a spirit of practical and experienced benevolence, which entitles her remarks to great weight. She points out how the tendency of modern mechanical improvements is to banish from domestic life a large and consistently increasing class of women, and she pleads with eloquence and eagerness for a better provision toward their moral and intellectual improvement than is made at present. She treats of the various pursuits to which educated women now resort for a livelihood--teaching, literature art, business, and so on, and of others for which they are well fitted and which society ought to lay open to them. She gives a very interesting account of certain excellent associations founded in England for the assistance of working women, with some of which Enterprises Miss Parkes herself has been prominently connected. We advise our friends to read her well-written essays, that they may understand something of the terrible suffering which prevails largely abroad, and to some extent also at home, among a class of poor who have very strong claims upon our commiseration, but seldom or never appeal in person two our beneficence. The evils which she describes, and for which she indicates alleviations, if not remedies, are constantly growing with the growth of population, and we ought to be prepared to meet them.

Six months at the White House with Abraham Lincoln. The Story of a Picture. By F. B. Carpenter, 16mo, pp. 359. New York: Hurd and Houghton. 1866

Mr. Carpenter is a young New York artist, who, in 1863, conceived the purpose of painting a historical picture commemorative of the proclamation of emancipation {143} by President Lincoln. Through the intervention of influential friends, he obtained not only the President's consent to sit for a portrait, but permission to establish his studio in the White House during the progress of the work; or, as Mr. Lincoln expressed it, in his homely way, "We will turn you in loose here, Mr. C--, and try to give you a good chance to work out your idea." During the six months that he spent at the picture, Mr. Carpenter was virtually a member of the President's family. He saw Mr. Lincoln in his most familiar and unguarded moments; he won a great deal of his confidence and regard; and he has now set down in this little book his impressions of the President's personal character, and a great store of anecdotes and incidents, many of which have not before been published. For the work he has done and the manner in which he has done it we have only words of praise. He has given us the best picture of Mr. Lincoln's character as a man that has ever been drawn, and he has done it with care, modesty, and good taste. We believe that no man, however far he may have stood apart from Mr. Lincoln on political questions, can read this admirable little book without feeling a deep respect for our late President's straightforward, honest, manly intellect, and faithfulness to principles, and without loving him for his tenderness of heart, and his many sterling virtues. Mr. Carpenter writes in a tone of ardent admiration, but not of extravagant eulogy. He has the pains-taking fidelity of a Boswell, but without Boswell's pettiness or sycophancy. He has written a book which will not only be perused with eagerness by the reader of the present hour, but will achieve a permanent and honorable place in biographical literature.

An Introductory Latin Book, intended as an Elementary Drill-Book on the Inflections and Principles of the Language, and as an Introduction to the Author's Grammar, Reader, and Latin Composition. By Albert Harkness, Professor in Brown University. 12mo, pp. 162.1 New York: D. Appleton and Co. 1866.

The Latin books which Professor Harkness has published for more advanced pupils have enjoyed a flattering popularity, and in schools which have adopted them the present volume will prove very acceptable for preparatory classes. It is intended, however, to be complete in itself, and comprises an outline of Latin grammar, exercises for double translation, suggestions to the learner, notes, and English-Latin and Latin-English vocabularies. Unnecessary matters seem to have been carefully excluded, and the work has an appearance of great clearness and compactness.

Philip Earnscliffe; or, The Morals of Mayfair. A Novel. By Mrs. Edwards, author of Archie Lovell, Miss Forrester, The Ordeal for Wives, etc., etc. 8vo, pp. 173. New-York: The American News Company.

This is a clever, unartistical, readable, repulsive, and utterly unprofitable story, vulgar in tone and vicious in sentiment. Both hero and heroine are perfectly impossible and inconsistent characters, and nobody will be the better for reading anything about them.

The Catholic Teacher's Improved Sunday-School Class Book. Lawrence Kehoe, New York.

This little book should be in the hand of every Catholic Sunday-school teacher. It provides for the registry of the scholars names, age, residence, attendance, lessons, conduct, and everything necessary for the good order and welfare of the school or class. It is more comprehensive, and more easily kept, than anything yet published.

It also has a column in which to record the number of the book taken by the scholar from the Sunday-school library. A library is necessary to the complete success of every Sunday-school. From the catalogues of our Catholic publishers a list of about four hundred books can be selected, tolerably well adapted for this purpose. This, however, is about one-third as many as an ordinary Sunday-school requires. We must also confess it is not pleasant to be obliged to pay for these about twice as much as Protestant Sunday-schools do for books published in the same style. But it may be replied that they have societies possessing a large capital, whose aim is to publish their {144} books as cheap as possible, in order to spread them far and wide. True. And why cannot the 5,000,000 Catholics in the United States, with 4,000 churches, and 2,500 priests, support a Publication Society, with capital enough to publish Sunday-school requisites as cheap as they! This Class Book is printed on good paper, and is not only more complete than any other, but is furnished much cheaper.

A History of England or the Young. A new edition revised. 12mo, pp. 373. Philadelphia: Peter F. Cunningham. 1866.

This is an American reprint of an English book, and England is spoken of throughout it as "our country"--an expression which will be very apt to lead to misconceptions in the juvenile mind. The unknown compiler seems to have spared no pains to make the book unexceptionable in a religious point of view, for use in Catholic schools; but we cannot commend it for clearness, and we think it might be advantageously weeded of various anecdotes and trivial details, and of a great deal of turgid rhetoric. There is need of a good English history for our schools, but we do not believe this publication is destined to supply it. So far as our examination has gone, it is full of errors. The account of the American Revolution is absurd--the very cause of it being egregiously misstated. The story of the Crimean war is not much better told, and the history of the Sepoy mutiny in India is very careless and inaccurate.

The Mormon Prophet and His Harem; or, An Authentic History of Brigham Young, his numerous Wives and Children. By Mrs. C. V. Waite. 12mo, pp. 280. New York: Hurd and Houghton. 1866.

As Mrs. Waite resided for two years in the midst of the society which she has undertaken to describe, and has also received a great deal of information from persons long in the service of Brigham Young, her account of the Mormon system and its arch-priest may reasonably be assumed as authentic. To anybody who wants to read the disgusting record of human imbecility and wickedness which disfigures the history of Western civilization, Mrs. Waite's volume will, no doubt, be found sufficiently full and interesting.

Mr. Winkfield. A Novel. 8vo. pp. 160 New-York: The American News Company. 1866.

The unknown author of this book, which we can hardly call a story, as apparently endeavored to satirize life and society in New-York. His success has not been equal to his expectations.

Alfonso; or, The Triumph of Religion. A Catholic Tale, P. F. Cunningham, Philadelphia.

This is a very interesting and instructive tale, designed to show "the lamentable effects in your religious system of education will infallibly produce." We hope the talented authoress will give us other stories for our young people equally good. We think, however, she crowds her hero along too fast. The charm of the story would be increased by a more natural and easy concurrence of events.

BOOKS RECEIVED

From Hurd & Houghton, New York. Spanish Papers and other Miscellanies, hitherto unpublished or uncollected. By Washington Irving. 2 vols. 12mo, pp. 487 and 466.

P. Donahoe, Boston. Redmond, Count O'Hanlon, The Irish Rapparee, and Barney Brady's Goose. By William Carleton. 1 vol. 18mo.

Andrew J. Graham, New York. Standard Phonographic Visitor Edited and published by Andrew J. Graham.

We have also received the Seventh Annual Report of the Trustees of the Cooper Union for the Advancement of Science and Art; and the Twenty-fifth Annual Report of the Mercantile Library Association of the City of New York for 1866.

J. J. O'Connor & Co., Newark, N.J., have in press and will soon published the work entitled "Curious Questions," by the Rev. Dr. Brann.

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THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. IV., NO. 20.--NOVEMBER, 1866.

ORIGINAL.

PROBLEMS OF THE AGE.

IX.

A FURTHER EXPLANATION OF THE SUPERNATURAL ORDER.

It has been already remarked, that the Incarnation is a more profound and inscrutable mystery than even the Trinity. The reason is that the trinity is a necessary truth, included in the very idea of God as most simple being and most pure act. The incarnation is not a truth necessary in itself, but only necessary on the supposition that it has been decreed by God. The trinity of persons proceeds from a necessity of nature in God, the incarnation from an act of free will. But the acts of the divine free will are more mysterious and inexplicable than those which proceed from necessity of nature.

Without revelation the incarnation would be inconceivable, and even when it is disclosed by revelation, the analogies by which it can be illustrated are faint and imperfect. The union between soul and body in animal nature and between the animal and spiritual nature in man furnish the only analogies of anything like a hypostatic union in the natural world. But these analogies do not illustrate the dark point in the mystery, to wit: the union of two _intelligent_ natures in one _subsistence_, or one common personal principle of imputability to which the acts of both are referrible. We have but little difficulty in apprehending that acts proceeding from two distinct natures in man, the animal and the spiritual, should be referred to one principle of imputability or one personality. These acts are so very distinct and different from each other, that they evidently have no tendency to become blended or confused, by the absorption of one nature into the other. But if we should try to conceive of a hypostatic union between the angelic and human natures in one person, it would be impossible to avoid imagining that one intelligent nature would be absorbed in the other. If there is but one principle of imputability, how can there be two distinct intelligent voluntary operations? Our opinion is, that a union of this kind between two finite natures is impossible. The {146} possibility of assuming a distinct intelligent nature must then belong to a divine person only, and be included in the infinitude of the divine essence. The difficulty of understanding it lies then in the incomprehensibility of the divine essence. We apprehend nothing in the divine essence distinctly, except that which is apprehensible through the analogy which created essences bear to it. Evidently that in the divine essence which renders it totally dissimilar from all created essences cannot be represented by a similitude in created essences. And as the divine essence subsisting in the second person renders it capable of assuming human nature by an attribute which renders it totally dissimilar from all finite personality, there can be no analogy to it in finite things. In order to understand this it is necessary to recall to mind a principle laid down by St. Thomas, that we cannot affirm anything, whether being, intelligence, will, personality, or whatever other term of thought we may propose, of God and a creature, _univocally_, that is, in the same identical sense. The essence of God differs as really from the spiritual essence of angels and human souls as it does from the essence of animal souls and of matter. We apprehend what the intelligence and the will of God are only through the analogy of human intelligence and will, in a most imperfect and inadequate manner. In themselves they are incomprehensible to the human understanding. In the very essence of God as incomprehensible, or super-intelligible, is situated that capacity of being the personality of created intelligent nature which constitutes the mystery of the hypostatic union. The only analogy therefore in created things which is appreciable by the human mind, is an analogy derived from the union of natures whose difference is intelligible to us, as the spiritual and animal. This analogy enables us to understand that the divine and human natures, not being intelligent natures in a univocal sense, but being dissimilar not only in degree of intelligence but in the very essence of intelligence, are capable of union in one personality. There is no analogy, however, which enables us to understand what this difference is, because it would be a contradiction in terms to suppose in the creature any analogy to that which is above all analogies and is peculiar to the divine nature as divine. The utmost that reason can do is to apprehend, when the mystery of the incarnation is proposed by revelation, that the incomprehensibility of the divine essence renders it impossible to judge that it cannot be hypostatically united to a created intelligent nature, and that it increases our conception of its infinitude or plenitude of being to suppose that a divine person can terminate a created nature as well as the nature which is self-existing. All that reason can do then is to demonstrate, after the mystery of the incarnation is proposed, that the impossibility of the incarnation cannot be demonstrated on the principles of reason, and that it is therefore credible on the authority of revelation; and, by the illumination of faith, to apprehend a certain degree of probability or verisimilitude in the mystery itself.

Once established, however, as a dogma or fundamental principle in theology, its reason and fitness in reference to the final cause of the universe, the harmony of all other facts and doctrines with it, and the grandeur which it gives to the divine economy, can be conclusively and abundantly proved by rational arguments.

We know that it must be fitting and worthy of the divine majesty to decree the incarnation, because he has done it. But we can also see that it is so, and why. We can see that it befits Almighty God to exhaust his own omnipotence in producing a work which is the masterpiece of his intelligence and the equivalent of the archetype contained in his Word. To show his royal magnificence in bestowing the greatest {147} possible boon on created nature. To pour forth his love in such a manner as to astound the intelligence of his rational creatures, by communicating all that is contained in filiation and the procession of the Spirit, so far as that is in itself possible. To glorify and deify the creature, by raising it as nearly as possible to an equality with himself in knowledge and beatitude.

The reason for selecting the human rather than the angelic nature for the hypostatic union is obvious from all that has preceded. Human nature is a microcosm, in which all grades of existence are summed up and represented. In taking human nature the Word assumes all created nature, from the lowest to the highest. For, although the angelic nature is superior to the human, it is only superior to it in certain respects, and not as a rational essence. Moreover, this superiority is part only temporary, enduring while the human nature is in the process of explication; and as to the rest, the inferiority of the human nature is counterbalanced by the supernatural elevation given to it in the hypostatic union, which raises the natural, human operation of the soul of our Lord Jesus Christ far above that of the angelic nature. Although, therefore, in the series of grades in the natural order of existence, the angelic nature is above the human, it is subordinated to it in the supernatural order, or the order of the incarnation, and in relation to the final cause. For it is through the human nature united to the divine nature in the person of the Word that the angelic nature completes its return to God and union with him.

The elevation of created nature to the hypostatic union with God in the person of the Word introduces an entirely new principle of life into the intelligent universe. Hitherto, we have considered in the creative act a regular gradation in the nature of created existences, from the lowest to the highest. Each grade is determined to a certain participation in being superior in intensity to that of the one below it and to a mode of activity corresponding to its essence. There can be no grade of existence in its essence superior to the rational or intelligent nature, which is created in the similitude of that which is highest in the divine essence. No doubt, the specific and minor grades included under the universal generic grade of rationality might be indefinitely multiplied. As the angels differ from man, and the various orders of the angelic hierarchy differ from each other, so God might continue to create _ad infinitum_ new individuals or new species, each differing from all others, and all arranged in an ascending series, in which each grade should be superior in certain particulars to all below it. It is evidently possible that a created intelligence should be made to progress from the lowest stage of development continuously and for ever. Let us fix our thought upon the most distant and advanced limit in this progression which we are able to conceive. It is evident that God might have created an intelligent spirit in the beginning at that point, as the starting-point of his progression, and might have created at the same time other intelligent spirits at various distances from this point in a descending series. Suppose now that this is the case, and that the lowest in the scale progresses until he reaches the starting-point of the most advanced. The one who began at this advanced point will have progressed meanwhile to another point equally distant, and will preserve his relative superiority. But even at this point, God might have created him at first, with another series of intervening grades at all the intermediate points which he has passed over in his progressive movement. We may carry on this process as long as we please, without ever coming to a limit at which we are obliged to stop. For the creation being of necessity limited, and the creative power of God unlimited, it is impossible to equalize the two terms, or to conceive of a creation which is equal to God as creator. Nevertheless, {148} all possible grades of rationality are like and equal to each other as respects the essential propriety of rationality, and never rise to a grade which is essentially higher than that of rational nature. The only difference possible is a difference in the mode in which the active force of the intellect is exercised, and in the number of objects to which it is applicable, or some other specific quality of the same kind. Whatever may be the increase which rational nature can be supposed to receive, it is only the evolution of the essential principle which constitutes it rational, and is therefore common to all species and individuals of the rational order. Although, therefore, God cannot create a spirit so perfect that it cannot be conceived to be more perfect in certain particulars, yet it is nevertheless true that God cannot create anything which is generically more perfect than spirit or intelligent substance. From this it follows as a necessary consequence, that God cannot create a nature which by its essential principles demands its last complement of being in a divine person, or naturally exists in a hypostatic union with the divine nature. For rational nature, which is the highest created genus, and the nearest possible to the nature of God,--"Ipsius enim et genus sumus," [Footnote 32]--developed to all eternity, would never rise above itself, or elicit an act which would cause it to terminate upon a divine person, and bring it into a hypostatic union with God.

[Footnote 32: "For we are also his offspring." Acts xvii. 28.]

Produce a line, parallel to an infinite straight line, to infinity, and it will never meet it or come any nearer to it. The very essence of created spirit requires that it should be determined to a mode of apprehending God an image reflected in the creation. The activity of the created intelligence must proceed for ever in this line, and has no tendency to coincide with the act of the divine intelligence in which God contemplates immediately his own essence. Increase as much as you will the perfection of the created image, it remains always infinitely distant from the uncreated, personal image of himself which the Father contemplates in the Word, and loves in the Holy Spirit, within the circle of the blessed Trinity. It has been proved in a previous number that infinite intelligence is identical with the infinite intelligible in God. If a being could be created which by its essence should be intelligent by the immediate vision of the divine essence, it would be intelligent _in se_, and therefore possess within its own essence its immediate, intelligible object, which, by the terms of the supposition, is the divine essence. It would possess in itself sanctity, immutability, and beatitude. It would be, in other words, beatified precisely because existing, that is, incapable of existing in any defective state, and therefore incapable of error, sin, or suffering. And as, by the terms, it is what it is, by its essence, its essence and existence are identical; it is essentially most pure act, essentially existing, therefore self-existent, necessary being, or identical with God. It is therefore impossible for God to create a rational nature which is constituted rational by the immediate intuition of the divine essence. For by the very terms it would be a creature and God at the same time. It would be one of the persons in the unity of the divine nature, and yet have a nature totally distinct. In the natural order, then, it is impossible that a created nature should either at its beginning, or in the progress of its evolution, demand as its due and necessary complement of being a divine personality. Personality is the last complement of rational nature. Divine nature demands divine personality. Finite nature demands finite personality. It is evident, therefore, that there cannot be a finite nature, however exalted, which cannot come to its complete evolution within its own essence, or which can explicate out of the contents of its being an act which necessarily terminates upon a divine person, so as to bring it into a hypostatic union with the divine nature.

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Let us go back a little in the scale of being, in order to develop this principal more fully. Lifeless matter is capable of indefinite increase in its own order, but this increase has no tendency to elevate it to the grade of vegetative life. A new and different principle of organization must be introduced in order to construct from its simple elements a vegetative form, as, for instance, a flower. So, also, the explication of vegetative life has no tendency to generate a sentient principle. The plant may go on producing foliage, flowering, germinating, and reproducing its species for ever, but its vital activity can never produce a sentient soul, or proceed to that degree of perfection that it requires a sentient soul as its last complement or the form of its organic life. Suppose a plant or flower to receive a sentient soul; this soul must be immediately created by God, and it would be the principle or form of a new life, which, in relation to the natural, vegetative life of the flower, would be _super_-natural, elevating it to an order of life above that which constitutes it a flower.

A sentient creature, as a dog or a bird, has no tendency to explicate from the constitutive principle of its animal soul intelligence, or to attain a state of existence in which an intelligent personality is due to it as its last complement. If the animal soul could have an intelligent personality, it must be by hypostatic union with an intelligent nature distinct from itself, which would then become the _suppositum_, or principal of imputability to the animal nature. The animal would then be elevated to a state which would be _super_-natural, relatively to the animal nature, or entirely above the plane of it's natural development.

In like manner, the rational nature has no tendency or power to rise above itself, or to do more than explicate that principle which constitutes it rational. If it is elevated to a higher order, it must be by a direct act of omnipotence, an immediate intervention of the creator, producing in it an act which could never be produced by the explication of its rationality, even though it should progress to all eternity. This act is supernatural in the absolute sense. That is, it lies in an order above created nature as a totality, and above all nature which might be created; _supra omnem naturam creatam atque creabilem_.

It is beyond the power even of divine omnipotence to create a rational nature which, by its intrinsic, constitutive principle of intelligence, is affiliated to the Father through the Holy Spirit. Such a nature would be equal to the Word, and another Word, and therefore equal to the Father, or, in other words, would be a divine nature although created; which is absurd. The Father can have but one Son, eternally begotten, not made; and the only possible way in which a created nature can be elevated to a strictly filial relation to the Father, is by a hypostatic union with the divine nature of the Son in one person, so that there is a communication of properties between the two natures, and but one principle of imputability to which all the divine and human attributes and acts can be referred. This union can be effected only by a direct intervention of God, or by the Word assuming to himself a created nature. For rational nature finds its last complement of personality, its _subsistentia_, or principle of imputability, within its own limits, which it never tends to transcend, even by infinite progression. The human nature individuated in the person of Jesus Christ, by its own intrinsic principles was capable of being completed in a finite personality, like every other individual human nature. The fact that the place of the human personality is supplied by a divine person, and the human nature thus completed only in the divine, is due to the direct, divine act of the Word, and is therefore supernatural. In this supernatural relation it becomes the recipient, so to speak, of the divine vital current, and participates in the {150} act in which the divine life is consummated, which is the procession of the Son and Holy Spirit from the Father. This act consists radically and essentially in the immediate contemplation of the divine essence. Created intelligence, therefore, elevated to the hypostatic union, contemplates the essence of God directly, without any intervening medium, by the immediate intuition or beatific vision of God.

Thus, in the incarnation, the creation returns back to God and is united to him in the most perfect manner, by participating in the good of being in a way sublime above all human conception, exhausting even the infinite idea of God. Created intelligence is beatified, glorified, and deified. In Jesus Christ, man, in whose essence is included the equivalent of all creation, and God meet in the unity of one person. The nature of God becomes the nature of man in the second person, who is truly man; and the nature of man becomes the nature of God in the same person, who is truly God. Creation, therefore, attains its final end and returns to God as final cause in the incarnation; which is the most perfect work of God, the crown of the acts of his omnipotence, the summit of the creative act, the completion of all grades of existence, and the full realization of the divine archetype.

In Jesus Christ, the creative act is carried to the apex of possibility. In his human nature, therefore, he is the most pre-eminent of all creatures, and surpasses them all, not only singly but collectively. He has the primogeniture, and the dominion over all things, the entire universe of existences being subordinated to him. Nevertheless, his perfection is not completed merely by that which he possesses within the limits of his individual humanity. He is the summit of creation, the head of the intelligent universe, the link nearest to God in the chain of created existences. The universe, therefore, by virtue of the principle of order and unity which pervades it, ought to communicate with him through a supernatural order, so that the gradation in the works of God may be regular and perfect. The chasm between rational nature in its natural state and the same nature raised to the hypostatic union is too great, and demands to be filled up by some intermediate grades. Having taken created nature, which is by its very constitution adapted to fellowship between individuals of the same kind; and, specifically, human nature, which is constituted in relations of race and family, the Son of God ought, in all congruity, to have brethren and companions capable of sharing with him in beatitude and glory. Being specifically human and of one blood with all mankind, it is fitting that he should elevate his own race to a share in his glory. Being generically of the same intellectual nature with the angels, it is also fitting that he should elevate them to the same glory. This can only be done by granting them a participation in that supernatural order of intelligence and life which he possesses by virtue of the hypostatic union; that is, a participation in the immediate, beatific vision of the divine essence.

This supernatural order is denominated the order of regeneration and grace. It is cognate with the order of the hypostatic union, but not identical with it. The personality of the divine Word is communicated only to the individual human nature of Jesus Christ, who is not only the first-born but the only-begotten Son of God. God is incarnate in Christ alone. The union of his created substance with the divine substance, without any permixture or confusion, in one person, is something inscrutable to reason. The knowledge, sanctity, beatitude, and glory of his human nature are effects of this union, but are not it. These effects, which are due to the humanity of Christ as being the nature of a divine person, and are its rightful and necessary prerogatives, are communicable, as a matter of grace, to other individuals, personally distinct from Christ. {151} That is to say, sanctity, beatitude, and glory do not require as the necessary condition of their community ability the communication of a divine personality, but are compatible with the existence of an indefinite number of distinct, finite personalities. All those rational creatures, however, who are the subjects of this communicated grace, are thereby assimilated to the Son of God, and made partakers of an adopted sonship. This adoptive sonship is an inchoate and imperfect state of co-filiation with the Son of God, which is completed and made perfect in the hypostatic union. The order of grace, therefore, though capable of subsisting without the incarnation, and not depending on it as a physical cause, can only subsist as an imperfect order, and cannot have in itself a metaphysical finality. The incarnation being absent, the universe does not attain an end metaphysically final, or actualise the perfection of the ideal archetype. The highest mode of the communication of the good of being, the most perfect reproduction of the operation of God _ad intra_, in his operation _ad extra_, which the Father contemplates in the Word as possible, remains unfulfilled. Those who hold, therefore, that the incarnation was not included in the original creative decree of God must maintain that in that decree God did not contemplate an end in creating metaphysically final. They are obliged to suppose another decree logically subsequent to the first, by virtue of which the universe is brought to an metaphysically final in order to repair the partial failure of the angelic nature and the total failure of human nature to attain the inferior, prefixed end of the first decree. Nevertheless, decrees of God are eternal, God always had in view, even on this hypothesis, the incarnation as the completion of his creative act; and only took the be occasion which the failure of his first plan through sin presented to introduce one more perfect. Billuart, therefore, as the interpreter of the Thomist school, maintains that God revealed the incarnation to Adam before his fall, though not the connection which the fulfilment of the divine purpose had with his sin as its _conditio sine qua non_. If this latter view is adopted, it cannot be held that the angelic and human natures were created and endowed with supernatural grace in the express view of the incarnation, or that the angels hold, and that man originally held, the title to glorification from Jesus Christ as their head, and the meritorious cause of original grace. Nevertheless, as the incarnation introduces a new and higher order into the universe, elevating it to an end metaphysically final of which it previously fell short, all angels and all creatures of every grade are subordinated to Jesus Christ, who is the head of the creation, reuniting all things to the Father in his person.

This explanation is made in deference to the common opinion, although the author does not hold this opinion, and in order that those who do hold it may not feel themselves bound to reject the whole argument respecting the relation of the creative act to the incarnation.

It is in regard to the doctrine of original grace, or the elevation of the rational nature to that supernatural order whose apex is the hypostatic union, that Catholic theology comes into an irreconcilable conflict with Pelagianism, Calvinism, and Jansenism. These three systems agree in denying the doctrine of original grace. They maintain that rational nature contains in its own constituent principles the germ of development into the state which is the _ultimatum_ of the creature, and the end for which God created it, and was bound to create it, if he created at all. They differ, however, fundamentally as to the principles actually constitutive of rational nature. The Pelagian takes human nature in its present condition as his type. The advocates of the other two systems take an ideal human nature, which has become essentially {152} corrupted by the fall, as their type. Therefore, the Pelagian says that human nature, as it now is, has in itself the principle of perfectibility by the explication and development of its essence. But the Calvinist and Jansenist say that human nature as it was first created, or as it is restored by grace to its primal condition, has the principle of perfectibility; but as it now is in those who have not been restored by grace, is entirely destitute of it. The conception which these opponents of Catholic doctrine have of the entity of that highest ideal state to which rational nature is determined, varies as the ratio of their distance from the Catholic idea. Those who are nearest to it retain the conception of the beatific union with God, which fades away in those who recede farther, until it becomes changed into a mere conception of an idealised earthly felicity.

The Catholic doctrine takes as its point of departure the postulate, that rational nature of itself is incapable of attaining or even initiating a movement towards that final end, which has been actually prefixed to it as its terminus. It needs, therefore, from the beginning, a superadded gift or grace, to place it in the plane of its destiny, which is supernatural, or above all that is possible to mere nature, explicated to any conceivable limit. At this point, however, two great schools of theology diverge from each other, each one of which is further subdivided as they proceed.

The radical conception of one school is, that nature is in itself an incomplete thing, constituted in the order of its genesis in a merely inchoate capacity for receiving regeneration in the supernatural order. Remaining in the order of genesis, it is in a state of merely inchoate, undeveloped, inexplicable existence, and therefore incapable of attaining its destination. There is, therefore, no end for which God could create rational existence, except a supernatural end. The natural demands the supernatural, the order of genesis demands the order of regeneration, and the wisdom and goodness of God require him to bestow on all rational creatures the grace cognate to the beatific vision and enabling them to attain it.

The radical conception of the other school is, that rational nature, _per se_ requires only the explication and perfection of its own constituent principles, and may be left to attain its finality in the purely natural order. The elevation of angels and men to the plane of a supernatural destiny was, therefore, a purely gratuitous concession of the supreme goodness of God, in view, as some would add, of the merit of the incarnate Word.

These different theories are entangled and interlaced with each other, and with many different and intricate questions related to them, in such a way as to make a thicket through which it is not easy to find a sure path. It is necessary, however, to try, or else to avoid the subject altogether.

The obscurity of the whole question is situated in the relation of created intelligence to its object which constitutes it in the intelligent or rational order. It is evident that a created substance is constituted an intelligent principle by receiving potentiality to the act connoted by this relation of the subject to its object, and is explicated by the reduction of this potentiality into act. The end of intelligent spirit is to attain to its intelligent object, by the act of intelligence. In the foresight of this, the exposition of the relation between intelligence and the intelligible has been placed first in this discussion.

It is agreed among all Catholic theologians: 1. That created intelligence can, by the explication of its own constitutive principles, attain to the knowledge of God as _causa altissima;_ or, that God is, _per se_, the ultimate object of reason. 2. That there is a mode of the relation of intelligence to its ultimate object, or to God, a permanent state of the intuition of {153} God, by a created spirit, called the intuitive, beatific vision of the divine essence, which can be attained only by a supernatural elevation and illumination of the intelligence.

The point of difference among theologians relates to the identity or difference of the relations just noted, Is that relation which intelligence has _per se_ to God, as its ultimate object, the relation which is completed by supernatural elevation, or not? If not, what is the distinction between them? Establish their identity, and you have established the theory which was mentioned in the first place above. Establish their difference, and you have established the second theory.

If the first theory is established, rational creatures are _ipso facto_ in a supernatural order. The natural order is merely the inchoation of the supernatural, cannot be completed without it, and cannot attain its end without a second immediate intervention of God, equal to the act of creation, by which God brings back to himself, as final cause, the creature which proceeded from him as first cause. This second act is regeneration; and creation, therefore, implies and demands regeneration. It follows from this, that reason is incapable of being developed or explicated by the mere concurrence of God with its principle of activity, or his concurrence with second causes acting upon it, that is, by the continuance and consummation of the creative, generative influx which originally gave it and other second causes existence. A regenerative influx is necessary, in order to bring its latent capacity into action, and make it capable of contemplating its proper object, which is God, as seen by an intuitive vision.

One great advantage of this theory is supposed to be, that it leaves the naturalists no ground to stand upon, by demonstrating the absolute necessity of the supernatural, that is, of revelation, grace, the church, etc. This presupposes that the theory can be demonstrated. If it cannot be, the attempt to do too much recoils upon the one who makes it, and injures his cause. Beside this, it may be said that the proposed advantage can be as effectually secured by proving that the natural order is actually subordinated in the scheme of divine Providence, as it really exists, to a supernatural end, without professing to prove that it must be so necessarily.

The great positive argument in favor of this hypothesis is, that rational nature necessarily seeks God as its ultimate object, and therefore longs for that clear, intellectual vision of him called the beatific. If this be true, the question is settled for ever. Those who seek to establish its truth state it under various forms. One way of stating it is, that reason seeks the universal, or the explanation of all particular effects, in the _causa altissima_, This is the doctrine of St. Thomas. God is the _causa altissima_, the universal principle, and therefore reason seeks for God.

Again, it is affirmed that there is a certain faculty of super-intelligence, which apprehends the super-intelligible order of being, not positively, but negatively, by apprehending the limitation of everything intelligible. Intelligence is therefore sensible of a want, a vacuum, an aimless, objectless yearning for something unknown and unattainable; showing that God has created it for the purpose of satisfying this want, and filling this void, by bringing intelligence into relation to himself as its immediate object, in a supernatural mode.

In a more popular mode, this same idea is presented under a countless variety of forms and expressions, in sermons, spiritual treatises, and poems, as a dissatisfaction of the soul with every kind of good attainable in this life, vague longing for an infinite and supreme good, a plaintive cry of human nature for the beatitude of the intuitive vision of God. "Irrequietum est cor nostrum donec requiescat in te"--"Our heart is unrestful until it finds repose in thee," is the language {154} of St. Augustine, which is echoed and reechoed on every side.

These considerations are not without great weight; nevertheless, they do not appear to us sufficient to prove conclusively the hypothesis in support of which they are adduced, or to over-balance other weighty considerations on the opposite side.

Reason seeks for the _causa altissima_, but it remains to be proved that it seeks for any other knowledge of it but that which is attainable by a mode connatural to the created spirit.

Reason is conscious of its own limitation. But this does not prove that it aspires to transcend this limitation. Beatified spirits are conscious of their own limitation. Those who are in the lowest grade are aware of numerous grades above them, and the highest are aware of their inferiority to the exalted humanity of Jesus Christ, united to the divine nature in his person. All together, including Jesus Christ himself, as man, are aware of an infinite incomprehensibility in the divine nature. In the words of the greatest of all mystic theologians, St. John of the Cross: "They who know him most perfectly, perceived most clearly that he is infinitely incomprehensible. To know God best, is to know he is incomprehensible; for those who have the less clear vision do not perceive so distinctly as the others how greatly he transcends their vision." [Footnote 33]

[Footnote 33: Spiritual Canticle, stanza vii. Oblate Ed. vol. ii. p. 44.]

Beatified spirits do not feel any void within themselves, or any unsatisfied longing for the comprehension of the super-intelligible. Neither do they aspire even to those degrees of clearer vision which are actually conceded to spirits of a higher order than their own. Why then should a rational creature necessarily desire to transcend its own proper and connatural mode of intelligence? The apprehension of the super-intelligible shows that the intellect cannot be satisfied with a limitation of itself to a mere knowledge of second causes and the contingent--that it must think about God, and apprehend in some way without infinite, eternal, necessary being and attributes of the creator and first cause of all things. But it does not show that it must apprehending God in the most perfect way possible, much less in such a way that he does not remain always infinitely beyond its comprehension.

The dissatisfaction of the human heart may proceed in great measure from the fact that God purposely disquiet's it by withholding from it the good it naturally seeks, in order to compel it to seek for supernatural good. Another cause of it is, that most persons have committed so many sins themselves, and are so much involved in the consequences of the sins of others, that they cannot possess the full measure even of that natural enjoyment of which human nature is capable. That the human heart in its misery and unhappiness turns longingly toward the hope of a supreme beatitude in the contemplation of God as he is revealed to the saints in heaven, may be owing to the fact that God, who proposes this beatitude to men, stirs up a longing for it in their souls by a supernatural grace.

The question, therefore, reverts to this, as has been repeatedly said already, What is the principle constitutive of the intelligent life and activity of a created spirit? When this principle is evolved into act, the created spirits fulfils its type, and realises its ideal perfection in its own order. Now, according to the preliminary doctrine we have laid down, this is an active power to apprehend the image of God in the creation, or to contemplate a created image of God which is a finite similitude of the infinite, uncreated image of God, that is to say, the Word. Beatific contemplation is a contemplation of this infinite, uncreated image without any intervening medium. Yet is an intellectual operation of which God is both the object and the medium. It is not therefore the operation which {155} perfects created intelligence in its own proper order, but one which elevates it above that order, giving it a participation in the divine intelligence itself. Created intelligence is perfected in its own proper order by its own natural operation; and although the intervention of God is necessary in order to conduct it to that perfection, so that it is strictly true that a supernatural force is necessary to the initiation, explication, and consummation of the natural order of intelligence, yet this does not elevate it to a supernatural mode and state of activity in the strict and theological sense of the word. Created intelligence is perfected by the contemplation of the Creator through the creating, and has no tendency or aspiration to rise any higher. True, it has an essential capacity to become the subject of a divine operation elevating it to the immediate intuition of God, or it never could be so elevated. This is the really strong argument in favor of the hypothesis that God, if he creates at all, must create an intelligent order determined to the beatific union. It is equally strong in favor of the hypothesis, that he must complete his creative act in the incarnation, because created nature is essentially capable of the hypostatic union. For what purpose is this capacity? Does it not indicate a demand for the order of regeneration, and the completion of this order in the incarnation? It is not our purpose to answer this question definitely, but to leave it open, as it has no practical bearing upon the result we are desirous of obtaining. Presupposing, however, that God determines to adopt the system of absolute optimism in creating, and to bring the universe to an end metaphysically final, as he actually has determined to do, this question, as we have previously stated, must be answered in the affirmative. There is no metaphysical finality short of the hypostatic union of the created with the uncreated nature, which alone is the adequate, objective externisation of the eternal idea in the mind of God. The metaphysical, generic perfection of the universe demands the incarnation, with its appropriate concomitants. But this demand is satisfied by the elevation of one individual nature to the hypostatic union, and the communication of the privileges due to this elevated nature to one or more orders of intelligent creatures containing each an adequate number of individuals. It does not require the elevation of all intelligent orders or all individuals, but admits of a selection from the entire number of created intelligences of a certain privileged class. It is only on the supposition that God cannot give an intelligent nature its due perfection and felicity without conceding to it the beatific vision, that we are compelled to believe that God cannot create intelligent spirits without giving them the opportunity of attaining supernatural beatitude. And it is merely this last supposition against which we have been contending.

The view we have taken, that rational nature precisely as such is not necessarily created merely in order to become the subject of elevating grace, but may be determined to an end which does not require it to transcend its natural condition, comports fully with the Catholic dogma of sanctifying grace. The church teaches that affiliation to God by grace is a pure boon or favor gratuitously conferred by God according to his good pleasure and sovereign will. It is not due to nature, or a necessary consequence of creation. The beginning, progress, and consummation of this adoptive filiation is from the grace of God, both in reference to angels and men. It was by grace that the angels and Adam were placed in the way of attaining the beatific vision, just as much as it is by grace that men are redeemed and saved since the fall. If rational nature cannot be explicated and brought to a term suitable for it, which satisfies all its exigencies, without this grace, it is not easy to see how it can be called a grace at all, since grace signifies gratuitous favor. Rather it would be something due to nature, which the goodness of God bound {156} him to confer when he had created it. It would be the mere complement of creation, and an essential part of the continuity of the creative act as much as the act of conservation, by virtue of which the soul is constituted immortal. In this case, it would be very difficult to reconcile the doctrine of original sin, and the doom of those who die in it before the use of reason, with the justice and goodness of God. It would be difficult also to explain the whole series of doctrinal decisions which have emanated from the Holy See, and have been accepted by the universal church, in relation to the Jansenist errors, all of which easily harmonise with the view we have taken.

Moreover, the plain dogmatic teaching of the church, that man, as he is now born, is "saltem negative aversatus a Deo," "at least negatively averted from God," and absolutely incapable of even the first movement of the will to turn back to him without prevenient grace, cannot be explained on the theory we are opposing without resorting to the notion of a positive depravation of human nature by the fall, a notion completely irreconcilable with rational principles. If rational nature as such is borne by a certain impetus toward God as possessed in the beatific vision, it will spring toward him of itself and by its own intrinsic principles, as soon as he is extrinsically revealed to it, without grace. To say that it does so, is precisely the error of the Semipelagians which is condemned by the church. It is certain that it does not; and therefore we must explain its inability to do so, either with the Calvinists and Jansenists by maintaining that its intrinsic principles are totally perverted and depraved, or by maintaining that rational nature, as such, is determined by its intrinsic impetus to an inferior mode of apprehending and loving God as its last end, which is below the plane of the supernatural.

This view accords fully with the teachings of the great mystic writers, who are the most profound of all philosophers and theologians. They all teach most distinctly, that when God leads a soul into a state of supernatural contemplation it has an almost unconquerable repugnance and reluctance to follow him, and is thrown into an obscure night, in which it undergoes untold struggles and sufferings before it can become fit for even that dim and imperfect light of contemplation which it is capable of receiving in this life. Why is it that the human soul turns toward the supernatural good only when excited, illuminated, and attracted by the grace of God, and even then with so much difficulty? Why does it so easily and of preference turn oh wait from it, unless it is, that it naturally seeks to attain its object by a mode more connatural to its own intrinsic and constitutive principles?

The conclusion we draw is, that rational nature of itself is capable of attaining its proper perfection and felicity, without being elevated above its own order, by the mere explication of its rationality, and aspires no higher, but even prefers to remain where it is. The fact that it is in a state which in comparison with the state of elevation is merely inchoate existence, and is _in potentiâ_ to a state not realised _in actu_, does not show that its felicity or the good order of the universe requires it to be elevated any higher, unless it is elected as a subject of elevating grace. [Footnote 34]

[Footnote 34: This does not mean that any human being is at liberty to choose to decline proffered grace. The human race _en masse_ is elected to grace, and at least all those to whom the faith is proposed have the proffer of grace, with a precept to accept it. Moreover, God has not provided any order except the supernatural for mankind in which the race can attain its proper perfection and felicity.]

God alone is _actus purissimus_ without any admixture of potentiality. The finite is always inchoate and potential, because finite. Its very nature implies what is called metaphysical evil, or a limitation of the possession of good in act. Every finite nature except that of the incarnate Word is limited, not only in respect to the infinite, but also in respect to some other finite nature superior to itself. It's proper perfection consists in the possession of good, with that limitation {157} which the will of God has prefixed to it as its term. The perfection and order of the universe, as a whole, are constituted by the subordination and harmony of all its parts in reference to the predetermined end. The individual felicity of a rational creature and his due relation to the final cause of the universe, do not require his being elevated to the utmost summit of existence of which he is capable, unless God has predetermined him to that place. The mere inert capacity of receiving an augmentation or elevation of his intellectual and voluntary operation does not give him any tendency to exceed his actual limit, unless that inert capacity begins to be actualized, or unless the principle of a new development is implanted and vitalized. The inert capacity of being united to the divine nature by the hypostatic union, is actualised only in Christ. If, therefore, rational nature could not attain its proper end and completion without the utmost actualization of its passive capacity, Christ alone would attain his final end. We most certainly admit, however, that the blessed in heaven all attain their final end and a perfect beatitude, each one in his own degree. We are not to understand, therefore, that the relation of the creation to God as final cause consists solely and purely in the return of the creature to God in the most sublime manner possible, and that everything which exists is created solely as a means to that end. If this were so, the hypostatic union of the human to the divine nature in the person of Jesus Christ would be the sole terminus of the creative act, the only end proposed by God in creating. Nothing else could or would have been created, except as a means to that end. The rest of creation, however, cannot contribute to that end. The union of the human nature to the divine in Christ and its filiation to God, by which it is beatified, glorified, and deified, is completely fulfilled within itself; and the rest of creation adds nothing to it. If God had no other end in view, in the reproduction of the immanent act within himself by a communication of himself _ad extra_, except the hypostatic union, he would have created only one perfect nature for that purpose. The beatification and glorification of the adopted brethren of Christ must be therefore included in the end of creation.

This is not all, however, that is included in it. The supernatural order includes in itself a natural order which is not absorbed into it, but which has its own distinct existence. _Gratia supponit naturam_, grace supposes nature, but does not supersede or extinguish it. The inferior intellectual operations of our Lord are not superseded by his beatific contemplation, nor do they contribute to its clearness of intuition. The operation of his animal soul--that is, of the principle within his rational soul which contains in an eminent mode all the perfection that is in a soul purely animal, and adapts his rational soul to be the form of a body--continues also, together with the activity of the senses and of the active bodily life. This operation does not conduce to the perfection of the act of beatific contemplation, which does not require the mediation of the senses. The same is true of the inferior, natural operations of all beatified angels and men. If supernatural beatitude were the exclusive end of the creation, there would be no reason why these inferior operations should continue, any more than the exercise of faith, hope, patience, fortitude, or works of merit, which, being exclusively ordained as means for attaining beatitude, cease when the end is gained. The beatific act would swallow up the entire activity of the beatified, and all inferior life would cease. For the same reason, all corporeal and material organization would be swept out of the way as a useless scaffolding, and only beatified spirits, exclusively occupied in the immediate contemplation of God, would continue to exist for ever.

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This is not so, however. The body is to rise again and live for ever. The universe is to remain for ever, with all its various grades of existence, including even the lowest, or those which are purely material. There is therefore a natural order coexisting with the supernatural in a subordinate relation to it--a minor and less principal part, but still an integral part of the divine, creative plan. There is a _cognitio matutina_ and a _cognitio vespertina_, a matutinal and vesperal knowledge, in the blessed; the one being the immediate intuition of the trinity in unity, the other the mediate intuition of the idea or infinite archetype of creation in God, through his creative act. There is a natural intellectual life in the angels, and a natural intellectual and physical life in man, in the beatific state. The natural order is preserved and perfected in the supernatural order, with all its beauty and felicity--with its science, virtue, love, friendship, and society. The material world is everlasting, together with the spiritual. All orders together make up the universe; and it is the whole complex of diverse and multitudinous existences which completely expresses the divine idea and fulfils the divine purpose of the creator. The metaphysical finality or apex of the creative act is in the incarnate Word, but the relation to the final cause exists in everything, and is fulfilled in the universe as a totality, which embraces in one harmonious plan all things that have been created, and culminates in Jesus Christ, through the hypostatic union of the divine and human natures in his person.

In this universe there may be an order of intelligent existences, touching at its lowest point the highest point of irrational existence, and at its highest point the lowest in the grade of the beatified spirits. That inferior order of knowledge and felicity may exist distinctly and separately which exists conjointly with supernatural beatitude in the kingdom of heaven. The perfection of the universe requires that there should be a beatified, glorified order at its summit. It may even the maintained that this consummation of created nature in the highest possible end is the only one which the divine wisdom could propose in creating. Yet this does not exclude the possibility of an inferior order of intelligence, upon which the grace elevating it to a supernatural state is not conferred.

We are prepared, therefore, to proceed to the consideration of the nature and conditions of that grace, as a cure, gratuitous gift of God, conferred upon angels and upon the human race through his free and sovereign goodness. From the point of view to which the previous reasoning has conducted us, the angels and mankind appear to us, not as mere species of rational creatures conducted by their creator along the path of rational development by natural law, but as the elect heirs of an entirely gratuitous inheritance of glory--candidates for a destiny entirely supernatural. The relation which they sustain to God in this supernatural scheme of grace will therefore be our topic next in order.

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SONG.

What magician pulls the string That uncurtains pretty Spring? And the swallow with his wing Against the sky 1 Who brings the branch its green, And the honey-bee a queen? "Is it I?" Said April, "I?" "Yes, 'tis I."

What aërial artist limns Rock and cloud, with brush that dims Titian's oils and Hogarth's whims In shape and dye? What Florimel embowers Lawn and lake with arching flowers? "Is it I?" Said bright July, "I?" "Yes, 'tis I."

What good genii drop the grains Of brown sugar in the canes? Who fills up the apple's veins With sweetened dew? Who hangs the painted air With the grape and golden pear? Is it you, October? You? Yes, 'tis you.

Who careering sweeps the plain, Scoffing at the violet's pain. Echoing back and back again His wild halloo? Who makes the Yule-fire foam Round the happy hearth of home? Is it you, December? You? Aye, 'tis you.

T. W. K.

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From The Dublin University Magazine,

COWARDICE AND COURAGE.

Shakespeare, the universal teacher, who knew every phase of the heart, and touched every chord of feeling, has declared aphoristically, speaking as Julius Caesar:

"Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant only taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard. It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come."

Notwithstanding this, fear is one of the strongest impulses of our nature--fear of discovery, shame, or punishment when we have done wrong: fear of pain, danger, or death. Dr. Johnson said in conversation: "Fear is one of the passions of humanity of which it is impossible to divest it. You all remember that the Emperor Charles V., when he read upon the tomb of a Spanish nobleman, 'Here lies one who never knew fear,' wittily observed, 'Then he never snuffed a candle with his fingers.'" In opposition to this we may quote an anecdote told of Lord Howe, when in command of the Channel Fleet. One night he was suddenly awakened by an officer, who, in great trepidation, told him the ship was on fire close to the powder-room; the admiral coolly replied: "If it is so, sir, we shall very soon know it." Some minutes afterwards the lieutenant returned, and told his lordship he had no occasion to be afraid, for the fire was extinguished. "Afraid!" replied Lord Howe, hastily; "what do you mean by that, sir? I never was afraid in my life."

No emotions of the human frame are more opposite than cowardice and courage, each taken in its simple sense, yet both spring from the same sources--physical temperament early training. We do not make our own nervous system, which is often grievously tampered with or perverted by silly, ill-conditioned nurses, servants, and teachers, who frightened children with tales of bugbears, monsters and hobgoblins, until they scream if left in the dark for a moment, and dare not sleep in a room by themselves. Pillory or flogging at the cart's tail would be too mild a punishment for those moral Thugs, who strangle wholesome feelings in the first dawn of their existence, and supply their place with baneful impressions, which, strongly implanted in early youth, grow and strengthen to a period of life when reason on to subdue them, but frequently fails to do so. Viewed in this light, constitutional timidity is a misfortune rather than a crime, however contemptible it may be considered; while mere animal insensibility to danger, which readily calls for admiration, has no claim to rank as a virtue. We speak not here of the moral courage which may be engrafted on a nature originally pusillanimous, by pride, education or a sense of duty and station. Henry IV., of France, and Frederick the Great, of Prussia, are illustrious examples of this victory of over matter. Both were instinctively afraid of danger, and both are recorded as evincing perfect self-possession and displaying prodigies of valor in many a hotly-contested field. Henry's flesh quivered the first time he found himself in action, although his heart was firm. "Villanous nature, I will make thee ashamed of thyself!" he exclaimed, as he spurred his horse through a {161} breach before which the bravest veterans paused; and ever afterward the white plume was recognized as the rallying point of battle. Frederick turned from the field of Molwitz, and left his marshals to win the day without him; but it was his first and only moment of wavering through a life of hard campaigns.

Some natures are so constant that no surprise can shake them. An instance occurs in the career of Crillon, called by distinction, "The Brave," in an Army where all were valiant. He was stationed with a small detachment in a lone house. Some young officers, in the dead of night, raised a cry that the enemy were upon them, a company by loud shouts and the firing of musketry. Crillon started from his bed, seized his sword, and rushed down-stairs in his shirt, calling on all to follow him and die at their posts like men. A burst of laughter behind arrested his steps, and he at once penetrated the joke. He re-ascendant, and seizing one of the perpetrators roughly by the arm, explained: "Young man, it is well for you that your trick failed. Had you thrown me off my guard, you would have been the first I should have sacrificed to my lost honor. Take warning, and deal in no such folly for the future."

Charles XII. was gifted from infancy with iron nerves. "What is that noise?" he asked, as the balls whistling past him when landing in Denmark--a mere stripling, under a heavy fire. "The sound of the shot the fire at your majesty," replied Marshal Renschild. "Good!" said the king; "henceforth that shall be my music." And so he made it, with little intermission, until the last and fatal bullet, whether fired by traitor or foe, which entered his brain, and finished his wild career at Fredericshall, eighteen years later.

Murat and Lannes were the admitted paladins of the Imperial army; yet both once came to a stand-still before the battery which vomited forth fire and death. "Rascals!" muttered Napoleon, bitterly; "have I made you too rich?" Stung by the taunt, they rushed on, and the victory was gained. No epidemic is so contagious as a panic. When once caught, it expands with the velocity of an ignited train. A celebrated case occurred in Henry the Eighth's time, at the Battle of the Spurs, in 1513, so called because the defeated force fled with such haste that it was impossible for the best mounted cavaliers to overtake them. Thus the killed and wounded made but a poor figure. Then came Falkirk, in 1746, of which Horace Walpole said: "The fighting lay in a small compass, the greater part of both armies running away." Then the memorable "Races of Castlebar," of which the less that is said the better; then the _sauve qui peut_ of Waterloo; and though last, far from least, the pell-mell rout of Bull's Run, which inaugurated the late American war. Livy records, and Sir William Napier quotes the anecdote, that after a drawn battle a god, calling out in the night, declared that the Etruscans had lost one man more than the Romans! whereupon a panic fell on the former, and they abandoned the field to their adversaries, who gathered all the fruits of a real victory.

There are some who think they can face danger and death until the moment of trial arrives, and then their nerves give way. In the biographies of John Graham, Viscount of Dundee, we find it related that, during the civil wars of that period, a friend of his, a loyal and devoted partisan of the house of Stuart, like himself, committed his favorite son to his charge. "I give him to the king's cause," said the father; "take care that he does not dishonor his name and race. I depend on you to look after him." In the first action, the unlucky youth exhibited undoubted symptoms of cowardice. Dundee took him aside and said "The service in which we are engaged is desperate, {162} and requires desperate resolution on the part of all concerned in it. You have mistaken your trade. Go home, before worse happens." The youth shed bitter tears, said it was a momentary weakness, implored for another trial, and promised to behave better the next time. Dundee relented. The next trial soon came, with the same result. Dundee rode up to the recreant, pistol in hand, and exclaiming, "Your father's son shall never die by the hands of the hangman," shot him dead upon the spot.

Experienced military authorities have delivered their opinion that of one hundred rank and file, taken indiscriminately--Alexanders at six-pence per diem, as Voltaire sneeringly designates them--one third are determined daredevils, who will face any danger, and flinch from nothing; the next division are waverers, equally disposed to stand or run, and likely to be led either way by example; while the residue are rank cowards. Dr. Johnson took a more unfavorable view. At a dinner at General Paoli's, in 1778, when fears of an invasion were circulated, Mr. John Spottiswoode, the solicitor, observed that Mr. Fraser, an engineer, who had recently visited Dunkirk, said the French had the same fears of us. "It is thus," remarked Dr. Johnson, "that mutual cowardice keeps us in peace. Were one half mankind brave, and one half cowards, the brave would be always beating the cowards. Were all brave, they would lead a very uneasy life; all would be continually fighting; but being all cowards, we go on tolerably well."

It is difficult to invest with interest a quality so universally held in contempt as cowardice; yet Sir Walter Scott has succeeded in obtaining sympathy for _Conachar_, or _Eachin M'Ian_. the young Highland chieftain, in the Fair Maid of Perth. He evidently conceived the character _con amore_, and has elaborated it with skill and care.

Montaigne observes of fear that it is a surprisal of the heart upon the apprehension of approaching evil; and if it reaches the degree of terror, and the evil seems impendent, the hair is raised on end, and the whole body put into horror and trembling. After this, if the passion continues, the spirits are thrown into confusion, so that they cannot execute their offices; the usual successors of reason fail, judgment is blinded, the powers of voluntary motion become weak, and the heart is insufficient to maintain the circulation of the blood, which, stopping and stagnating in the ventricles, causes painting and swooning, and sometimes sudden death. The quaint old essayist then illustrates by examples. He tells of a jester who had contrived to give his master, a petty prince of Italy, a hearty ducking and a fright to boot, to cure him of an ague. The treatment succeeded; but the autocrat, by way of retaliation, had his audacious physician tried for treason, and condemned to lose his had. The criminal was brought forth, the priest received his confession, and the luckless buffoon knelt to prepare for the blow. Instead of wielding his axe, the executioner, as he had been instructed, threw a pitcher of water on the bare neck of the criminal. Here the jest was to have ended; but the shock was too great for poor Gonella, who was found dead on the block.

Montaigne also says, that fear manifests its utmost power and effect when it throws men into a valiant despair, having before deprived them of all sense both of duty and honor. In the first great battle of the Romans against Hannibal, under the Consul Sempronius, a body of twenty thousand men that had taken flight, seeing no other escape for their cowardice, threw themselves headlong upon the great mass of their pursuing enemies, with wonderful force and fury they charged, and cut a passage through, with a prodigious slaughter of the Carthaginians; thus purchasing an ignominious retreat at the same price which might have won for them glorious victory.

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But if fear is a destructive, it also sometimes acts in an opposite sense. Dr. Thomas Bartoline tells us in his history of anatomy, that fear has been known to cure epilepsy, gout, and ague. He relates that a woman of condition, who was affected with the tertian ague, was so terrified by the explosion of a bomb, which was fired off during her fit, that she fainted away and was thought to be dead. "Having then sent for me to see her," he adds, "and finding her pulse still pretty strong, I prescribed for her some slight cordials, and she soon recovered from her state of weakness without any appearance of fever, which had afterward no return."

Bartoline says again that a young lady who had a quartan ague for several months successively, was invited by some of her acquaintance to take an excursion on the water, with a view to dissipate the melancholy ideas occasioned by her illness; but they had scarcely got into the boat when it began to sink, and all were terribly shocked with the dread of perishing. After escaping this danger, the patient found that the terror had cured her ailment, and she had no return of the ague.

A third instance recorded by Bartoline is even more extraordinary than the two we have already named. A man forty-two years of age, of a hot and moist constitution, subject to a colic, but the fits not violent, was seized one evening, about sunset, with an internal cold, though the weather on that day was unusually warm. Different medicines were administered to him, but without success. He died within eighteen or nineteen hours, without the least agitation or any of the convulsions that frequently accompany the parting agony, so that he seemed to subside into a placid sleep. His friends requested Dr. Bartoline to open his body, and it was found that he had died of a mortification of the punereus. He was a very fat subject, and what was surprising in to huge and corpulent a body, his bones were as small as those of a young girl, and his muscles extremely weak, thin, and membraneous rather than fleshy. While the doctor was making these observations on the dissected corpse, a brother of the deceased, who had been absent for sixteen years, and was of the same size, constitution, and habit of body, entered the room suddenly and unexpectedly. He looked on the remains of his relative, heard the detail of the circumstances of his death, the cause of which he saw confirmed with his own eyes, and reasoned for some time calmly and sensibly on the mournful event. All at once he became stupefied, speechless, and fell into a fainting fit, from which neither balsams nor stimulants, nor any of the remedies resorted to in such cases, could recover him. The opening of a vein was suggested, but this advice was not followed. All present appeared as if paralyzed with horror. The patient seemed to be without pulse or respiration, his limbs began to stiffen, and he was pronounced to be on the point of expiring. A sudden idea struck Bartoline, for which he says he could not account, but he said aloud, "Let us recompose the dead body and sew it up; in the meantime the other will be quite dead, and I will dissect him also." The words were scarcely uttered when the gentleman supposed to be _in articulo mortis_ started up from the sofa on which he had been laid, roared out with the lungs of a bull, snatched up his cloak, took to his heels, as if nothing had happened to him, and lived for many years after in an excellent slate of health.

Fear has been known to turn the hair in a single night from black to grey or white. This happened, amongst others, to Ludovico Sforza. The same is asserted of Queen Marie Antoinette, although not so suddenly, and, as some say, from grief, not fear. The Emperor Louis, of Bavaria, anno 1256, suspected his wife, Mary of Brabant, without just cause, condemned her, unheard, for adultery, and caused her chief lady-in-waiting, who was also {164} innocent, to be cast headlong from a tower, as a confederate in his dishonor. Soon after this horrible cruelty he was visited by a fearful vision one night, and rose in the morning with his dark locks as white as snow.

A young Spaniard of noble family, Don Diego Osorio, being in love with a lady of the court, prevailed on her to grant him an interview by night in the royal gardens. The barking of a little dog betrayed them. The gallant was seized by the guard and conveyed to prison. It was a capital crime to be found in that place without special permission, and therefore he was condemned to die. The reading of the sentence so unmanned him that the next morning he stood in presence of his jailer with a furrowed visage and grey hair. The fact being reported to King Ferdinand as a prodigy, he was moved to compassion, and pardoned the culprit, saying, he had been sufficiently punished in exchanging the bloom of youth for the hoary aspect of age. The same happened to the father of Martin Delrio, who, lying sick in bed, heard the physicians say he would certainly die. He recovered, but the fright gave him a grey head in a few hours, and this instance of the terror he had suffered never afterward left him.

Robert Boyle, in his Philosophical Examples, relates the following incident of the same class: "Being about four or six years since," he says, "in the county of Cork, there was an Irish captain, a man of middle age and stature, who came with some of his followers to surrender himself to the Lord Broghill, who then commanded the English forces in those parts, upon a public offer of pardon to the Irish that would lay down their arms. He was casually met with in a suspicious place by a party of the English, and intercepted, the Lord Broghill being then absent. He was so apprehensive of being put to death before the return of the commander-in-chief, that his anxiety of mind quickly altered the color of his hair in a peculiar manner. It was not uniformly changed, but here and there certain peculiar tufts and locks, whose bases might be about an inch in diameter were suddenly turned white alone; the rest of his hair, whereof the Irish used to wear good store, retained its natural reddish color."

A sudden shock operates on the memory as well as on the hair. In Pliny's Natural History we read of one who, being struck violently and unexpectedly by a stone, forgot his letters, and could never write again; another, he says, through a fall from the roof of a very high house, lost his remembrance of his own mother, his nearest kinsfolks, friends, and neighbors; and a third, in a fit of sickness, ceased to recognize his own servants. Messala Corvinus, the great orator, being startled suddenly, forgot his own name, and was unable to remember it for a considerable time. The same thing happened to Sidney Smith, not from fear, but from absence of mind. He called on a friend, who was not at home, and he happened to have no card to leave. "What name, sir?" said the servant. "That's exactly what I can't tell you," was the reply.

Augustus Caesar was not a valiant man, in the popular acceptation of the word. He shrank in his tent from the onset at Philippi, skulked in the hold of the admiral's galley during the sea-fight with Sextus Pompey in the Straits of Messina, and was a safe spectator on shore at Actium. Antony, and even his own friend and lieutenant, Agrippa, taunted him with his want of courage. He was so terrified at thunder and lightning that he always carried with him the skin of a sea-calf as an antidote. If he suspected the approach of a tempest, he ran to some underground vault until the symptoms passed over. Yet Suetonius says he once, under necessity, showed a bold front to a danger he could not avoid. He was walking abroad with Diomedes, his steward, when a wild boar, which had broken loose, rushed directly toward them. {165} Thus steward in his terror, ran behind the emperor and interposed him as a shield betwixt the assailant and himself. Augustus stood his ground, because flight was barred, and the boar turned tail. But knowing that fear, not malice, had prompted the conduct of his servant, he had the magnanimity to confine his resentment to a perpetual just. Caligula, who affected to contemn the gods, was equally terrified with Augustus at the least indication of thunder and lightning. He covered his head, and if the explosions chanced to be loud and near, leaped from his couch and hid himself under it.

History mentions several sovereigns who loved war, but had no taste for personal participation in its perils. Charles the Fifth, and his son, Philip the second, are amongst the number, The leading characteristic of the latter was cruelty, a disposition generally associated with cowardice. Diocletian, after he became emperor, fought more by his lieutenants than in person. Lactantius said of him that he was timid and spiritless in all situations of danger. _Erat in omni tumultu meticulosus et animi dejectus_. [Footnote 35]

[Footnote 35: Lactant. De Mortibus Persecutorum, c. ix.]

A commander should be self-collected in a battle, calm under a shower of darts or the whistling of artillery; but to prove his courage, he is not called upon to charge windmills with the chivalric madness of Don Quixote, or to slay eight hundred enemies with his own hand, as recorded of Aurelian and Richard Coeur de Lion. Charles of Sweden and Attila loved fighting for fighting's sake; for the _certaminis gaudia_, as Cassiodorus writes; "the rapture of the strife," as Lord Byron translates the passage. Yet a brave general is not obliged to be a vulture snuffing blood like the truculent king of the Huns. He can maintain his reputation for personal courage without jumping alone into the midst of an army of foes, as Alexander did from the walls of Oxydrace; or resisting a host of many thousands with three hundred men, as Charles XII. did at Bender; or of placing his foot first on the scaling ladder in emulation of the extreme daring of the Constable Bourbon, under extreme circumstances, at the storming of Rome. Charles the First lacked _moral_ courage, but he was no craven physically. His bravery in the field, and calm dignity on the scaffold, went far in atonement of his political weaknesses and shortcomings.

The mind naturally revolts from sudden or violent death. Yet it has its recommendations. It is never painful. The important consideration is lest it should be unprepared for. We mourn the loss of a friend or relative who is killed in battle more than we do that of one who dies in the course of nature, or of an incidental fever. We lament a soldier's death because it seems untimely. A sufferer who languishes of disease, ends his life with more pain but with less credit. He leaves no example to be quoted, no honor to be cherished as an heirloom by his descendants. We affect to be greatly shocked at the misfortunes or death of a friend or acquaintance, but there is something pharisaical in this exuberance of sympathy, only we are unwilling to confess the truth openly.

Foote, who was a scoffer, and in all respects an irreligious man, said, when very ill, that he was not afraid to die. David Hume, an _esprit fort_ of a more pretentious character, declared that it gave him no more uneasiness to think he should not be after this life, than that he had not been before he began to exist. An ingenious sophistry, like his essay on miracles. We do not believe that any one ever really persuaded himself that he was not a responsible being, and not answerable for his deeds done in the flesh. Sir Henry Halford, in his essays, expresses his surprise that of the great number of patients he had attended, so few appeared reluctant to die. "We may suppose," he adds, "that this willingness to submit to the common and irresistible doom, arises from an {166} impatience of suffering, or from that passive indifference which is sometimes the result of debility and extreme bodily pain."

Themistocles was quite as unwilling to die, although he assigned a better reason for his love of life. Finding his mental and physical powers beginning to decay, in such a manner as to indicate his approaching end, he grieved that he must now depart, when, as he said, he was only beginning to grow wise. As an instance of superstitious terror, Plutarch tells us that Amestis, the wife of the great Xerxes, buried twelve persons alive, offering them as a sacrifice to Pluto for the prolongation of her own days. Mecaenas, the great patron of learning, and favorite of Augustus, had such a horror of death, that he had often in his mouth, "all things are to be endured so long as life is continued." The Emperor Domitian, from innate timidity, caused the walls of the galleries wherein he took daily recreation to be garnished with the stone called phangites, the brightness of which reflected all that was passing behind him. Theophrastus, the philosopher, who lived to be one hundred and seven years of age, was so attached to life that he complained of the partiality of nature in granting longevity to the crow and the stag beyond that accorded to man. Plutarch, in his life of Pericles, names a skilful engineer called Artemon, who was withal so timorous that he was frightened at his own shadow, and seldom stirred out of his house for fear some accident should betide him. Two of his servants always held a brazen target over his head lest anything might fall upon it; and if necessity compelled him to go abroad, he never walked, but was carried in a litter which hung within an inch or two of the ground.

We read, in a more recent author, of a certain Rhodius, who, being sentenced to perpetual imprisonment in a dungeon, by a tyrant, for indulging in unseasonable liberty of speech, was treated in all respects like a caged beast, with great torture and ignominy. His food was scanty and loathsome; his hands were amputated, his face gashed and disfigured with wounds. In this miserable plight, some of his friends suggested to him to put an end to his sufferings by voluntary starvation. "No," he replied; "while life remains all things are to be hoped for." He clung to mere existence when death would have been a relief. How are we to reconcile or account for these strange contradictions? The sum of all appears to be that human nature is a complex mystery, beyond the powers of man to fathom with the limited faculties attached to his transitory condition.

Let us turn now to a more attractive quality, courage and, manly daring as exhibited in life and and death, particularly in the "last scene of all." _Finis coranat opus_--the end crowns the work. When Epaminondas asked whether Chabrias, Iphicrates or himself deserved the highest place in the esteem of their fellow-beings, he replied, "You must see us die before that question can be answered." His own exit at Mantinea, in the moment of a glorious victory, was singularly brilliant, and his parting sentiments illustrated the purity of his life. The situation finds an exact parallel in the fall of Gustavus Adolphus, under the same circumstances, at Lutzen. The name of the patriot who seals with blood his devotion to his cause, on a winning field, is encircled with and imperishable halo of glory, the thought of which would stir the pulse of an anchorite. Claverhouse, in Old Mortality, describes the feeling with true military enthusiasm. "It is not," he says, "the expiring pang that is worth thinking of in an event that must happen one day, and may befall us at any moment--it is the memory which the soldier leaves behind him, like the long train of light that follows the sunken sun; that is all which is worth caring for, which distinguishes the death of the brave or the ignoble. When I think of death, as a chance of {167} almost hourly occurrence in the course before me, it is in the hope of pressing one day some well-fought and hard-won field of battle, and expiring with the shout of victory in my ear; _that_ would be worth dying for, and more, it would be worth having lived for." And so fell the real Claverhouse on the field of Killiecrankie, and with him vanished the passing gleam of sunshine in the fortunes of the master he served so loyally and well. Had he lived to improve his victory, he would have been in Edinburgh in two or three days, and it is difficult to say what turn the pages of coming history might then have taken. As soon as it was known that he was killed, his army of Highland clans dispersed, and never collected again. They were held together by his single name, and had no faith in any other leader.

A heathen poet, Antiphanes, who lived a century earlier than Socrates or his pupil Plato, and five hundred years before the Christian revelation, has a remarkable passage to this effect, of which the following verbal translation is given by Addison in the Spectator: "Grieve not above measure for deceased friends. They are not dead, but have only finished that journey we are all necessitated to take. We ourselves must go to that great place of reception in which they are all of them assembled, and in this general rendezvous of mankind live together in another state of being."

Men of the most opposite characters have jested on the point of death. Sir Thomas More, a Christian philosopher, said to the executioner, "Good friend, let me put my beard out of the way, for that has committed no offence against the king."

The following instance, recorded by the Abbé Vertot, in his history of the revolutions of Portugal, may claim comparison, for intrepidity and greatness of soul, with anything that we read of in Greek or Roman lore. When Don Sebastian, King of Portugal, invaded the territories of Muley Moloch, Emperor of Morocco to de-throne him and set his crown on the head of his nephew, Moloch was wearing away with a distemper which he himself knew and felt to be incurable. However, he prepared for the reception of the formidable foreign enemy. He was so utterly exhausted by his malady, that he scarcely expected to outlive the day when the decisive battle was fought at Alcazar. But knowing the fatal consequences that would happen to his children and people in case he should die before he put an end to that war, he gave directions to his principal officers that if he died during the engagement they should conceal his death from the army, and should ride up to the litter in which his corpse was carried, under pretence of receiving orders from him as usual. Before the action began he was carried through all the ranks of his host, with the curtains of the litter drawn up, as they stood in battle array, and encouraged them to fight valiantly in defence of their religion and country. Finding the action at one period of the day turning against him, and seeing that the decisive moment had arrived, he, though verging on his last agonies, threw himself out of his litter. The enthusiasm of his spirit for the moment conquered the feebleness of his body; he was lifted upon a horse, rallied his troops, and led them to a renewed charge, which ended in a complete victory on the side of the Moors. The King of Portugal was killed. At least, he disappeared mysteriously, and never was seen again; his body, like that of James the Fourth at Flodden, was not clearly identified, and more than one pretender from time to time came forward to personate him; his entire army was dispersed, slain, or rendered captive. Muley Moloch lived to witness the effect of his charge, when nature gave way; his officers replaced him in his litter; he was unable to speak, but laying his finger on his lips to enjoin secrecy on all who stood around him, died a few moments afterwards in that posture.

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Fortitude and valor are, after all, more derived from constitution and example than from any inherent power of the mind. When Sylla beheld his army on the point of defeat by Archelaus, the general of Mithridates, he alighted from his horse, snatched a standard from the bearer, and rushing with it into the midst of the enemy, cried out, "Here, comrades, I intend to die; but for you, when asked where you left your general, remember it was at Orchomenus." The soldiers, moved by his speech and example, returned to their ranks, renewed the fight, and converted an imminent overthrow into a decisive victory. At Marathon, Cynegirus, an Athenian, having pursued the Persians to their ships, grasped a boat in which some of them were putting off from the shore, with his right hand, holding it until his hand was cut off; he then seized it with the left, which was also immediately severed. After that, he retained it with his teeth, nor did he relinquish that last hold until his fleeting breath failed, and thereby disappointed the resolute intention of his mind.

The exploits of Mutius Seaevola, who thrust his hand into the fire to frighten Porsenna, and of Horatius Cocles, who defended a bridge singly against an army, are familiar to every school-boy. The latter, in the glowing verses of Macaulay, is a favorite subject of selection at school speech-days, and for public readings or recitations. According to the same authority, Plutarch, the heroism of Seaevola had been anticipated by Agesilaus, the brother of Themistocles. When Xerxes arrived with his countless hosts at Cape Artemisium, the bold Athenian, disguised as a Persian, came into the camp of the barbarians, and slew one of the captains of the royal guard, supposing he had been the king himself. He was immediately brought before Xerxes, who was then offering sacrifices upon the altar of the Sun. Agesilaus thrust his hand into the flame, and endured the torture without sigh or groan. Xerxes ordered them to loose him. "All we Athenians," said Agesilaus, "are of the same determination. If thou wilt not believe it, I will also suffer my left hand to be consumed by the fire." The king, awed and impressed with respect for such undaunted constancy, commanded him to be carefully kept and well treated. Did one story suggest the other, or are both real or fabulous?

Valerius Maximus relates the following anecdote: "After the ancient custom of the Macedonians, certain noble youths waited on Alexander the Great when he sacrificed to the gods. One of these, holding a censer in his hand, stood before the king. It chanced that a live coal fell upon his arm, and so burnt it that the smell of the charred flesh affected the bystanders; yet the sufferer suppressed the pain, in silence, and held his arm immovable, lest by shaking the censer he should interrupt the sacrifice, or by his groaning disturb the king. Alexander, that he might still further try his fortitude, purposely continued and protracted the sacrifice; yet the noble-hearted boy persisted in his resolute intention." To this rare instance of fortitude he adds another. "Anaxarchus, a philosopher of Abdera, was remarkable for freedom of speech, which no personal consideration restrained. He was a friend of Alexander, and when the great conqueror was wounded, said bluntly, 'Behold the blood of a man and not of a god.' But Alexander was too noble to be offended at such a home truth. It was otherwise with Nicocreon, tyrant of Cyprus, to whose court Anaxarchus betook himself on the death of Alexander. When the sage openly reproached him with his cruelties, Nicocreon seized and threatened to pound him in a stone mortar with iron hammers. 'Pound the body of Anaxarchus at thy pleasure,' exclaimed he; 'his soul thou canst not pound.' The tyrant, in a paroxysm of rage, ordered his tongue to be cut from his mouth. {169} 'Effeminate wretch,' cried the undaunted monitor, 'neither shall that part of my body be at thy disposal.' So saying, he bit off his own tongue, and spat it in the face of his persecutor."

Bacon, in his History of Life and Death, mentions a certain tradition of a man, who being under the executioner's hands for high treason, after his heart was plucked from his body, was yet heard to murmur several words of prayer. He also instances another strange example in the case of the Burgundian who murdered the Prince of Orange. When the first part of his sentence, which only related to cutting off his curls of hair, was carried out, he absolutely shed shed tears; yet, when scourged with rods of iron, and his flesh torn with red-hot pincers, he uttered neither sigh nor grown. Before his sense of feeling became extinct under reiterated tortures, a part of the scaffold fell on the head of a spectator. The criminal was observed to laugh at the accident.

It is recorded of Caius Marius, seven times Roman consul, and conquer of the Cimbri and Teutones, that a short time before his death, in his seventieth year, a swelling in the leg location the necessity of its being cut off. To this he submitted without a distortion of the face or any visible sign of suffering. The surgeon told him the other leg was as badly affected and peremptorily demanded the same remedy, if he wished his life to be prolonged. "No," said Marius, "the pain is greater than the advantage." Something very similar occurred at the death of General Moreau on the field of Dresden, in 1813. A cannon ball, as he was in conversation with the Emperor of Russia, shattered his right knee, passed through the body of the horse, and left his other leg suspended by a few ligaments. He sat up and coolly smoked a cigar while undergoing the amputation of the left. On being told that he must also lose the right, he shrugged his shoulders, and said to the surgeons, "On with your work, if it must be so; but if I had known at the beginning, I would have kept my legs and spared your trouble." He survived only a few hours.

In 1571 Marc Antonio Bragandino, a noble Venetian, who was governor of Famagusta, in the island of Cyprus, defended that city with indomitable perseverance during a long siege, which cost Mustapha, the general of the Turkish army, many thousands of his bravest soldiers. The promised aid from Venice not arriving in time, Bragandino was compelled to surrender on honorable conditions, which Mustapha violated with consummate treachery. He caused the principal officers to be beheaded in sight of their commander, who was reserved for a more inhuman punishment. Three times the scimetar was drawn across his throat, that he might endure the pain of more than one death, yet the illustrious victim quailed not nor wavered in his intrepid demeanor. His nose and ears were then cut off, and loaded with chains he was compelled to carry earth in a hod to those who were repairing the fortifications. With this heavy burden he was forced to bend and kiss the ground every time he passed before Mustapha. Still his courage supported him, and he kept dignified silence. Finally he was lashed to the yard-arm of one of the Turkish galleys, and flayed alive. He endured all with unshaken firmness, and to the last reproached the infidels with their perfidy and inhumanity. His skin was carried in parade along the coasts of Syria and Egypt, and deposited in the arsenal of Constantinople, whence it was obtained by the children of the illustrious hero, and preserved as the most glorious relic in their family.

We find it written in Baker's Chronicle that King William Rufus, being reconciled to his brother Robert, assisted him to recover Fort St. Michael, in Normandy, forcibly held by Prince Henry, afterwards Henry the First. During the siege, William one day {170} happening to be riding carelessly along the shore, was set upon by three knights, who assaulted him so fiercely that they drew him from his saddle, and the saddle from his horse. But catching up his saddle, and drawing his sword, he defended himself until rescue came. Being afterwards blamed for his obstinacy in risking his life for a trifling part of his equipment, "It would have angered me to the very heart," he replied, "that the knaves should have bragged they had won the saddle from me." The same authority tells us that "Malcolm, king of the Scots, a contemporary of William Rufus, was a most valiant prince, as appears by an act of his of an extraordinary strain. Hearing of a conspiracy and plot to murder him, by one whose name is not recorded, he dissembled all knowledge of it, till being abroad one day hunting in company with the concealed traitor, he took him apart in a wood, and being alone, 'Here now,' said he, 'is fit time and place to do that manfully which you intended to do treacherously; draw your weapon, and if you now kill me, none being present, you can incur no danger.' By this speech of the king's the fellow was so daunted, that presently he fell down at his feet and humbly implored forgiveness; which being granted, he proved himself ever after a loyal and faithful servant. This same Malcolm, son of the Duncan who was murdered by Macbeth, was himself killed at the siege of Alnwick Castle, in 1093. A young English knight rode into the Scottish camp, armed only with a slight spear, whereon hung the keys of the castle, and approaching near the king, lowered his lance, as if presenting the keys in token of surrender. Suddenly he made a home thrust at the monarch's eye, which ran into his brain, and he fell dead on the instant, the bold Englishman saving himself by the swiftness of his horse. From this act of desperate valor came the surname of Piercy, or Percy, ever since borne with so much honor by the noble house of Northumberland."

A Dutch seaman being condemned to death, his punishment was changed, and he was ordered to be left on the island of St. Helena, at that time uninhabited. The horrors of solitude, without the hope of escape, determined him to attempt one of the strangest actions ever recorded. There had been interred that day in the same island an officer of the ship. The seaman took the body out of the coffin, and having made a kind of or of the upper board, ventured to see in it. There was fortunately for him a dead calm, and as he glided along, early the next morning he came near the ship lying immovable within two leagues of the island. When his former companions saw so strange a float upon the waters, they imagined it was a spectral delusion, but when they discovered the reality, were not a little startled at the resolution of the man who durst hazard himself on the sea in three boards slightly nailed together. He had little hope of being received by those who had so lately sentenced him to death. Accordingly it was put to the question whether he should be saved or not. After some debates and much difference of opinion, mercy prevailed. He was taken on board, and came afterwards to Holland, where he lived in the town of Hoorn, and related to many how miraculously God had delivered him.

Raleigh's History of the World abounds in anecdotes of undaunted action. Amongst many others, the following is not the least remarkable: "Henry, Earl of Alsatia, surname Iron, because of his strength, obtained great favor with Edward the Third by reason of his valor, and of course became a mark of envy for the courtiers. One day, in the absence of the king, they counselled the queen that forasmuch as the earl was unduly preferred before all the English peers and knights, she would make trial whether he was so highly descended as he gave out, by causing a lion to be let loose on him unawares, affirming that if Henry were truly noble the lion would {171} refuse to assail him. They obtained leave to the effect that they desired. The earl was accustomed to rise before day, and to walk in the lower court of the castle in which he resided, to enjoy the fresh air of the morning. A lion was brought in during the night, in his cage, the door of which was afterward raised by a mechanical contrivance, so that he had liberty of escape. The earl came down in his night gown, with girdle and sword, when he encountered the lion, bristling his hair and roaring in the middle of the court. Not in the least astonished or thrown off his guard he called out with a stout voice, 'Stand, you dog!' Whereupon the lion crouched at his feet, to the great amazement of the courtiers, who peeped from their hiding-places to see the issue of the trick they had planned. The earl grasped the lion by the mane, shut him up in his cage, and left his night-cap upon his back, and so came forth, without even looking behind him. 'Now,' said he to them that skulked behind the casements, 'let him amongst you that standeth most upon his pedigree go and fetch My night-cap.' But they, one and all, ashamed and terrified, withdrew themselves in silence."

But the most brilliant deeds and daring of warriors on the battle-field, stimulated by all the excitements of pride, ambition, and man's applause, in the estimate of true heroism fall far below the glory of the patient, unpretending martyr, who dies for his faith at the stake, amidst the blaspheming yells of his persecutors.

How impressive is the character drawn by Modestus, deputy of the Emperor Valens, of St. Basil the Great, as he is justly called, whom he sought to draw, with other eminent bishops, into the heresy of Arius. He attempted it at first with caresses and all the sugared phrases that might be expected from one who had words at command. Disappointed in this course, he tried threats of exile, torture, and death. Finding all equally fruitless, he returned to his lord with this character of Basil--"Firmior est quam ut verbis, praestantior quam ut minis, fortior quam ut blanditiis vinci possit." He is so resolute and determined, that neither words, threats, nor allurements have any power to alter him.

A sense of duty, in its high moral definition, ranks far beyond the mere courage of the soldier, the selfish love of fame, the thirst of glory, or the desire of personal pre-eminence. The late Duke of Wellington was duty personified. The following illustrative anecdote has never, we believe, been in print, and came to the present relater through a source which vouches its authenticity. The duke was also reticent, and not given to communicate his arrangements more openly to his officers than was required for their exact comprehension and the fulfilment of their instructions. It is generally supposed that Lord Hill was second in command at Waterloo, and that he would have assumed the direction of affairs had the great duke been killed or wounded during the battle. This is a mistake. Lord Uxbridge, afterwards Marquis of Anglesea, was senior in rank, by the date of his lieutenant-general's commission, to Lord Hill, and on him the command would have devolved in the possible and not improbable contingency alluded to. The duke communicated with him most frankly and cordially on all professional points, but from family incidents there was not that perfect unreserve and friendly intercourse in private which otherwise might have been. On the evening of the 17th of June, Lord Uxbridge said to Sir Hussey Vivian, his old friend and brother officer of the 7th Hussars, "I am very unpleasantly situated. There will be a great battle to-morrow. The duke, as we all know, exposes himself without reserve, and will, in all probability, do so more than ever on this occasion. If an unlucky shot should strike him, and I find myself suddenly in command, I have not the most distant idea of what his intentions are. I would give the world to know, as they {172} must be profoundly calculated, and far beyond any I could hit upon for myself in a sudden crisis. We are not personally intimate enough to allow me to ask or hint the question. What shall I do?" "Consult Alava," replied Vivian. "He is evidently more in the duke's confidence than any one else, and will perhaps undertake to speak to him." Lord Uxbridge followed the suggestion, rode over to head-quarters, and finding General Alava, stated the object of his visit. "I agree with you," said the Spaniard; "the question is serious; but honored as I am by the duke's confidence, _I_ dare not propose it to him. I think, however, that _you_ can and ought to do so. If you like, I will tell him you are here." Lord Uxbridge, not without reluctance, consented, and being introduced to the duke's apartments, with some hesitation stated, as delicately as he could, the matter which disturbed him. The duke listened until Lord Uxbridge ceased to speak; his features indicated no emotion; and when he replied, it was without impatience, surprise, or any alteration of his usual manner. After a short pause he said, "Who do you expect will attack to-morrow, I or Bonaparte?" "Bonaparte, I suppose," answered Lord Uxbridge. "Well, then," rejoined the duke, "he has not told me his plans; how then can I tell you mine, which must depend on his?" Lord Uxbridge said no more; he had nothing more to say. The duke seeing that he looked a little blank, laid his hand gently on his shoulder: "But one thing, Uxbridge," he observed, "is quite certain; come what may, _you and I will both do our duty_." And so, with a cordial pressure of the hand, they parted.

ORIGINAL.

SAINT LUCY.

The giving of my eyes In loving sacrifice Was my appointed way; No soft decline from the meridian day Through dusky twilight slowly into dark, But blackness, bloody, swift, and stark From hands unkind. And I was blind.

Thus reads the story, writ on sacred scroll, Of Lucy, virgin martyr: that sharp dole Won heaven's eternal brightness for her soul;-- The blotting out of sunshine, the recoil From utter blackness, the heart's gasp and spasm Before the unseen void, the imagined chasm Of untried darkness, was the martyr toil Whose moment's agony surpasses years-- The love, long years of patience and of tears Allotted unto others. "All for all;" Not doling out with a reluctant hand, But in one holocaustal offering grand, Will, senses, mind, responding to heaven's call.

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"Bought at whatever price, heaven is not dear," Sounds like an echoed chorus full of cheer From crypts of mangled martyrs, and charred bones, And blood-stained phials of the catacombs: And that young Roman girl's adoring eyes, One moment darkened, opened in surprise Upon the face of God. The cruel, taunt Of judges obdurate, the accuser's vaunt, The mob's wild shout of triumph deep and hoarse, Might still be heard around the bloody corse When her sweet soul, in peace, at God's own word Had tasted its exceeding great reward; To "see as she was seen," to know as known; The beatific vision all her own.

Upon the sacred canon's sacred page. Invoked by vested priest from age to age, Stand five fair names of virgins, martyrs all, As if with some peculiar glory crowned That thus their names should crystallize; "their sound Is gone through all the earth," and great and small Upon those five wise virgins sweetly call With reverent wish: Saint Lucy! Agatha! Agnes! Cecilia! Anastasia! And chanted litany chose names enfold In reliquary more precious than mute gold.

With what a tender awe I heard that name-- A household name, familiar, dear, and kind. Of gentlest euphony--such honor claim! Thenceforth that name I speak with lifted mind, More loved in friend, because revered in saint; And daily as to heaven I make complaint Of mortal ills, and sickness, sorrows, woes, This one petition doth all others close: Saint Lucy, virgin martyr, by thine eyes Which thou didst give to God in sacrifice, His mercy and his solace now implore For darkened eyes and sightless, never more To gaze on aught created: by that meed Of choicest graces in that hour of need, Sweetness of patience and a joyful mind, And faithful, gentle hands to guide the blind! But more than this, Saint Lucy; thou didst gain, By loss of thy young eyes with loving pain. The vision given to angels; then obtain The lifting up of blinded orbs to where God sitteth in his beauty, the All-fair; Saint Lucy, virgin martyr, aid our prayer!

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THE GODFREY FAMILY; OR, QUESTIONS OF THE DAY.