Chapter X.

Solitude was the cradle of creation; solitude is the never-ceasing fountain wherein exhausted souls are refreshed. Not without an object did the prophets begin their mission in the desert. Who would leave after him an immortal name must retire from the haunts of men, and in solitude examine his soul ere he speaks to mankind from the rostrum, or with the pen, the chisel, or the pencil. When the busy hum of the world has faded away into silence, when he hears no voice but that of his heart within, and nature without, and God above, he will then feel the flame which brings immortality. The voice he hears will be that of truth; the hand which stretches toward him that of justice; and all the strength of the one and the charms of the other will glow in his work.

Master Sebald's dungeon was the most real, the most complete of solitudes. Thick walls of gray granite, upon which shone green and slimy traces of the dampness that filled the air, formed a circle around him without an angle, a recess, an irregularity on which the weary eye might rest. {682} A plank and a truss of straw were his bed; a block of stone was his only seat; there was no door, for such was old Sebald's wish. Light alone--sweet light--was not denied the captive, but flowed abundant and golden through a large opening in the vaulted roof. But by day only was the boon granted, and then it bore with it no sight of that world where men dwelt, no view of the sunlit waters, the green fields, or the feathered children of the air. Nothing of these could he enjoy; nothing but that flood of day flowing from the open heaven upon the criminal's brow, like the gaze of Eternal Love, ever open to hearts that yearn for it; and nevertheless, when Master Sebald thus found himself immured in a living tomb, when nothing of earth remained to him save stone walls, his modelling clay, and his chisel, then inspiration of a greater power than it had ever before felt filled his soul, and in that inspiration and in his work he would have found joyful companions; he would have been happy, were it not that two dark and vengeful guests found lodgment in his breast, sorrow and remorse.

His remorse was for his crime, his sorrow for his child. They wore deeper the furrows in his brow; they made his hair whiter, his step more feeble and uncertain; they sunk his eyes deeper in their sockets. They tortured him in his weary watchings; they gave form to his dreams and broke and almost banished slumber; they stood before him when he worked or prayed--his former hate and his former love; his victim and his child. The golden hair of his Mina glittered in wild waves before his eyes; he saw the manly face of Otho pale and contracted with agony, while the gushing blood poured from his wound; he closed his eyes, but still their forms stood before him, both beckoning to the threshold of that world where eternity begins.

The old master commenced his work, ever surrounded by these sad companions. Ever hearing the last murmurs of Otho, the last sighs of Mina, he carved the holy cross and the summit of Calvary; then the shameful scroll; then the sacred form. Ever haunted by his visions of the dead, he knew better to give to the divine Crucified the writhing of living agony joined to the beginning rigidity of death; he remembered the last quivering of human strength and the mysterious folds of the winding-sheet. It was only when he came to carve the face of Christ that imagination and memory ceased to furnish him a model. Mina's passionate grief and pious resignation; the mingled humiliation, repentance, grief, and rage of the murdered Otho could give naught to be reproduced in the countenance of a God. He must seek his model elsewhere; and Master Sebald had not asked for his mirror in vain.

Standing erect before his work, he began to chisel the face of Christ; and for the first time since his prison walls closed upon him he gazed upon his own reflection. The long gaze upon his white head and his grief-worn features satisfied him.

His own face was a book, a book of sorrows speaking most eloquently, wherein all bitterness, all failings, all regrets, and all terrors, the dreams of the artist, the humiliation of the master, the friend betrayed, the sufferings, of the father, the anguish of the condemned, had inscribed their memories and left their foot-prints. The agony of Master Sebald was already long, and had been cruel and stormy. Ah! the remembrances of Otho's treachery were as the wounds in the hands and feet; the brand of dishonor upon his brow was as the crown of thorns; and the last wound, the stab of the lance, was the loss of Mina. So, that after long contemplating his own features, the old sculptor knelt humbly before the work he had begun.

"Pardon, O Christ!" he said, "if I, a weak mortal, an unworthy and sinful man, dare, in carving thy sacred lineaments, trace mine. But I design not, O Lord! to show thee happy and full of peace, or radiant and glorious. {683} I promised to present thee suffering, suffering even the death of the cross; I suffer that of the gibbet. A friend betrayed thee; a friend betrayed me. Thou wast loaded with insult and ignominy; I too had good cause to blush before my judges. Thou weepest over the sins of men, thy children; I over my child's grave. And as, O Lord! thou wert man as well as God, I may not offend thee in copying the anguish, the griefs, the sufferings that have left their print upon my brow. All these thou knowest, O Lord! but remorse thou couldst not know. That will I keep to myself, and in its stead I will place radiance, hope, and splendor of divinity. Ay, hope! for even on the cross didst thou hope and call upon thy Father!"

Here the old sculptor ceased, and bent before his work, while the shadows of despair darkened his brow. Then he cast a troubled look upon the statue, a look in which anguish mingled with prayer, confidence with terror.

"And can I hope?" he murmured. "Mina is in heaven. Shall I again see her?"

But no voice replied, and, sighing, he stood again erect. Then after a few moments of silent meditation he seized his chisel, and, making the sign of the cross, recommenced his work, and the stone seemed to breathe, to quiver, to palpitate as, one by one, the suffering lines came forth. Truly in Master Sebald's mirror were grief and unpitying and unending pain.

And he worked in spite of the gnawings of hunger, the want of sleep, the cold of the winter. He had ever within him strength and fire--the strength of expiation, the fire of penitence. But as he worked, his form became more stooped, and his eye less sure; his blood flowed feebler through his veins, and his breath grew more quick and gasping. But he needed but mind and hand, and his mind was clear, and his hand carved bravely still. And what cared he for the failing of an exhausted body? If, day by day, his face grew thinner, his eyes cavernous, his lips tighter, was not his model for all that the more real? Was it not a dying Christ he was carving?

At last his work was done. When the last blow of the chisel had been given, when the stone had received the final touch, when Christ hung there wounded, quivering, breathing, sublime, Master Sebald knelt before his work and bowed his forehead to the earth. The sculptor demanded his pay; the criminal his pardon. He prayed fervently and long; and when he rose, he knew that his child called, and that the hour of his deliverance was nigh, and, walking to the narrow opening which formed his only means of communication with men, he called aloud to his jailer:

"My Christ is finished! My task is done! Unseal the door and lead me to the executioner."

But it was not the executioner that came, but the judge; and he, the first to enter the dungeon, when he lifted his eyes, fell upon his knees with clasped hands; for what he saw seemed no image of stone, but a living Christ, suffering and dying before him. Struck with astonishment and admiration, he called his colleagues and sent for monseigneur the bishop, and his highness the margrave, that all might see the Christ of the condemned. The dungeon of Master Sebald was too narrow for the multitude of visitors who crowded before the holy image; they talked of carrying it to one of the courts of the city, or to the Grand Place, that all the faithful might mourn and be edified by so sacred a spectacle. But Master Sebald opposed this project and asked a further boon:

"Ah!" cried he, "if you think this work of my hands merits aught but favor, consecrate it to a holy remembrance; place it in the cemetery where my daughter reposes. Christ should be upon her tomb, to speak to her of hope, and on the tomb of him--of--_him_ too, to speak to him of forgiveness."

{684}

We may add that the sculptor's request was quickly granted, for in those happy days there were sheriffs who believed, and judges of tender hearts. They were very backward, and very far behind our enlightened age in those days, although gunpowder had just been invented. Besides, the councillors of the margrave held sacred things in respect, and did not regard cemeteries as mere charnel-houses.

They carried, then, with great pomp, Master Sebald's statue to the cemetery; and, for the first time since his imprisonment began, the old man saw the crowd of men, the green leaves, the tomb of his daughter, and the white clouds of heaven.

He saw the blessing of the cross; he saw Mina's tomb consecrated; and then, taking his chisel, he graved upon the pedestal, as a last farewell, the inscription which, as we have seen, yet remains, and asked the time appointed for his execution. But murmurs arose in the crowd which soon swelled to violent clamors. Could so repentant a man, so old and true an artist, be given over to the gibbet! The people surrounded the magistrates; the magistrates turned to the councillors; the councillors turned to the margrave; and after a short deliberation the president of the tribunal declared to Master Koerner that, in consideration of his genius, of his piety, and of his repentance, he should still live; pardon was granted him.

"Is life a boon?" murmured the old artist, sadly bowing his head. "But I await the mercy of God. He is more generous than man."

He had not long to wait, for two days after, in the gray, early morning, they found him cold and dead upon his daughter's grave, his head resting upon the base of the crucifix. His hopes were realized; God opened his prison-doors.

......

Such is the legend of the sculptor and his work--a legend which offers a simple and characteristic picture of the ages of confiding faith, when the Christian placed his hopes, the injured his vengeance, the criminal his repentance, and the artist his genius, at the foot of the cross.

Original.

The Indissolubility Of Christian Marriage.

Number Two.

It is evident that Jesus Christ intended to legislate and did legislate in regard to marriage. The commandment which he gave, requiring the marriage contract to be respected as inviolable and indissoluble, is a law, has the force of a law, and is obligatory, not only upon ecclesiastical, but also upon civil legislators and judges. There is no power upon earth, either in the church or in the state, which has power to abrogate or change it. We do not pretend that this law was promulgated to the Jewish people, or to pagan nations, directly and immediately. Our Lord legislated immediately only for those who should become the subjects of his kingdom by baptism. For all others, he legislated only mediately, by promulgating to all mankind the precept to embrace his faith and be baptized into his church, and thus to bring themselves under the entire code of Christian law. The unbaptized are subject to the natural law only in regard to marriage, as in everything else; and their marriage is not a sacrament, but a merely natural contract. {685} What we maintain is, that the law regarding _Christian_ marriage has been established by the sovereign authority of Jesus Christ for all the baptized, and that this law respects the very essence of marriage as a contract, invalidating all pretended marriages which are not in accordance with it. All ecclesiastical legislators are, therefore, bound to legislate in conformity with this law. They must treat all marriages sanctioned and ratified by the law of Christ as valid and binding, and all others as null and void. All Christians must act in the same manner. And in Christian states, as all law-givers and judges are bound to act according to their conscience, and in conformity with the divine law, and as the revealed law of Jesus Christ respecting marriages is the supreme rule of the Christian conscience, having the force of a divine law, they are bound to make it the rule of all their enactments and judgments.

Some Protestant writers deny that our Lord intended to legislate respecting matrimony, and affirm that he merely laid down a rule of morality. This is, however, an unmeaning statement. He could not give a moral precept respecting matrimony without legislating. The essential morality of the question is determined by the law determining the conditions, motives, and obligations of the contract. Morality consists in conformity to this law, immorality in violating it. Our Lord could not, therefore, command anything as required by morality, or forbid anything as immoral, in relation to the essentials of marriage, without reenacting an already existing law, or promulgating a new law, defining the conditions by which a marriage is rendered a valid or an invalid contract.

The very circumstances and terms of his utterance on the subject show that he did legislate. Moses legislated on the subject, and permitted to men divorce in certain cases, with the privilege of remarriage to both parties. Our Lord expressly revokes this permission, so far as his own disciples are concerned, and declares that, according to the Christian law, whoever divorces his wife and marries another, or whoever marries a divorced party, must be held guilty of adultery. This is an act of legislation, for it is a law declaring null and void for the future certain marriages which, under the Mosaic law, were valid. Now, there is no civil law which can make a contract declared invalid by the divine law valid, binding, or lawful, or which can invalidate a contract made valid by the divine law. It is true that our Lord did not enact any civil law, properly so called, with civil penalties annexed to it, for the Jewish people, or for any Gentile nation. But he prescribed the standard according to which all legislators in Christian states are bound to make their civil laws.

The question now comes up, How are we to ascertain what the law of Jesus Christ is, and what is the law itself? We have discussed the last question in part, in our former number, in which we endeavored to show that the texts of Scripture in which we are informed concerning the precept given by Christ concerning marriage, properly understood, sustain the Catholic doctrine of the indissolubility of marriage. We have now to show how the Catholic doctrine and the law of the Catholic Church are established with an infallible certainty, and with a force absolutely obligatory on the conscience.

It is evident enough that the notion of legislators and judges attempting to discuss and decide upon the true meaning of texts of Scripture is absurd. Such a proceeding would never lead to any uniformity of legislation if attempted, and it would never be attempted in any community where principles of sound jurisprudence prevailed. Who, then, are to decide upon the meaning of these texts, if the ultimate appeal is to them? The Protestant clergy? They cannot agree among themselves. {686} Even in the earliest and best days of Puritanism in New England, when a comparatively strict doctrine and legislation respecting marriage prevailed, there was a serious difference among the clergy respecting the lawful grounds of divorce. Moreover, the Protestant clergy do not claim the right of interpreting the Scripture. The laity have an equal right, and each individual has it for himself. Rationalists claim also the right of making reason the criterion of the truth of the doctrine of Scripture and the teachings of Jesus Christ. It is therefore plain that it is a futile proceeding to attempt to make the text of Scripture a standard of legislation or public sentiment in regard to marriage. The result which has actually been produced is an inevitable result, namely, that the prevalent opinion and sentiment in the community, based on their common sense, will regulate legislation in regard to marriage and divorce. This common sense is not an enlightened and elevated common sense, proceeding from sound, rational, and moral principles. It is a low, irrational sense, derived from passion, self-interest, expediency, and a perverted reason, which tends continually to degenerate more and more, and whose logical consequences may be seen developing themselves every day under our own eyes.

The law established by Jesus Christ is not and cannot be based upon the texts of the sacred historians who inform us of the fact that he did promulgate such a law. These texts are not the law, and the enacting force does not proceed from them. They may be cited in proof of the fact that the law was made, and in proof of what the law was. The law itself was verbally proclaimed by our Lord, and its force dates from and depends upon that verbal enactment. The historical account given by the evangelists added nothing to it, and the comments of the apostles upon it are mere allusions to it, or exhortations to keep it, which presuppose its existence. It was a part of the unwritten law of the church handed down by tradition, whose legitimate expositors were the apostles and their successors. Our Lord must have instructed the apostles fully on the subject, and they must have transmitted full and explicit instructions on the same subject to the bishops and clergy to whom the government of the church was committed. As occasion required, the unwritten Christian common law was embodied in canons by episcopal councils, and thus became statute law. The true method of fixing decisively the real scope and contents of the divine legislation of our Lord is, therefore, to investigate the legislation of the church from the earliest times.

The doctrine defined by the Council of Trent upon which the modern canonical law of the Catholic Church is based, is too well known to need any statement. It is evident that this definition was no innovation, but merely a solemn declaration of the doctrine universally received in the Catholic Church, levelled against the innovations of Protestants. The mere fact that the indissolubility of marriage has been recognised in the Catholic Church and enforced under the severest penalties, and that it has been also recognised and protected by the civil law of Europe, until Protestantism brought in a disastrous change, is sufficient to prove that the church received her law from Jesus Christ or the apostles. So severe a law, one so inconvenient to individuals, one so contrary to the established legislation of both Jews and Gentiles, could never have been established and enforced by any other than a divine authority, and in the origin of the Christian community. If a milder law had ever prevailed in the church, an attempt to establish a stricter one would have met a violent opposition. History would record the struggle, the pages of the fathers would bear witness to the difference of opinion and the mutual discussion of the question by the opposing parties. Councils would have been called to decide it, and, if any change had been generally enforced in favor of a stricter law, either it would have been based on reasons supposed to justify or require the abrogation of an indulgence formerly granted, or, if not, the previous existence of this indulgence would have been denounced as a corruption, and these who maintained it would have been condemned. {687} The quiet, undisturbed continuity of the tradition and practice of the church from the earliest ages proves that no serious and widespread difference of doctrine ever arose, but that the modern Catholic doctrine of the indissolubility of marriage held undisputed sway from the beginning. The opponents of this doctrine cannot pretend to establish any clear tradition in their own favor. They can only endeavor to obscure the evidence of the tradition sanctioning the Catholic doctrine. Notwithstanding their efforts, the chain of evidence from St. Augustine back to Origen, Justin Martyr, and Hermas, including all the canons which still remain, and which were enacted by ecclesiastical councils, is unbroken and conclusive, as may be seen by consulting those Catholic authors who have written scientific treatises on the subject. The whole discussion is, however, of little practical value, except as showing the necessity of the infallibility of the church in defining doctrine and her supreme authority in judging moral questions, and as corroborating the proof that she possesses this infallible and supreme authority. The real question at issue is, whether marriage is a sacrament confided to the guardianship of the church, and regulated by a law of which the church is the supreme judge, or whether it is a natural contract under the control of the civil law. The Protestant world has taken the latter side of the alternative. Consequently, the case of marriage comes to this issue; what civil laws respecting marriage and divorce are best calculated to promote happiness, morality, social and civil prosperity and well-being? Legislatures and courts must decide the question, while churches, clergymen, moralists, writers, etc., can exercise no other influence than that of argument and persuasion. These arguments must be drawn from reason and the natural law. They must bear upon the point that the strength and perpetuity of the marriage bond is useful and necessary for the preservation of society. The doctrine of Scripture and the authority of religion can only be brought in to increase the motives and sanctions of the natural law.

It is useless to hope that the doctrine of the indissolubility of marriage will ever be adopted either in theory or practice as the result of reasoning on the principles of either the natural law or the moral code of Christianity, by those who reject the infallibility of the Catholic Church. It is also useless to hope that the Protestant clergy and jurists will ever agree together as to the proper ground of divorce, and the proper safeguards of marriage, much less that they will agree in adopting the opinions of the most rigorous school among them, as sustained by their able and learned advocate, President Woolsey, in The New-Englander. The only thing in the power of the Protestant clergy and their lay coadjutors is, to diminish and retard the destructive tendency of the false principle they have admitted into theology and legislation by their denial of the Catholic doctrine regarding marriage. In this direction they may do something, and it is to be desired that they should exert themselves to the utmost to do all they can. The clergy may exert a certain moral and religious influence by acting according to some fixed principles and laws in regard to performing the marriage ceremony and admitting or excluding persons from communion. Also by preaching and writing on the obligations of marriage, the blessings which flow from unions which are hallowed by perfect and lifelong fidelity to conjugal and parental duties, and the evils which are the consequence of infidelity and frequent separations. Jurists and statesmen may reform the administration of law in the courts so as to decrease the facility of obtaining divorce, and secure to all parties a thorough protection of all the rights guaranteed to them by the civil law. {688} Physicians and others may do good by pointing out the physical and social evils which flow from the violation of those laws on which the multiplication and healthy development of the race depend. So far as individuals are induced to marry in accordance with the dictates of pure affection and enlightened prudence, to observe the moral laws of the married state, and to remain faithful to each other until death, and so far as divorces and re-marriages are rendered less numerous, so far good will be done, and the well-being of society promoted. We desire most heartily that the utmost possible success may attend these well-meant efforts. Nevertheless, we cannot flatter our Protestant friends with any expression of our own conviction that this success will be anything more than placing a breakwater in the way of the current that is sweeping away the Christian institution of marriage. The principles and institutions which make society Christian, the traditions which connect it with the past and give it Christian and moral vitality, have been received and retained from the Catholic Church. As these are gradually abandoned and lost, society possesses no power to recover and restore them. Christian societies outside the church, and states composed of persons who are nominally Christian but out of Catholic communion, bear within them the principle of dissolution, without possessing any sufficient principle of recuperation. The Catholic Church alone possesses a divine law given by revelation which she is competent to explain and authorised to enforce, and which is a principle of perpetual life, capable of resisting every tendency to disease and death, and of renewing every decayed national constitution, restoring every degenerate people, and continually repeating the work wrought in the first formation of Christendom. Protestantism is a tubercular deposit in the centre of the bosom of society. Its necessary result is spiritual, moral, intellectual, and finally, physical death. As in the case of a person smitten with tuberculosis, there may be for a long time many portions of the lungs unaffected, much health and strength in the organs and limbs of the body, and an increase of cerebral excitement and activity, although the principle of death which will finally stop all vital activity is slowly and surely gaining upon the principle of life; so with those portions of Christendom which are smitten with heresy. There is much health and vigor remaining as the effect of the original state of sound, integral, Catholic life. Many individuals remain essentially sound in their belief and upright in their practice. There is even a flush on the surface of society, a hectic brilliancy in the eye of intellect, a fevered activity of thought and action, which is mistaken for genuine, healthful vigor and vitality. The boastful, shallow organs of public sentiment, whose real doctrines are infidel, but who are forced to wear a little smear of popular religion on their face, pretend, with an assurance equally sickening and ridiculous, to read lectures and give advice to the Vicar of Christ and the bishops of the Catholic Church on great moral and social questions. Their changes are rung with monotonous and unmeaning repetition upon railroads, telegraphs, steam, newspapers, heavy guns, and progress. The Catholic Church is denounced as the great obstacle in the way of modern society, because she adheres to the steadfast, unchanging affirmation of eternal principles of truth, law, and justice. Her complete spoliation is urged as the great means of hastening the march of society toward its goal. It is vain to expect an argument which has any solidity, or even the pretence of an answer which is grave and serious, to the reasonings and expostulations of those who point out the deadly symptoms which are concealed beneath this hectic activity and betrayed by this boastful demeanor. An ill-bred sneer, an unmeaning platitude, or a frivolous display of rhetoric is all that can be expected. {689} Nevertheless, those who are able to think, and who have some real solicitude for progress in truth, in sound morality, in Christian virtue, in solid well-being and happiness, on the part of society and their fellow-men, will not be able to shut their eyes to the evident symptoms which prove that a deadly disease, already far advanced, is feeding on the vitals of the social organism. These symptoms have been pointed out by Protestant clergymen and medical writers, and we refer to their startling statements as evidence of the virulence and extent of the moral ulcer which is eating up the vitals of society and destroying the original, American population of the country. It is not the matter of a few divorces granted to married persons whose rights are judicially proved to have been violated in a flagrant manner, which is of such great importance. While the ancient laws of the states were rigidly enforced, and the number of divorces granted was small, the community received no grievous injury. The great evil which is so alarming, and is working such deplorable effects, consists in the great number of divorces granted, the facility with which they are obtained, and the flippant, shameless disregard of all judicial decorum by the courts of law. Behind all this is another evil, the violation of the morality of the conjugal state. The authors of Protestantism have opened the door to all these disorders by their denial of the indissolubility and sacramental character of matrimony, and their concession of the right to judge and decide upon the whole subject of the marriage contract to the civil power. The door which they have opened they cannot close. There is no protection for the sacredness of marriage at all adequate to the necessities of the case, except in a doctrine, a law, and a system of practical morality, promulgated and enforced by a church which has power over the conscience, and is acknowledged as possessing an authority delegated by Jesus Christ. The utter weakness and helplessness of Protestantism, and the absolute necessity of a return to the Catholic Church in order to save society and civilization, has been manifested in England and the United States in a more startling and sudden manner than could have been anticipated twenty years ago by the most sagacious prophet of the future. We wait with interest and anxiety to see what will be done by those who believe that the secession of the sixteenth century was really a reformation, and that the salvation of the human race is to be looked for from the principles of Luther and Calvin. At present, these principles appear to be tending to the abrogation of the institution of marriage in the Christian sense of the word, and the introduction of a species of polygamy worse than that of Mormonism.

{690}

Original.

Mea Culpa.

By Richard Storrs Willis.

I.

All through my fault, my own most grievous fault! This the chagrin and inward smart of sin. Nor others' blame can my poor cause exalt-- Naught but myself t' accuse, without, within! And thus to my God heavy-hearted I cry, _Mea culpa, meet maxima culpa!_ And thus to the mother of Jesus I sigh, _Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!_

II.

O God! the past, the wicked past forgive! The spectre-sins that haunt my soul dispel. Deeper than mirth, alas! they frowning live; Beneath my smiles, in memory's caves they dwell! And thus to Saint Michael, archangel, I plead, _Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa:_ And thus to Saint John with regret I concede, _Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!_

III.

_Ponder my love_--a Saviour's voice would fall, When tempted sore, in youth's delirious hour. _Ponder my love_--O kind and gracious call! And yet from life I plucked each poison-flower! And thus to Saint Peter and Paul I exclaim, _Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa:_ And thus to all saints and you, brothers, proclaim, _Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!_

IV.

Ah! well, dear Lord, here in my guilt I bow. What else to do, where else to go, than home? Joyless, distrest, a contrite suppliant now, Heartsick of sin, homesick for thee, I come! Ye saints and you, brothers, to Christ for me pray _Peccavi, mea maxima culpa!_ Alas! my dear Jesus, 'tis all I can say, _Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!_

{691}

From The Dublin University Magazine.

Solutions of Some Parisian Problems.

Cabs And Their Patron.

The admirers of French novels have made acquaintance with some of the French representatives of our own carboys and carmen in the French metropolis. They are aware that their cabs or cabriolets are called _Fiacres_, and they are naturally desirous to know why they should be called by a name which by a little aspiration sounds unmistakably Irish. This trifling question has set some archaeological antiquaries by the ears. The following appears to be the genuine solution: Sanval, author of "Recherches sur les Antiquités de Paris," (end of seventeenth century.) said that, about forty years previous, a certain Nicholas Sauvage, agent to the proprietor of the Amiens coaches, and owner of a large house in the Rue Saint Martin, the front of which was adorned with the _enseigne_ of Saint Fiacre, kept from forty to fifty horses in his stables, and also cabs for the convenience of the public at rather a dear figure. His establishment became so noted that all coaches for hire came to be called Fiacres.

Menage, in his "Origines de la Langue Françoise," 1684, gave a like account, but described the effigies of St. Fiacre as adorning the front of a house in Rue Saint Antoine.

Both writers appear to have been in error. A satiric Mazarinade dating 1652, and bearing for title the "Royal Supper of Pontoise," etc., has the following lines descriptive of the embarrassment of the worshipful supper-eaters when they wished to return home at a late hour to Paris:

"C'était pour avoir des Carrosses, Ou l'on attelle Chevaux rosses, Dont les cuirs tout rappetassés, Vilains, crasseux, et mal passés, Représentoient le simulacre, De l'ancienne Voiture à Fiacre Qui fut le premier du métier, Qui louoit carosse au Quartier De Monsieur de Saint Thomas à Louvre." [Footnote 241]

[Footnote 241: It (the embarrassment) was to provide cabs To which they yoke poor hack horses, Whose leathers all shrunken, Ugly, greasy, and badly dressed, Represent the ghost Of the old cab belonging to Fiacre, Who was the first of the trade, That hired out carriages at the Quarter Of Monsieur St. Thomas of the Louvre.]

Fiacre may have prospered in his business, and unprincipled rivals have carried out his idea, and adopted the effigies of the saint after whom the poor cabman was called. Thus Sanval may have seen the pictured saint presiding over the useful articles (originally let out at three sous the drive) in Rue Saint Martin, and Menage may have seen a rival, Rue Saint Antoine. It is more likely that the plagiarists appropriated for their vehicles the name of the saint than that of the humble individual, the inventor of the system.

Saint Fiachra was of that noble band of Irish missionaries who spread themselves over the Continent soon after the island was converted. St. Virgil became patron of Saltzburg, St. Killian of Franconia, St. Gall of Switzerland, St. Columbanus of the Vosges and of Bobbio in Italy. St. Fiachra was gladly welcomed by the bishop of Meaux in the seventh century, and devoted his services to the care of an hospital. The cabriolet drivers and (if we remember aright) the market gardeners of Paris honor him as their patron.

Mysteries Of The Rue D'Arbre ?ec. [Illegible]

No visitor will fail to visit the church of St. Germain d'Auxerrois, the parish church, as it may be called, of the inmates of the Tuileries, and within a few stones' throw of that luxurious but not very comfortable residence. {692} The possession of the most finely furnished apartments will not give much pleasure to the dweller who is uncertain whether he may not be ejected from them to-morrow. The triple portal of the church dates from the middle of the thirteenth century, and the low steeple from a much earlier period. Owing to the late demolitions, the exterior of the church can now be examined with more convenience and pleasure than of yore, and many a saunterer will be surprised to see, arranged along the frieze of a lateral chapel projecting into the Rue d'Arbre Sec, various portions of a carp, separated from one another by roses, (architectural, to wit,) here a head, there a body, and then (a rose intervening) a tail. As far as the information got from passers-by extends, he must remain in ignorance of the cause of the strange ornamentation, but he may learn it here at second-hand, our authority being the archaeologist M. Didron. An individual inhabitant of the adjoining street (perhaps a fish-monger) had got permission to add this chapel to the old edifice; and to connect his name (_Tronçon_, a piece cut away) with the building, he devised this ingenious plan.

Another pious and equally ingenious dweller in the same street, who dealt in poultry, did so well in business that she built a new house at the corner, and in front erected a pious monument. Her name being Anne, she got a sculptor to execute a group for her, namely, St. Anne, mother of the Blessed Virgin, teaching her daughter to read. Having thus secured her name from oblivion, she got her occupation transmitted to after-times by having various fowl sculptured in bas-relief on the plinth. Alas! how are casual visitors to know, when admiring the group, that it was executed at the expense of Anne the poulterer of the street of the withered tree; and who is aware of the circumstance from which the street itself got its name in old times?

In days when pilgrimages were in fashion, a certain house of entertainment in that street was much in favor with the really devout, as well as the wanderers who had returned in life from the Holy Land. These had brought home intelligence of a wonderful tree which had annually produced leaves and fruit in the vicinity of Hebron, from the days of Adam to that on which our Lord was crucified. [Footnote 242] On that day it withered, and, according to the assertion of the pilgrims, would remain sapless till the Holy City would be in the possession of a Christian power. Such a legend was calculated to make a deep impression on the customers of the auberge, for which an open-air artist was soon called on to execute the effigies of the famous dry tree for a sign. Afterward the inn communicated its name to the street.

[Footnote 242: Near Hebron is an oak of great dimensions and of great age; but the acorn from which it sprung was not planted for ages after Abraham's time.]

Slang Banished From The Stage.

Some objectionable things, which, when they assume troublesome proportions, are extinguished by public opinion amongst ourselves, are stifled by the strong hand of power in France. In 1859, a warning was given to those theatres in Paris which were suspected of a leaning to _Argot_, (slang,) that they should for the future accept no piece in which it prevailed. So the poor gamins, who enjoy a play from the _Paradis_ of the theatre, could no more relish the phraseology of their peculiar world and their peculiar philosophy. The higher powers argued thus: "Argot is the ordinary communication between formats of all descriptions, whether they plot against the peace and well-being of society, or bewail their misfortunes at the bagne; _ergo_, it is not a fit and proper dialect to be spoken before gentlemen and ladies, honest citizens and their wives and children; _ergo_, it must not be spoken." So the poor gamin of vicious propensities must be content in his hours of relaxation to learn the language of that half of the world to which he does not belong.

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Yet many of his pet words are not of a low or disreputable origin. Such is the word _Binette_, nowhere heard now except among the folk who live by their wits, and yet presenting a noble and sublime image in the days of the Grand Monarque, in fact, no less an object than his flowing and majestic peruke. Binette of the Rue des Petits Champs (street of the little fields) was his majesty's hair-dresser, and a great man would feel his dignity outraged if a hint was given that his wig was not _confectioned_ by the great Binette. Now from Caesar to the wisp that stops a bung-hole, the descent is not greater than between the Binette (the wig, not the man) of the seventeenth and that of the nineteenth century.

In thieves' Latin _ardent_ represents a candle. The thief has accurately preserved the vocabulary of the Hotel Rambouillet, the Holland House of the seventeenth century. One of the _Precieuses_ of that temple of literary elegance, when directing the lackey to snuff the candle, would thus express herself: "_Inutile, ostez le superflu de cet ardent!_" [Footnote 243]

[Footnote 243: This anecdote reminds us of a tradition not forgotten among the gyps of T.C.D. A very learned fellow, dismounting from his steed some time during the dark ages, said to a little boy, "Juvenile, circumambulate the quadruped round the quadrangle, and I shall recompense thee with a pecuniary remuneration."]

The gamin is not great on the subject of verbal roots: he uses the words, but does not trouble himself about the quarter from whence they come. He is not aware that his own name is the _galopin_ (tavern-boy) of the middle ages. When he says that such or such article of dress, or food, or what you will, is _chouette_, (nice,) he is merely retaining the _souef_ (doux) of the old French poetry. His friend is his _copin_, the _compaign_ (comrade) of old times; the boy he despises is a _capon_, the name applied to the Jews in the days of Philip the Fair. His _rigolo_ comes to him from the verb _rigoler_, (to amuse one's self,) so often used in _Maistre Pathelin_, our Village Lawyer, a farce of the fifteenth century. An umbrella is a _rifflard_ with him, though he is little aware that it gets that name from _Mons. Rifflard_, the "Paul Pry" of the _Petite Ville_ of Picard.

Edouard Fournier, in his Enigmes des Rues de Paris, relates this characteristic anecdote on the subject of slang. It is the antithesis of O'Connell's victory over the fish-woman.

"A lady of the Halles (Fish Market) had one day a war of words with a _meraicher_, (market gardener,) and, ye gods! such words as they were! She told off one by one her relentless rosary of abuse. A grave-looking man stood still, and attentively listened to the explosion of the wonderful vocabulary.

"'Not bad, not bad,' said he from time to time. At last came the famous phrase, 'You're no better than a melon,' and it served for finale to the torrent of invectives--for the bouquet to the fire-work of coarse words.

"'Very well, indeed!' cried the grave man. 'And why very well?' said I. 'Because,' said he, 'this woman has just rendered homage to the literature which I profess.' 'How?' 'She has nearly spoken Greek. Yes, indeed, monsieur, the language of Homer. She has just honored this bumpkin with the epithet [Footnote 244] which Thersites, in the second book of the Iliad, line 235, applied to the Grecian kings in council.'"

[Footnote 244: The word used by Thersites is [Greek text], plural of [Greek text], soft or ripe, as applied to fruit, and figuratively to inactive or effeminate persons.]

An Unhealthy Suburb.

With any one's experience of the worst parts of the existing cities of Europe, it would be hard for him to realize the condition of the Quartier Montmartre in former days. The terrible description in Victor Hugo's romance gives only one small phase of it. All the results of extreme poverty, vice, negligence, and thorough laziness united to make a scene of squalor and wretchedness without parallel. There was no thought of removing nuisances, and at this day a section of some heaps of the old strata presents as curious a variety of substances as were ever discovered by the great Abbeville explorer himself. Some future professor, descended from Mr. Chaillu's gorilla, finding various evidences of human workmanship so far below the ordinary platform of the human family in A.D. 2500. will set them down as a deposit of the year 10,000 A.C. {694} Many a police-raid was effected on the inhabitants of the Cour des Miracles, of the Rue Temps-Perdu, of that of the _Vide Gousset_, (pickpocket,) of the Bout-du-Monde, of the Ville-Neuve; many hundreds seized and sent to the Salpetrière (house of correction) or to La Nouvelle France, (Canada,) and yet the wretched little dens in the filthy, ill-smelling lanes would not fail to get new tenants. "Unfeeling nobles, bad government!" say we. At last in the days of Louis XIII. it was announced that any artisan choosing to settle in the quarter might exercise his trade without let or hindrance, or paying duty or incurring expenses incidental to the carrying on of trades in other portions of the city. Makers of articles of household furniture chiefly availed themselves of the privilege; a better class of inhabitants took possession, and the atmosphere improved.

This (northern) quarter of the city has been, from the earliest times, incommoded by the number of streams arising among the northern and eastern hills adjoining the city, (Paris lying in a natural bowl-like cavity,) and endeavoring to find their way under houses and streets to the Seine. Many efforts have been made from time to time, to provide courses for these troublesome rivulets in channels arched over or open to the day; yet so late as 1855 some houses in the Faubourg Montmartre were filled to the ground floor by subterranean inundations; the inhabitants wondering what could bring water into their kitchens and cellars, and they so much above the level of the Seine. At the present time, under the strong volition of the emperor, an effective attempt is being made at the formation of a large subterranean river and its feeders.

Begging A Thriving Business.

Many visitors to the existing exhibition, while exploring and admiring the Place de Carrousel and its surroundings, will scarcely dream of the space between the Tuileries, the Louvre, and the Palais Royal having been once occupied by an hospital for three hundred poor blind men. This at present magnificent quarter was a poor place in the days of St. Louis, and there were the straggling habitations built. Dust-heaps and filth of many kinds distinguished the locality, and in this uninviting spot the three hundred blind endured life from the days of good Saint Louis.

At its first institution, the hospital was a mere night refuge--a retreat where the blind men were sure of a house over their heads and a sort of bed to sleep on after their _criailleries_ all day through the streets. The old charities were seldom complete in themselves. The pious founders did a certain portion of the good work, leaving to the public an opportunity of completing it. Philip the Fair added a dress stamped with the fleur de lys, and the poor blind man thus equipped was on a level with _Edie Ochiltree_, and so privileged, he "_tote jor ne finit de braire,_" (the whole day he ceased not his braying,) as an old writer coarsely expressed himself.

There was a parallel to this institution in higher quarters, even in literary regions. In the College of Navarre, placed under the highest patronage, the pupils went in the morning through the streets, stretching out the hand, and crying, "Bread, bread for the poor scholars of Madame de Navarre!"

The three hundred were well looked after, all things considered. They had a poor-box in every church of France. They were privileged not only to beg at the doors, but even to exercise their quest in the church itself. A difficulty arose from the circumstance of some churches affording to the "King's Bedesmen" a better harvest than others. All or most would naturally crowd to fleece the richest and most charitable congregations, and dire confusion would ensue. {695} But there were heads equal to the emergency. Once a year an auction was held; a good church was set up, bedesmen bid for its possession; it was knocked down to the best small batch of bidders, and the money they gave then, or as they made it, put into a common fund. The least well off or least speculative got the worst stands, but they received their share of the money arising from the auction.

This exceptional state of things continued till within the second half of last century, when the office of grand almoner became invested in the Cardinal de Rohan. The wretched habitations of the three hundred, their poor church left to ruin, the dust-heaps and pools of evil odor with which they were surrounded, so badly harmonized with the neighborhood of the Palais Royal, the Tuileries, and the Louvre, between which they lay, that it entered the speculative mind of the cardinal that it would be a profitable business to remove the poor inmates to a more cleanly and comfortable domicile, and sell the large plot of land on which the straggling settlement reposed. A solvent company was found, the land disposed of for six millions of livres, and the Hotel of the Black Musketeers, Rue de Charenton, was purchased for the blind men at somewhat less than half a million. This took place in 1779, and since then the churches and the streets have been relieved from the annoyance of the _state_ beggars. They still occupy the Hotel Rue de Charenton, and the curious traveller now passing down the magnificent Rue Rivoli, with palaces on either hand, can scarcely persuade himself that the space round him was, less than a century since, a dedalus of dirty lanes and ill-kept, squalid dwellings.

The Morgue And Its Derivation.

"Whoe'er was at Paris must needs know the Grève" was said and sung three half-centuries ago. Whoever was or was not at Paris must have heard of the Morgue, where the bodies of unknown persons who have met with sudden deaths were exposed for some days, to be recognised by their friends. Perhaps he is not aware of the cause of applying to the temporary abode of the quiet dead a name implying such a different idea. The dismal little building is now not to be found in its old locality, Quai du Marché Neuf, south side of the Cité.

In the great as well as the little Chatelet (prison) of past days there was a room called the little prison, where new-comers were brought "to sit for their portraits," that is, undergo a rigorous inspection as to their features by the lower officials of the place. Readers of Pickwick's incarceration will not require an elaborate description of the process. Now, such a sharp and supercilious scrutiny of the countenance is expressed by the word _Morgue_. The humorist, D'Assoucy, has left a description of the inspection he underwent on such an occasion, and the terror into which he was thrown by a long sharp knife, wielded by a short, broad, and fat officer, but which was only designed to cut away the ribbons that secured his breeches, and the band of his hat, and thus remove all available instruments of self destruction in the Grand Chatelet.

When this apartment changed its destination, and became a place of exposure for the dead, it continued to retain its name; and, on the destruction of the building, the title went to the sinister-looking edifice built for the same purpose. While the Chatelet remained, the sisters of the hospital convent of St. Catherine, corner of the streets of St. Denis and of the Lombards, bestowed the rites of sepulture on the poor remains not recognized. The other specialty of the good sisters was the relief of poor women in destitute circumstances.

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The easily led populace of Paris were long under the impression that a visit to the Morgue, and the consequent withdrawal of a corpse, would cost the friends a hundred and one crowns. So the bereaved families were seldom in a hurry with their visit. In vain did the lieutenant of police in 1736 endeavor to undeceive them.

In 1767, a gentleman, taking the packet boat from Fontainebleau to Paris, quitted the conveyance rather hurriedly, leaving a case behind him. After some little delay it was opened, and much terrified were the assistants at finding what appeared the body of a young man who had been strangled. A commissary of police was called on, accompanied by a surgeon. A procès-verbal was drawn up by them, and the body sent to the Morgue to be identified. Soon after, the negligent or guilty passenger arrived in a hurry at the office of the boat, and asked for the forgotten parcel. His request was followed by his seizure and presentation before the worthy magistrate, who had so laudably done his duty. On being charged with the murder, he burst into a fit of laughter, and covered the poor official with confusion by announcing that the corpse of the strangled man was a mummy which he was just after bringing from Egypt, and had forgotten to carry away with the rest of his luggage. In order to get his property out of the dead-house, he was obliged to make application to the lieutenant of police, and this circumstance soon scattered the news far and near. A few nights after, all Paris was breaking its sides in the theatre laughing at an uproarious farce by Saconnet, displaying in the richest colors the wisdom and skill of the police commissary and the surgeon. Repeated instances were made by these gentlemen to the minister, M. de Sartines, to restrain the representation. On the last time he observed: "Toleration is a virtue which I love to practise to the utmost limits allowable." The piece had a run of forty nights.

A King And Minister Well Matched.

Among the many puzzles met in history and biography is the retaining of his place by Louvois, prime minister to Louis XIV. Every student of history is aware of the great self-esteem which dwelt within the monarch; and it would be natural to suppose that, in order to retain his favor, officer or minister should diligently cultivate obsequiousness, and have no will or opinion but that of his master. It was not so, however, with this minister; and it is a historic fact that the king resolved on a great public undertaking on account of a difference he had with his minister in their guesses at the breadth of the window at which they were standing. Louis said it was such a breadth, Louvois guessed it was an inch or two more or less, and insisted on the exactness of his eye-calculation so persistently that the king called for a ruler to decide the matter, and resolved on a transaction which he knew would be distasteful to his opinionative contradictor.

In Louis' reign, and under the superintendence of Louvois, was raised the noble pile of the Invalides--a building which will be, or ought to be, at least, visited by every one who takes interest in the well being of men who have suffered in the defence or for the glory of their country. Mansard, the architect, who has given his name to French attics (_Mansardes?_) was much incommoded by the impatience of the minister, whose self appreciation would be content with nothing less than the carving of his bourgeois coat of arms in the neighborhood of the royal achievement wherever it was set up. He gained only mortification by the movement, as Louis had them all effaced. The great man was enraged at this instance of disrespect, and was obliged to content himself with a posthumous revenge. He would be buried at the Invalides, and, through the complaisance of the curé, M. de Mauray, it was done. His body was laid in one of the vaults, but, after all, was not allowed to remain there. The king's parasites gave him information, and the corpse was removed.

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Louvois, fearing that something of this kind would happen, was resolved to attach his memory to the Invalides by surer means. In one mansarde he got sculptured a barrel of powder in the act of explosion, signalizing the war he had originated; in another, a plume of ostrich feathers; and, in two others, an owl and a bat, all emblematic of his high dignity, his wisdom, and wakefulness. The masterpiece, however, was a wolf, the upper part only seen, surmounted by a tuft of palm-leaves, holding the _OEil de Boeuf_ between his forepaws and looking intently into the court. Thus was a pun in marble executed: _(le) Loup voit_ (the wolf is looking)--Louvois, both having the same sound, and the great man's name inseparably connected with the Invalides.

Original

Playing With Fire.

There was a fine specimen in Birmingham, the other day, of a style of theological disputation which we hoped had gone out of vogue. A poor wretch named Murphy, a paid agent of the London Protestant Electoral Union, had been travelling for some months about the counties of Stafford and Warwick, circulating obscene tracts upon the confessional, ranting about priests and nuns, retailing all the absurd and wicked stories against the Catholic religion which have formed the stock in trade of a certain class of zealots and religious demagogues for the last three hundred years; and very naturally his disgusting tirades had stirred up a dangerous sort of public feeling. The lower classes of the Protestants were taught to look upon the Catholics as savage, wild beasts, given up to all manner of immoral practices, enemies to all human happiness, thirsting for blood, rapine, and revolution, and wedded to the stake, the faggot, and the thumb-screw. The lower classes of the Catholics were compelled to bear the taunts and insults which were certain to be provoked by this rage of popular prejudice, and moreover to listen to the grossest attacks upon what they held in most affectionate reverence. Of course, sensible Protestants, as well as educated Catholics, felt nothing but pity and contempt for the ravings of such a man as Murphy; but unfortunately it is not educated and sensible people who make all the trouble in the world, nor were they educated and sensible people who formed the bulk of Mr. Murphy's audiences. Wherever he went, he made a popular disturbance. Blows and brickbats followed in his train like dust behind rolling wheels. The magistrates in one town confiscated his books on account of their indecency. At last he came to Birmingham. The mayor and council refused him the use of a public hall, but his disciples built him an immense wooden tabernacle; and there, while an angry crowd raged and threatened about the doors, he began a five weeks' course of lectures on the atrocities of popery. What an instructive contrast was then presented! In the streets Catholic priests were going about among the mob, begging and commanding them to drop their menacing hands and withdraw peaceably to their homes. In the tabernacle this fiery ranter was declaring that every Catholic priest was "a murderer, a cannibal, a liar, and a pickpocket;" that the papists were thirsting for his blood, but durst not take it; that they might pelt him with stones, but God would put forth his arm and prevent his being hurt; they might raise their bludgeons against him, but God would ward off the blows. {698} Need anybody ask what was the result of all this? A riot broke out and raged for two days; and, as always happens in riots, the greater part of the disorder and destruction was caused not by those who began the fray, but by professional thieves and rowdies who seized the opportunity to plunder.

Now, of course, we have no desire to apologize for the unwarrantable mode taken by the Birmingham Catholics to silence this itinerant preacher. Rioting is both a great blunder and a great crime. But who was the more to blame? Was it the pulpit mountebank who pelted his audience with well-nigh intolerable insults, or the uneducated laborers who resented them? Our Lord tells us, when we are smitten upon one cheek, to turn the other; but we all know that the custom of human nature is to smite back. If you first stir up the angry passions of a crowd of excitable Irishmen, and then dance into the midst of them, and dare them to come on, it will not be surprising if you dance out again with a bloody nose and a torn coat. If you shake your fist at a man, and assure him that he cannot hit you if he tries ever so hard, it is very probable that he will try; and if you are hurt, you will have yourself to blame. It is not safe to go near gunpowder with a lighted candle. All England seems to have thought as we do about the Birmingham affair, and Murphy has been unanimously awarded the responsibility for the outrage by the ministers in parliament, and by all the respectable newspapers, even by such prejudiced journals as The Times.

There have been many religious riots in Great Britain and America, but the story is nearly always the same. They have had them in Birmingham before; they have had them in Belfast and Dublin. Lord George Gordon got up a famous one in London, and Gavazzi was the cause of one in Montreal. The Native American movement in 1844 gave us two dreadful riots in Philadelphia, and, but for the firmness and sagacity of Bishop Hughes, would have provoked another in New-York. In the train of the Know-Nothing excitement ten years later followed a long array of incendiary preachers, some of whom were proved to have been expressly hired to provoke disturbance; and what was the result? Churches were sacked, torn down, burned, or blown up with gunpowder in Manchester and Dorchester, New-Hampshire, in Bath, Maine, and in Newark, New-Jersey. A church in Williamsburg was barely saved from the flames by the opportune arrival of the military. A street-preacher in New-York named Parsons was very nearly the cause of a riot in December, 1853; but in this instance also Archbishop Hughes succeeded in keeping the Catholics quiet. All over the country, in fact, rapine and incendiarism seemed rampant; but The New-York Tribune justly observed: "It is worthy of remark that, while five or six Catholic churches in this country have been destroyed or ruined by an excited populace, not a single Protestant church can be pointed out which Catholics have even thought of attacking."

No reasonable man will deny that the frantic sort of propagandism which stirred up all these acts of violence does more harm to its own cause than to that of its adversaries. No honest and rational Protestant wants to trust his defence to a Murphy or a Parsons. The street ranters are dangerous allies and despicable enemies. But the trouble is that after the fools have made the disturbance there are always knaves ready to keep it alive. No sooner had the excited Catholics begun to throw stories at the Birmingham tabernacle than the scourings of the jails, the pestiferous brood of the slums and alleys, began to sack the pawnbrokers' and jewellers shops. And then down came from London a member of Parliament--the notorious Mr. Whalley, whose incessant attacks upon popery in the House of Commons are a standing matter of laughter; and he and Murphy made speeches side by side, one not much more sensible than the other. {699} We shall, no doubt, see the Protestant Electoral Union, of which both these gentlemen are pillars and ornaments, trying to make political capital out of the affair. So, too, in the United States: there has always been a political organization at the back of the zealots who have stirred up religious riots, and there have always been politicians to scramble for the fruits of bigotry, if not to plant the seed.

Is there any reason why we may not have in New-York a repetition of the outrages of Birmingham or Philadelphia? Heaven be praised! we have not, so far as we know, a Protestant Electoral Union; but we have Whalleys enough, and as for Murphies, the world is full of them. There is no need to build a tabernacle; with us they speak through the press. A lie shouted from a platform is not more dangerous than a lie sent flying over the country in the pages of a newspaper. If you want to produce a quick sensation with a good bouncing calumny, the best way perhaps is to speak it out by word of mouth; but for permanent effect commend us to print. There is an American journal which has been acting the part of a Murphy for a long time past, and has lately been flying at popery with more rage than ever. In a recent number of Harper's Weekly there was a horrible story of the confessional in Rome, which might rival the wildest romances of Mrs. Radcliffe. It showed us a sinner getting absolution before he could summon courage to confess his sins, and a young girl murdered by monks and buried under the church pavement; "for in that wonderful but priest-ridden city," says the writer, "the papal clergy act almost with impunity." And the other day, in the same paper, there was a picture of a Roman confessional, a row of penitents kneeling before it, while a priest leaned over the door and absolved them by tapping each one on the head with a rod. This wonderful device, as our Catholic readers will at once perceive, was borrowed from the symbolical wand of office borne by the penitentiaries at the Roman court; but Harper's Weekly puts the whole sacrament into the tap of the wand. "This," says the editor, "is a faithful representation of the manner in which sins are forgiven in the confessionals of St. Peter's at Rome." And then follows a long article, in the true Murphy vein, about confession, and indulgences, and purgatory, and many other points of Catholic doctrine. The pope, we are told, claims the power of damning souls to _hell_, and admitting whom he pleases into heaven. The holiness which he rewards is not Christian holiness; the sins which he punishes with eternal fire are not the sins which Christ denounced. "Sincere penitence as a ground of forgiveness has been practically laid aside, and simple confession has taken its place." Indulgences are mere merchandise, and money will at any time buy a soul out of purgatory, just as "the performance of certain arbitrary ceremonies which have no more connection with vital Christianity than had the rites of pagandom" will open the gates of heaven. Then the writer, after assuring us that the pope is afraid of America, passes on to the ridicule of relics, and of many pious practices, and winds up his article with a prediction that the Christian world will sooner or later be freed from all these mummeries and superstitions, and all mankind be sensible and enlightened Protestants.

Now, to what does all this tend? We dare say the writer of this tirade supposed he was telling the truth, but what was his purpose in telling it? Did he expect to make converts by it? When we seek to be reconciled with an enemy, do we begin by insulting him? Will it dispose an adversary to listen to your arguments with a favoring ear if you open the discussion by spitting in his face, and calling him a fool, and reviling all that he holds in highest respect? Billingsgate is not gospel. When the Holy Ghost came down upon the apostles on the day of Pentecost, those chosen preachers of divine truth did not straightway begin to blackguard the Jews. {700} When St. Paul preached at Antioch, he did not call the pagan pontiffs "ragamuffins," as Mr. Murphy called the Catholic clergy, nor did he try to convert the Jews by saying of their high priest what the Birmingham Boanerges said of the pope, that he was "the greatest old rag and bone grubber in the universe." And does the Journal of Civilization expect to convert Catholics by caricaturing the pope, and telling scandalous stories about the church, and burlesquing her doctrines? As we said before, we feel bound to presume that the writer believed all he said; but it was so easy for him to know better. The doctrine which he ascribes to Catholics we so earnestly repudiate in all our books, in all our pulpits, and in all our practical life, that we have a good right to complain indignantly, and to charge him with a carelessness hardly more pardonable than dishonesty.

We say this carelessness is a very grave offence, because such calumnies against religious bodies never have but one effect--exasperation, and possibly riot. There is just the same material for a riot in New-York that there was in Birmingham. There are ignorant and hot-headed men, both Protestants and Catholics, who are ready enough to come to blows if you once charge them full of religious ire, and then bring them in contact; and there are thieves and street brigands enough in any large city to push on the work of destruction when once it has been started. We know very well that a hundred such stories and pictures would never make a riot by themselves. We know very well that there are not a half dozen Catholics in New-York who would be wicked and silly enough to resent such insults with violence. What we complain of is, that vituperation and calumny can hardly fail to create a dangerous antagonism of feeling which, at any unforeseen provocation may ripen into bloodshed. Once teach opposing classes of the people to loathe each other, and how long will the public peace be safe? Let papers like Harper's Journal of Civilization (bless the mark!) keep on stirring up the bad old blood, reviving the dead old lies, reawakening dormant prejudices, and filling the two denominations with mutual hatred, and the least little spark may suddenly kindle the whole hateful mass into a sweeping conflagration. Argue with us, if you will, and we will meet you in the calm, gentle, Christian spirit without which all controversy must be worse than useless. Tell us that we are wrong, if you think so, and we will show you wherein we are right. Surely a Christian minister can discuss mooted questions of theology without flinging his Bible at his adversary's head. Civilized gentlemen can talk over their differences without loading each other with vile epithets. There is only one way in which religious disputation can be profitable or even tolerable; let us come to that way at once; but, above all, no more lies; no more playing with fire.

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Original.

Christianity And Its Conflicts. [Footnote 245]

[Footnote 245: Christianity and its Conflicts, Ancient and Modern. By E. E. Marcy, A.M. New-York: D. Appleton & Co., Broadway. 1867. Pp. 480.]

The title of this work indicates that its scope is very comprehensive, and that its execution involves a great deal of practical labor and research. The author says in his preface that he has aimed "to display Christianity as it was established by Jesus, as it has been developed and perpetuated by the apostles and their successors, and to correct the erroneous impressions which so generally exist respecting it, and also endeavored to exhibit a general outline of the various conflicting elements which have been arrayed against the Christian system up to the present time."

He has been as good as his word, for he has given us an instructive and able sketch of the heathen philosophers and religions, and of the corrupt social conditions which opposed themselves to the introduction of Christianity; of the struggle for so many ages with the barbarism of Europe; and, finally, in what we consider by far the most vivid and interesting portions of his work, he has laid bare the character, effects, and tendencies of what is called the Reformation, and the present condition of Christendom, religious, social, and political.

To judge his work correctly, we must bear in mind that the author is a layman, the business of whose life has not been the study of theology. A man of liberal education, a physician, and of eminence in his profession, his attention has been drawn to the consideration of the grand problems of man's destiny; he has studied and reflected upon them, realized their importance, and given us the result, as he says, "for the sole purpose of vindicating truth and the religion of Christ."

The testimony of an intelligent and cultivated layman on the subject of religious truths has a peculiar value; for, although it may not be so accurate and full in a theological sense, it often presents the arguments in a more popular form, and with a personal conviction which impresses the minds of many with a peculiar force. The author evidently feels deeply on the subjects on which he writes. A citizen of the world, he feels a deep interest in both the temporal and spiritual well-being of his fellows. As he contemplates either false principles or the evil conduct of individuals, the sentiment of indignation rises within him, and he expresses himself frequently in animated and glowing language, and with a sort of passionate energy which will be considered, no doubt, by those who do not sympathize with him, as a blemish. We wish he had toned down some of his expressions to avoid giving needless offence, and that appearance of exaggeration which to the minds of some might cast suspicion upon the solid merit of his conclusions. We regret particularly his political allusions. Without entering at all into the merits of party politics, we wish they had been kept out of this book altogether; or, if the author must pay off one political party, we wish he had executed an equal and impartial justice upon the other. There is enough of political selfishness, corruption, and bribery in either political party to excite the indignation of every honest man. {702} But we must not exact too much of a layman who has his strong political views, and who considers it timely and for the public good to give them a decided expression. What would be unbecoming in one in holy orders may be permitted to a layman in the busy walks of life. We are not disposed to forgive so easily the way in which he has spoken of New England. This section of the country contains all sorts of people and all sorts of opinions, good, bad, and indifferent. There may be more radicalism, more scepticism, and more fanaticism here than elsewhere. It is a question we think it idle to enter upon. The same principles prevail and have prevailed in other sections of the country. It is wrong to single out New England or its inhabitants to be held up to the scorn, ridicule, or hatred of the rest of the country. It is quite too much the fashion nowadays to do so, and we cannot too strongly reprobate a practice which sets one section of the country at variance with another, perpetuates ill feeling and hatred, and aggravates the very mischief it aims to remove. But we all know that those who take warm interest in political questions are apt to have very decided opinions and to express them in a corresponding manner, and we can well afford to pass them by without allowing our equanimity to be too much ruffled by them; and whatever may be the political opinion of any man, or however much he may differ from our author, he must, we think, give him credit for his courage and pluck in the fearless manner he comes out with them.

But let us come to the solid merits of the volume. The author shows us, in the first chapter, the terrible corruption of morals and the false philosophy prevailing at the time of the introduction of Christianity, and the fearful struggle which it had with paganism. He deduces therefrom the necessity of miracles and a proof of their truth. This is timely and judicious, when a silly criticism is striving to overturn all the ideas of common sense on this subject, and to destroy the historical testimony of the truth of revelation. We hope this will be read and reflected upon by those who have confused ideas on this subject.

He proceeds to give us an account of the doctrines taught by our Lord Jesus Christ, and holds up in relief the demand which he made on our unqualified submission and assent to all the truths which he taught and all his precepts. This is faith, and the foundation of religion and salvation. To believe in Christ is to believe all that he taught and to do all he commanded. As we are more fully aware what is the real meaning of the word "faith," we can understand better the true character of the Christian religion. We notice some inaccuracies of expression, and sometimes desire a more profound insight into the matter, but find embodied a great deal of useful information which may thus be brought within the reach of many who, if we may judge from the ignorance displayed in the religious publications of the day, have the most erroneous ideas on the subject.

He shows the identity of the church instituted by Christ and the Catholic Church, tracing the history of the church from its foundation up to the time of the Reformation, and discussing those doctrines which are held in the Catholic Church, though rejected by those who have separated from her. The picture he portrays of the condition of the world at the commencement of the Reformation is most opportune. Protestant writers have endeavored to force the conviction on the minds of their readers that all or the greater part of the progress of civilization has taken place since that event. Nothing can be more untrue. The author proves to us that a continual progress had been in course for centuries in a healthy and steady advancement; and when we connect this with the account which follows of the effects of this great historical event, in removing the restraints which held man's pride and selfish passions within bounds; of the discord, violence, and civil war which were the uniform result everywhere; we are filled with regret that the harmonious development of the physical and spiritual life of the nations, under the auspices of the church, was ever interfered with. {703} It would have been a beautiful sight to have seen Europe, a commonwealth of nations, bound together by the tie of one religious faith and the same principles of morality, submitting their differences, without the necessity of immense standing armies and ruinous wars, to the mild arbitration of him whom they all acknowledged to be the Vicar of Christ, and the guardian of Christian justice and morality. We must ask ourselves, not where we are now, but what we would have attained had our efforts been combined, rather than wasted in opposing one another.

The church fulfilled her duty up to this time, against the obstacles thrown in her way by the flood of barbarism which overflowed all Europe. She christianized and civilized the people. She was constantly occupied in reforming abuses; and, if such existed at the time of the Reformation, we must acknowledge that there was every disposition to reform them within the body of the church herself, without the least need of throwing off her legitimate authority. This book ought to clear up many misapprehensions only too common in the public mind.

We then have an account of the doctrines of the reformers, drawn from their own writings, followed by interesting and graphic sketches of the personal characteristics of Luther, Calvin, and others. That of Luther is peculiarly piquant, and is authenticated completely by copious extracts from his own writings and those of his friends and associates.

We hope the advocates of the Reformation, for the honor of their cause, will keep the first reformers as much out of sight as possible, and cease to compare them to St. Paul and the apostles. Their doctrines are pretty well exploded, and, when brought forward as distinct propositions, are reprobated by the universal sense of mankind. Unfortunately they still live in a covert and hidden way to work out their evil and bitter fruits, as the author fully shows in the subsequent parts of his work.

Those who represent the reformers as saints, have a strange idea of sanctity or even common decency. Dr. Marcy, in view of their immoral eccentricities, adopts the most charitable construction possible in the case of Luther and some others. We will let him speak for himself:

"From an amiable, chaste, temperate, and devout man, he (that is, Luther) became violent, ferocious, intemperate, licentious, blasphemous, and sanguinary. From a firm, unwavering, and happy believer in the truths of the church, he became the victim of innumerable doubts, changes, perplexities, and fierce torments. From a condition of mental tranquillity and intellectual equilibrium, he leaped into a state of maniacal excitement with a very great perversion of all his intellectual powers and faculties. As an innovator he habitually saw spectres, men with tails, horns, claws, features of animals, and was pursued and tormented by these morbid fantasies. A volume of these abnormal manifestations might be cited in support of our position, but we have presented a sufficient number to enable the impartial reader to form a just conclusion of Luther's sanity or insanity."

After this account of the reformers and their opinions, we have a striking account of the fruits of their doctrines in Europe and America up to this present time. It deserves to be read and reread. He calls attention to a fact of which we are all too well cognizant, the miserable religious discussions introduced and ever on the increase since the Reformation. "Until the innovating revolution of the sixteenth century, the faith of Christendom had been a unit; there were no divisions, no dissensions, no false teachers or false doctrines in the Christian household. Men, women, and children knew only one church, one faith, and one form of worship, and were contented and happy in their religious convictions. {704} So universal was this unity, so thoroughly grounded was this faith, and so general was the practical observance of the duties of religion, that scepticism, the novelties of individuals, irreligion, and immorality were comparatively rare. The Christian church had been made up of converts from numerous nations and races, and there had been a continual struggle for more than fifteen centuries between the church on the one hand and these elements of ignorance and evil on the other; the church had finally triumphed, true Christian civilization had fairly gained the ascendency over barbarism, and a universal reign of Christian unity and concord was rapidly dawning over the whole world, when suddenly the innovations of Germany broke in upon this unity and harmony, arrested the onward progress of Christianity, and deluged the world with distracting novelties, creeds, and sects." Incessant wars and rapid deterioration of morals complete the picture, the main outlines of which we can verify from our own observation. In this connection the author has, we are glad to see, taken up the favorite argument and grand trump card of the opponents of the Catholic church, which is thus expressed: "Contrast the condition of Protestant and Catholic countries, and see how much superior in wealth, intelligence, and progress the former are to the latter." He shows that, when the facts are not carefully manipulated and prepared for the purpose, there is no very great contrast after all. He says: "Macaulay has contrasted the United States and Mexico; Italy and Scotland; Spain and Holland; Prussia and Ireland; candor should have induced this eminent writer to have made more equal and just comparisons, as France and England, Belgium and Holland, Austria and Prussia, Mexico, Peru, and Brazil with the Sandwich Islands and other recently converted nations."'

Making the comparison, not merely in regard to wealth and outward show, but taking into account the statistics of crime, he shows that Catholic countries are far in advance of their Protestant rivals in virtue and morality.

It is perfectly astonishing how the current idea in Protestant society tends to deify materialism.

Worldly prosperity and accumulation of wealth we unblushingly put forward as the conclusive test of the truth or falsity of religious faith. Our Lord said, "Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, but lay up treasures in heaven;" but a host of clerical and lay gentlemen and philosophers shout themselves hoarse with the cry; "Your Catholics have not the religion of Christ, for you do not seek after money half hard enough. You are a deal too simple in your way of living; you ought to multiply your cravings and desires more, and live a deal more artificially than you do." Listen to Lecky, one of the great modern lights; quoted by Dr. Marcy: "An accumulation of capital is therefore the first step of civilization, and this accumulation depends on the multiplication of wants. ... Hence the dreary, sterile torpor that characterized those ages in which the ascetic principle has been supreme, while the civilizations which have attained the highest perfection have been those of ancient Greece and modern Europe, which were most opposed to it." Liebig, quoted in a work of Youmans recently published, gives us this queer definition: "Man's superiority to the beast depends essentially in his faculty of discovering inventions for the gratification of his wants, and it is the sum of them among a people which embraces the conception of their 'civilization.'" We feel much ashamed of our old-fashioned ignorance, but really we used to think man's superiority over the beast consisted essentially in his possessing an immortal soul. Dr. J. W. Draper launches out in the following grandiloquent condemnation of the "Roman Church:" {705} "How different the result had it abandoned the obsolete absurdities of patristicism"--we suppose he means the teaching of the fathers of the church handed down to them from the apostles--"and become imbued with the spirit of true philosophy--had it lifted itself to a comprehension of the awful magnificence of the heavens above and the glories of the earth beneath, had it appreciated the immeasurable vastness of the universe, its infinite multitude of worlds, its inconceivable past duration." Poor old church, why did you not abandon the consideration of the unseen world and the inconceivable duration of eternity, and confine your attention to astronomy and geology? Why teach men that God takes an interest in them personally and holds them accountable, when he has created so many worlds and rocks to take up their attention? This is philosophy with a vengeance, the philosophy which is summed up by St. Paul in the short phrase. "Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we shall die."

Greece and Rome reached the acme of this material civilization before they fell. England at present seems to occupy their place. Kay, in his social history of the English people, exposes the misery and vice of the great mass the population, which, like the smothered fire of a volcano, may burst out and involve the land in a universal ruin and desolation.

It is well for us to take warning in time, for, in the headlong race after money and material enjoyment, we are getting civilized to such a degree that we seem to be in danger of outrunning all the antiquated notions of honor and honesty. Our late upheaval of society, the unsettled state of things, the insecurity of property, the enormous prices of labor and living, are beginning to make us realize that "all is not gold that glitters," and we feel confident that many a one will accept Dr. Marcy's fearless _exposé_ of false civilization with thankfulness, and draw the logical conclusions.

In this connection is shown also the reason why our own country displays so much greater advance in material prosperity than either Mexico or the countries of South America; a reason, we are truly sorry to say, substantiated by overwhelming testimony. It is this: The native population of our own country, though a simple, innocent, warm-hearted people, who received us with open arms, were hunted down and destroyed like wild beasts in New England, Virginia, and elsewhere. In Mexico and South America they still live and occupy the country. Here we have made a blank to be filled by a full-blown European civilization of the growth of centuries; there millions of the original people have been reclaimed from barbarism, are living, increasing in number, and steadily progressing toward the mark we have attained. Dr. Marcy tells truth in eloquent but indignant forms when he says: "It is quite true that this Mexican Indian race is inferior by nature to the Anglo Saxon or the Frank. It is quite true that the children of those who were rude savages a few generations ago have not the intelligence, or the energy, or the enterprise of the shrewd, money-loving Puritan. It is quite true that the souls of these simple-minded children of Montezuma are not wholly absorbed in the love of gain and of worldly pride and ambition; but, nevertheless, they live, and can look upon the consecrated graves of their fathers back to the days of Cortez; they _still live_, and can worship in spirit and truth the God who created them and gave them their country; they _still live_, and can behold cities, towns, churches, schools, and cultivated fields, where their fathers only saw dense forests and savage wildernesses; they _still live_, and bless the church and the priests who have been their preservers and benefactors."

Our Lord Jesus Christ came to preach the gospel to the poor, and it is the glory of the Catholic Church that her great heart has always beat warmly and tenderly for the souls and bodies of the poor and down-trodden races of mankind. {706} Her history on this continent is a history of a long line of true imitations of Jesus Christ, and of the peaceful triumphs of his cross. Wherever Protestantism prevailed, we have, as an unvarying result, the speedy extermination by fire and sword of the aborigines. Even this is held up by some writers as conclusive of the superior claims of Protestantism. Their argument, divested of all ambiguity, would sound thus: "The red man was in the way of our development, we shot him and cleared the track. What is the use of making a fuss about shooting Indians or other inferior races? It is a great deal better to do that than to try to keep the poor devils to be a burden to themselves and to us. We Protestants understand better than you weak-minded and superstitious Catholics how to deal with such matters, and this proves that we, and not you, have the true Christianity." We speak thus strongly because we feel strongly the impudence with which such writers attribute to Christianity itself the grossest violations of its very first principles.

Let us excuse our forefathers as much as we can, but, in the interest of the religion of Christ, let us not call their crimes virtues. There was nothing in their religion powerful enough to enlighten their ignorance or to control their passions; they had no church to lay down the stern, undeviating principles of morality, and no confessional to apply them to the individual conscience; and, therefore, as soon as an Indian stole a horse or a cow, or plundered a hen-roost, his death and the extermination of his tribe was a necessary and immediate consequence. And for the want of the same authoritative moral restraint, according to many Protestant writers who have taken the alarm, we are now on the high road to exterminate ourselves.

The Rev. J. Todd, D.D., a Congregational divine, all honor to him for his conscientious candor, says, speaking of the disparity in the natural increase of our foreign and native-born population, and of the immoral causes of it: "There is nothing in Protestantism that encourages or connives at it, but there is a vast ignorance as to the guilt of the thing. But in the Catholic Church human life is guarded at all stages by the confessional, by stern denouncement, and by fearful excommunications."

The divine wisdom of the Founder of the sacrament of confession is most signally vindicated in these few pithy words, which we leave to the reflection of the reader.

In the concluding portions of his work the author gives some most interesting statistics of the growth and proportions of infidelity and scepticism in our country, of the results of Catholic and Protestant missions among the heathens, and of the state of religion throughout the world. These make his work more complete, and will be received gladly by many who have not had their attention called to these facts before. We think they add very much to the completeness of the work, and it was a happy idea of the author to put them in. Dr. Marcy's book ought to do a great deal of good, and we do not doubt that it will. The number of unpalatable truths told in it, and the direct, incisive way in which they are told, have provoked and will provoke much unfavorable comment. Every effort will be made to discredit it. It will be called vituperative, false, and calumnious. Its truth--and Dr. Marcy has taken good care to back up all his assertions with the best of evidence--is the best refutation of all such accusations. We find every day all sorts of false and calumnious statements, circulated without a particle of proof, in the books, the periodicals, and newspapers of the land, against the persons and the doctrines we hold most dear. It is of little use to reply, the lie is circulated and the reply is left unnoticed. Our opponents take all their representations of our doctrines and practices, at second hand, from the writings of our deadliest enemies, and never think it worth while to verify their statements by looking at the statements of our own councils and standard writers. {707} This treatment is absolutely unfair, and the most respectable are blind to its meanness, where we are concerned; but let the Catholic writer tell the outspoken truth and back it up by genuine testimony of their own writers and partisans, and the cry is at once raised of "calumnious, incendiary, malicious," etc. etc. It will be easier to raise a cry against this book than to answer its statements. When Marshall published his history of Christian Missions, with its thousands of references to the most unsuspected Protestant witnesses, we looked for a reply which would be something more than merely throwing dust in the eyes of the public, but we have looked in vain up to this time; its statements have never been answered. So we feel sure it will be with this book. It may be called hard names, but it will not be seriously answered. If it will be thoughtfully read, we shall feel content. It will then, at least, be answered, as we prefer to see all honest representations of the truth answered, by the removal of prejudice, the correction of many false ideas which prevail concerning our holy faith, and the consequent desire, which we pray may arise in not a few sincere minds, to examine more fully into its character and the grounds of its claims to be the true religion of Jesus Christ.

From Chambers's Journal.

Thermometers.

An ordinary thermometer consists, as everybody knows, of a glass tube, fixed to a scale. This tube contains a fine bore, and has a bulb blown at one extremity. Some liquid, generally mercury or alcohol, is introduced into the tube, the air is driven out, and the tube is sealed. The quantity of fluid, say mercury, admitted into the tube is so regulated that at common temperatures the bulb and a portion of the bore are filled. The remainder of the bore, which is empty, affords space for the mercury to rise. This arrangement renders very perceptible the alterations in the volume of the mercury due to changes of temperature, a very slight increase or diminution of volume causing the mercury to rise or to fall appreciably in the fine bore. After sealing, the scale has to be adjusted to the tube, and the instrument is complete.

Thermometers of the most accurate make are called standard thermometers. In their manufacture, numerous precautions are necessary from the very outset. Even in so simple a matter as the choice of the tube of glass much care is requisite. The bore has to be tested, in order to ensure that it is of uniform capacity throughout. It is found that tubes, as they come from the glass-house, contain a bore wider at one extremity than the other. The bore is, in fact, a portion of a very elongated cone. In a hundredweight of tubes, not more than half a dozen or so can be picked out in which the bore is perfectly true. The bore is tested in a very ingenious though simple manner. A bulb is blown, and a very small quantity of mercury is admitted into the tube about as much as will fill an inch and a half of the bore. By alternately cooling and heating the bulb, this delicate thread of mercury is driven from one end of the tube to the other, and during this process its length is carefully measured in all parts of the tube. {708} Should the length of the mercury alter in various situations, it is evident that the capacity of the bore is not uniform throughout, and the tube must be rejected. In blowing the bulb, an elastic ball, containing air, is used. The ordinary method of blowing glass bulbs by means of the breath is found to cause the introduction of moisture into the tube.

The size of the bulb has next to be considered. A large bulb renders the instrument slow in its indications of change, owing to the quantity of mercury that has to be acted on. On the other hand, if the bulb is too small, it will not contain sufficient mercury to register high temperatures, unless the bore is exceedingly fine.

The shape of the bulb is of importance. Spherical bulbs are best adapted to resist the varying pressure of the atmosphere; while cylindrical bulbs expose larger surfaces of mercury, and are therefore preferred for more delicate instruments. Various plans have been suggested in order to obtain thermometers of extreme sensitiveness for delicate experiments. Some have been made with very small thin bulbs, to contain a very small quantity of mercury; but in these the indicating column is generally so fine, that it can only be read by the aid of a powerful lens. Instruments have been contrived with spiral or coiled tubular bulbs; but the thickness of glass required to keep these in shape nullifies the effect sought to be obtained--namely, instantaneous action. Messrs. Negretti & Zambra, the well-known meteorological instrument-makers, have recently succeeded in constructing a thermometer which combines sensitiveness and quickness of action, and which presents a good visible column. The bulb of this thermometer is of a gridiron form. The reservoir is made of glass, so thin that it cannot be blown; it can only be formed by means of a spirit-lamp; yet its shape gives it such rigidity that its indications are not affected by altering its position or by standing it on its bulb. The reservoirs of the most delicate of these instruments contain about nine inches of excessively thin cylindrical glass, the outer diameter of which is not more than the twentieth of an inch, and, owing to the large surface thus presented to the air, the indications are positively instantaneous. This form of thermometer was constructed expressly to meet the requirements of scientific balloon ascents, to enable the observer to take thermometric readings at precise elevations. It was contemplated to procure a metallic thermometer; but, on the production of this perfect instrument, the idea was abandoned.

The shape and size of the bulb having been determined, the workman next proceeds to fill the tube. This is effected by heating the bulb while the open end of the tube is embedded in mercury. Upon allowing the bulb to cool, the atmospheric pressure drives some mercury into the tube. The process is continued until sufficient mercury has entered. The mercury used in filling should be quite pure, and should have been freed from moisture and air by recent boiling. It is again boiled in the tube after filling; and when the expulsion of air and moisture is deemed complete, and while the mercury fills the tube, the artist dexterously removes it from the source of heat, and at the same moment closes it with the flame of a blow-pipe. It sometimes happens that in spite of every care a little air still remains in the tube. Its presence is detected by inverting the tube, when, if the mercury falls to the extremity (or nearly so) of the bore, some air is present, which, of course, must be removed.

The thermometer, after being filled, has to be graduated. Common thermometers are fixed to a scale on which the degrees are marked; but the graduation of standards is engraved on the stem itself, in order to insure the greatest possible accuracy. The first steps in graduating are to ascertain the exact freezing-point and the exact and to mark on the tube the height of the mercury at these points. {709} The freezing-point can be determined with comparative ease. Melting ice has always the same temperature in all places and under all circumstances, provided only that the water from which the ice is congealed is pure. The bulb and the lower portion of the tube are immersed in melting ice; the mercury descends; the point where it remains stationary is the freezing-point, and is marked on the tube.

The determination of the boiling-point is more difficult. The boiling-point varies with the pressure of the atmosphere. The normal boiling temperature of water is fixed at a barometric pressure of 29.922 inches of mercury having the temperature of melting ice, in the latitude of 45, and at the level of the sea. Of course, these conditions rarely if ever co-exist; and consequently the boiling-point has to be corrected for errors, and reduced for latitude. Tables of vapor tension, as they are called, computed from accurate experiments, are used for this purpose. Regnault's tables, the most recent, are considered the best.

An approximate boiling-point is first obtained by actual experiment. A copper boiler is used, which has at its top an open cylinder two or three inches in diameter, and of sufficient length to allow a thermometer to be introduced into it, without touching the water in the boiler. The cylinder is surrounded by a second one, fixed to the top of the boiler, but not entering it, the two being about an inch apart. The outer cylinder is intended to protect the inner one from contact with the cold external air. The thermometer to be graduated is placed in the inner cylinder, and held there by a thong of India-rubber. As the vapor of the boiling water rises from the boiler into the cylinder, it envelops the thermometer, and causes the mercury to ascend. As the mercury rises, the tube is gradually lowered, so as to keep the top of the mercury just visible above the cylinder. When the mercury becomes stationary, the position of the top of the column is marked on the tube; and the boiling-point, subject to corrections for errors, is obtained.

The freezing and boiling points being determined, the scale is applied by dividing the length between the two points into a certain number of equal degrees. This operation is performed by a machine called a dividing-engine, which engraves degrees of any required width with extreme accuracy.

The scale used in the United Kingdom, in the British colonies, and in North America, is that known as Fahrenheit's. Fahrenheit was a philosophical instrument maker of Amsterdam. About the year 1724, he invented the scale with which his name is associated. The freezing point of his scale is 32 degrees, the boiling-point 212 degrees, and the intermediate space is composed of 180 degrees. This peculiar division was thus derived. The lowest cold observed in Iceland was the zero of Fahrenheit. When the thermometer stood at zero, it was calculated to contain a volume of mercury represented by the figures 11,124. When plunged into melting snow, the mercury expanded to a volume represented by 11,156; hence the intermediate space was divided into thirty-two equal portions or degrees, and thirty-two was taken as the freezing-point of water. [Footnote 246] Similarly, at the boiling-point, the quick-silver expanded to 11,336. Fahrenheit's scale is convenient in some respects. The meteorological observer is seldom troubled with negative signs, the divisions of the scale are numerous, and tenths of degrees give all the minuteness usually requisite.

[Footnote 246: Mr. Balfour Stewart has lately concluded a series of experiments at the Kew Observatory, by which he has accurately determined the freezing-point of mercury. The experiments, conducted with great care, have shown that the freezing-point of mercury, like that of water, is constant, and that it denotes a temperature of -37.93 F. The freezing-point of mercury will now be used as a third point in graduating thermometers which are intended to register extreme temperatures.]

{710}

In 1742, Celsius, a Swede, proposed zero for the freezing-point, and 100 degrees for the boiling-point, all temperatures below freezing being distinguished by the negative sign (-). This scale is known as the Centigrade. It is in use in France, Sweden, and in the south of Europe; it has the advantage of decimal notation, with the disadvantage of the negative sign.

Reaumur's scale is in use in Spain, Switzerland, and Germany. It differs from the Centigrade in this, that the freezing and boiling points are separated by 80 degrees instead of 100 degrees.

It would not be difficult to construct a scale which should combine all the advantages of Fahrenheit's and of the Centigrade. Freezing-point should be fixed at 100 degrees; and boiling-point should be fixed at as many hundred divisions or degrees above 100 degrees as might be agreed on by practical men as most convenient. The advantages of decimal notation would thus remain as in the Centigrade scale, and the minus sign would be got rid of.

And now, having applied the scale, and having exercised every precaution, can we congratulate ourselves on possessing a perfect instrument? Disheartening as it may appear, the standard instrument of to-day may not be accurate to-morrow. It is more than probable that the freezing point will become displaced. This curious phenomenon has never been satisfactorily explained. Messrs. Negretti & Zambra, in their treatise on Meteorological Instruments, (a work which abounds with information of a most interesting nature,) say, in reference to displacement of the freezing point, that "either the prolonged effect of the atmospheric pressure upon the thin glass of the bulbs of thermometers, or the gradual restoration of the equilibrium of the particles of the glass after having been greatly disturbed by the operation of boiling the mercury, seems to be the cause of the freezing-points of standard thermometers reading from a few tenths to a degree higher in the course of some years." To obviate this small error, it is the practice of the makers in question "to place the tubes aside for about six months before fixing the freezing-point, in order to give time for the glass to regain its former state of aggregation. The making of accurate thermometers is a task attended with many difficulties, the principal one being the liability of the zero or freezing-point varying constantly; so much so, that a thermometer that is perfectly correct to-day, if immersed in boiling-water, will be no longer accurate; at least, it will take some time before it again settles into its normal state. Then, again, if a thermometer is recently blown, filled, and graduated immediately, or, at least, before some months have elapsed, though every care may have been taken with the production of the instrument, it will require some correction; so that the instrument, however carefully made, should from time to time be plunged into finely-pounded ice, in order to verify the freezing-point."

From The Month.

The Tuscan Peasants And The Maremna.

The Maremna is, in summer, the word that drives the sleep from many an Italian woman's pillow as she thinks of the perils that her husband, her brother, or her betrothed is encountering as he reaps the fertile harvest, and gains, at the risk of his life, the wages that will enable him and his to live through the winter. "A me mi pare una Maremna amara" is the burden of the song with which many a child is rocked to sleep. And with reason. The Maremna is the Littorale or shores of the Tuscan Sea; and there the coasts that bound the blue waters of the Mediterranean are lined by tangled jungles and pestilential marshes, whence at each sunset arises the baleful fever, which, passing in scorn over the ruined cities that its pernicious breath has depopulated, creeps along like the sleuth-hound until it finds the hardy mountaineer returning from his day of labor, and smites him with the wasting blight which saps his strength. {711} Yet year after year do the sons of Italy descend with unwearied energy to these valleys and deadly plains, to reap the crops that have grown uncared for but luxuriantly, death and disease stalking behind them, and the fear of falling victims to the power of the evil air urging them to increased exertions, in order that they may earlier return and share their scanty gains with their wives and children. They march gayly, too, often singing alternately in their rough monotone the songs they have composed themselves, cheerful in the consciousness that they are fulfilling a duty; and this although knowing that they have to fight a foe against whom neither courage nor energy nor strength can avail, but whose damp breath appears to draw the marrow from their bones and fill them with fever; sometimes sending them weak and emaciated, useless as workmen, to their native homes; sometimes in a few hours laying their bodies low, to lie, far from family and friends, in unconsecrated ground.

When the Italian peasants speak of the Maremna, they mean that district of Italy which runs along the shores of the Mediterranean from Monte Nebo and the mountains south of Leghorn over the flat marshes of the Tuscan shores, and the desolate promontory of Monte Cervino, as far as the sunny shores of Sorento and Amalfi. To the south of the Tuscan frontier the (to English ears) more familiar name of Campagna is applied to the whole of that portion of the Maremna which lies within the ancient Agro Romano; still further to the south the word Maremna becomes identical with what are called the Pontine Marshes. The mountaineers of Modena, Parma, and Tuscany call the country which they periodically visit, whether south or north, Maremna: the inhabitants frequently give it a local name. Undefined as are its boundaries, and almost unknown to geography as is its name, its characteristics are much the same throughout; everywhere we meet the same wide plains, tangled jungles, ruined cities, wooded hills, ever-recurring swamps and morasses; throughout the whole district the same terrible ague, the same desolating fever, the fatal influence of the malaria, rage with destructive effect. Although often characterized as a swamp or a marsh, yet the Maremna by no means consists of plains like the fens; on the contrary, there are several high mountains, which run down even into the sea: the land near the coast is, however, in general flat.

Part of the Maremna is cultivated, and produces grain; the greater portion, however, is kept for pasture. As soon as the herbage begins to fail on the mountains of Tuscany, the peasants drive their flocks down to the pastures of the Maremna. There they remain six or seven months. The women and children are left at home, and the men and boys during this time bear all the privations, hardships, and dangers. An Italian poet exclaims: "Alas, how often do they return home bowed down by fever! how often do they never return! for, where they sought to earn the sustenance of their families, they meet with death." While some descend with their flocks and act as shepherds, the majority are there for the purpose of cutting wood, making charcoal and potash; their last work is to reap the hay and corn, and then those who are left alive return. Part of their wages has already been sent home; the remainder they bring with them.

Halfway between Leghorn and Pisa stands the old church of St. Pier d'Arena. It is very large, and built as nearly as possible to resemble the form of a ship. In old days the sea reached this point, and the name 'Arena' points to the strand on which the church was built. Tradition states it was here St. Peter landed on his visit to Italy, and the church was built to commemorate the event.

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One October, now many years ago, after a visit to this church, I met a troop of shepherds and their flocks on their march to the Maremna. The procession must have covered half a mile of ground. Never yet have I looked on a troop of these sunburnt children of the south as they were wending their way to a land whence all would not return, without saluting them even as I would a forlorn hope advancing to attack the breach of a fortress. Soldiers of duty, "Morituros vos saluto." And higher is the courage and deeper is the love that impels these brave men, singing as they go, to encounter the fever and thirst and pestilential air of the Maremna, than that which animates many even of those soldiers who fight for God and king and fatherland.

Tears rose to the eyes of my companion as they passed. The flocks and herds marched first, all "ruddled," that is, marked with red, to show to whom they belonged. The procession was headed by the bell-wethers, with their curved horns; in close attendance upon them are tall, handsome, woolly-haired sheep-dogs, of a larger breed than ours, and with their necks defended by a collar studded with nails, the projecting points of which often turn the scale in the case of an encounter with the wolves. Nor are these the only robbers against which these vigilant watchers defend the sheep: if a human beast of prey, in shape of a thief, lies lurking in the ditches that border the roadside, watching an opportunity for seizing a lamb, they detect him and compel him to show himself. At night, too, they march round the nets that enclose the little encampment, and give the weary guardians time to sleep. Before they go to sleep, the peasants light a fire, and make cheese and ricotti, (a sort of Devonshire cream,) with which they repay the owner of the soil for leave to encamp on his grounds. As the milk is far more plentiful on their return in May, a spirit of natural, even-handed justice makes them generally contrive, both going and returning, to halt at the same stations. A necessary member of this company is the poet, or scribe, (_scrivano_.) To him is entrusted the task of composing, or else writing down and correcting, the "Respects" which each Tuscan shepherd is bound to send to his sweetheart. Collections of these rustic poems have lately been made and published. They are full of pathos and tenderness; the heart of the young exile yearns not only for his _dama_, (sweetheart,) but for the beauties of the country he has left behind him. Not his the harp to sing of festive banquets or goblets crowned with flowers; he loves the streams of fresh water, the flowering grass, the cultivated terraces, the pure air of his mountain home. Nature herself, and sorrow, the nurses of beauty, have breathed on him a spirit of truth and poetry as distinct from the sickly sentimentality and vice so often found in modern verse, as is the wild rider of the Arabian desert from the puny jockey who wins our handicaps. Strange, indeed, it would be if these poems, written in danger, absence, and exile, possessed not a fragrance all their own--one, however, that seems to escape not only in the most literal translation, but even when, under a slightly different form, they appear in the works of their more highly educated countrymen.

Independently of the troops that march almost patriarchally with their flocks and herds, like Abraham and Jacob, peasants often go down in gangs of five or six to look for work; sometimes, though rarely, necessity compels them to take with them their wives, and, if grown up, their children. In this case they almost invariably travel in one of the long, narrow, covered cars of the country. The men trudge along in groups of five or six, with their best clothes in a bundle slung to a stick, and, if by any possible contrivance it can be managed, with a gun upon their shoulder; for game of all kinds, roe, deer, wild boars, porcupines, woodcock, and snipe abound. {713} I once saw these groups arriving, one after another, at a seaport town near the Gulf of Genoa, until they reached the number of 500 or 600: these all sailed in a steamer to Corsica, to till the rich ground of that island. In a fortnight the steamer returned, and freighted itself with an equally large cargo of laborers. Many go to Sardinia, a still more unhealthy island: their chief occupation there is mostly to fell the forests which have been bought by speculators. Some find work at the Grand Ducal Ironworks at Follonica, and at the mines in the interior of the island of Elba; others help to till the Maremna, the soil of which is so fertile that, if it lies one year fallow, it requires but to have the seed thrown broadcast over it in order to yield every alternate year, and without further tillage, a most magnificent crop. Others help to clear away the forest and the thicket, and prepare the ground for future years, and thus aid in the great works for reclaiming this land of jungle and fever that have been now carried on for so many years; others simply to make charcoal or potash, and to live by selling game at the neighboring towns. To sing the songs of their native villages is their chief pleasure. In the daytime one man will begin to sing at his work, and then another catches the refrain, and begins in turn. At night, too, round the fire, (which is said to scare away the fever,) they sing songs and tell their old stories, and repeat their legends of saints and miracles. Thus it happens that they return to their native villages, speaking the pure Tuscan language undefiled by the patois of Corsica or the miserable jargon of the other islands.

The fever often attacks them, and they have to return home with their work half done; often a father will have to send back his son, fearful that he may die on the road, but conscious that, though he seems hardly able to crawl, the lad's only chance of safety lies in his reaching the pure air of the mountains before it is too late.

If all goes well, they arrive at home by the 24th of June, the feast of St. John. As they near their native place, the more active and eager members of the different parties press on; and as soon as they are descried from the village, a group is formed to meet them and welcome them back; then, too, do the wives learn what their husbands have earned and whether they have had a good year.

We may fancy the inhabitants who have remained at home, assembling at the old tower that bars the entrance to the village, eagerly asking and hearing the news of the winter. "Old Giuseppe" has had a good year; Peppe da Cacciono has had a touch of the maremna, but he got better; Renzo of Cognocco's dead, died of "la perniciosa." "Poor fellow! God rest his soul!" is the reply. "He had a bad attack last year; we never thought to see him again." And then they will visit Renzo's family and condole with them.

Not only do they bring back news to their own, but to all the villages that they pass through. Before the eve of St. John you may often, as the Abbé Tigri says, "meet a group of five or six, burnt nearly black with the sun, in their worst dress, and wearied out by the long journey. _Ben tornati_, welcome back!" you cry. "Do you come from far? Poor fellows, how tired you seem!" "It is nothing now, sir," they say, "for we are going home; but it was a hard time this spring." And, with that smile of singular brightness which no poverty or suffering seems able to drive from their face, they pass by.

The maremna is more accessible now than when we last visited and travelled through it. The works that were originated and so sedulously carried on by the former government have been continued by the present, and have fertilized and rendered comparatively healthy large portions of the country which were formerly desolate and pestilential: a railroad has been made, which familiarizes many a modern traveller with the country under its present aspects, but tempts him to hurry by much that is interesting and would have rewarded a longer sojourn. {714} We may endeavor in some future number to describe the impression made upon us by this portion of Etruria, and to lead the reader

"By lordly Volaterra, Where scowls the far-famed hold Piled by the hands of giants For god-like kings of old; By sea-girt Populonia, Whose sentinels descry Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops Fringing the southern sky.

"By the drear bank of Ufens, Where flights of marsh-fowl play, And buffaloes lie wallowing Through the hot summer day; By the gigantic watch-towers, No work of earthly men, Whence Cora's sentinels o'erlook The never-ending fen, To the Laurentian jungle, The wild-hog's reedy home."

Miscellany.

_Pagan Irish Sepulchral Pillar-Stones_.--That standing stones were used during pagan times in Ireland as sepulchral monuments appears certain; for we find in the description of the royal cemetery of Brugh-na-Boinne, as given in the Dinnsenchus contained in the Book of Ballymote, fol. 190, translated and published by the late Dr. Petrie, in his treatise on the Round Towers of Ireland, the following: "The _pillar-stone_ of Buidi the son of Muiredh, where his head is interred." We also find quoted by the same eminent antiquary, from the Leabhar-na-h-hide, an account of the death of Fothadh in the battle of Ollarba, fought, according to the Four Masters, in A.D. 285, with a description of his grave, in which is recorded, "And there is a _pillar-stone_ at his carn; and an ogumis on the end of the _pillar-stone_ which is in the earth." The earliest sepulchral monuments mentioned in the Annals of the Four Masters are _carns_, (large heaps of stones,) and _murs_ or _tuiams_, (mounds of earth,) now more generally known by the name "barrow." However, that pillar-stones may even then have been in use appears probable; for in the opening paragraph of those Annals there is, "From Fintan is named Feart Fintain" (that is, Fintain's grave) "over Loch Deirgdheire." The place is still called by this name, and is situated on the northern slopes of the Arra mountains, overlooking Lough Derg, county Tipperary. There is a _pillar-stone_ at the grave, from which the hill is called Laghtea.--G. Henry Kinahan, _in Athenoeum_.

_The Monks' Model Farm in Algeria_.--The Mois Agricole contains an interesting account of the Trappist Model Farm at Cheragas, in Algeria. In 1843, Marshal Bugeaud granted the Trappists one thousand two hundred hectares of land, on which, two years afterward, three hundred thousand francs were expended by the order in buildings. The stock of animals on the farm is now magnificent. The Trappist cows each yield sixteen quarts of milk a day, in a country where the native cows do not yield more than goats; and the sheep and pigs are equally fine. A large quantity of honey is also produced at Cheragas. There are in the establishment one hundred and eight monks, of whom twenty-two belong to the choir, and ten are priests. Twenty lay workmen are constantly employed at the convent, and every poor or sick wayfarer is entitled to claim or receive aid or work there. When the emperor visited the establishment, he discovered, to his surprise that upward of a dozen of the monks had been soldiers of the imperial guard. They explained to him that, after the severe discipline and simple fare of the French army, the Trappist rule, ascetic as it is, did not appear harsh to them.

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Original.

New Publications.

The Monks Of The West, from St. Benedict to St. Bernard. By the Count de Montalembert, Member of the French Academy. Authorized translation. Vols. I., II., III. William Blackwood & Sons, Edinburgh and London, 1861, 1867. For sale by the Catholic Publication Society, 126 Nassau street, New York.

These volumes bring down the history of monasticism to the year 633. The third contains the history of monasticism in England, Ireland, and Scotland, embracing a very full account of St. Columba and the institute of Iona. It is very appropriately dedicated to the Earl of Demarara. The ill health of the author has delayed the completion of his great work. We understand, however, that two more volumes are published in France, and are now being translated into English. The writings of Montalembert belong to the highest class of French literature. The present work treats of a topic of the greatest importance and interest to all students and educated persons, but especially to all devout Catholics. English literature has resounded for three centuries with calumnies, denunciations, and senseless, ignorant ravings against monastic orders. Of late, we begin to hear a different story from the most enlightened portion of Protestant writers. These writers are, however, careful to qualify what they say in praise of the nunneries of former times by a somewhat wearisome and monotonous reiteration of the assurance that monastic institutions are worn out, obsolete, contrary to progress, and unfit for the present age. It is time, therefore, for the Catholic voice to make itself heard on the subject. The illustrious and noble author is a believing and devout Catholic as well as a learned historian and a most eloquent writer. His work is well translated, and published in a style suitable to its choice excellence. It should find a place in the library of every clergyman, every religious house, seminary, and college, and on the table of every educated Catholic layman. We would recommend it also to our Protestant friends, were we not aware that most of them are afraid or ashamed to buy a Catholic book. Those of them at least who pretend to agree with the church of the first six centuries ought not to be afraid of it, as it comes down no later than A.D. 633.

The Trinity

Control Your Passions

Heroism In The Sick-room

Is The Sacrifice Of The Mass Of Human Or Of Divine Institution?

Why Did God Become Man?

Being Tracts Nos. 20, 21, 22, 23, and 24 of the Catholic Publication Society's Tracts. New York: The Catholic Publication Society, 126 Nassau street.

The Catholic Publication Society continues to issue its useful and instructive tracts. We give above the titles of those last published. Our readers will find them to be in every respect equal to the former ones. They will also be pleased to learn that the Society has obtained a House of Publication, established in a first-class locality, No. 126 Nassau street, New York, where all its publications can be had, together with all Catholic books and pamphlets published either in this country or in England and Ireland. The Society now everywhere meets with approval and encouragement. Rev. Father Hecker lately visited the cities of Pittsburg, Cincinnati, Wheeling, and Harrisburg, at which places he lectured in favor of the Society. The Rt. Rev. Bishops and Rev. clergy gave him the most cordial receptions, and very generous contributions were made for the object in Pittsburg, Cincinnati, and Wheeling. Upon his return he lectured also at St. Peter's church, Brooklyn, with the like success. Depots for the Society's publications are now established at Mr. Quigley's in Pittsburg, and at Benziger Bros. in Cincinnati, at which all that is issued by the Society can be procured for the same price as they are sold in New-York.

Father Hecker also intends visiting Europe this summer, to form relations with the publishing houses of Dublin, London, and Paris, and will accept the invitation proffered him to assist at the great Catholic Congress which is to meet at Malines next September.

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Our readers are already aware, from the article on Catholic Congresses in our last number, how much has been done by the Belgian Congresses for the diffusion of cheap Catholic literature. We trust Father Hecker may be able to derive much useful information from what he will see and hear at Malines, and turn it to good account for the furtherance of our own efforts in the same direction. We are much gratified to see that the project of a Catholic Congress suggested by our article has been warmly applauded on all sides. Several of our journals, among which we notice the _Freeman's Journal_, the _Boston Pilot_, the _New York Tablet_, and the _Catholic Standard_ of Philadelphia, have noticeable editorial articles on the subject in its favor. It is important, in case a congress should be convened in our own country, that some one should attend this one in Belgium, in order to obtain a knowledge of the plan and method of organizing and conducting these assemblies.

The First Age of Christianity and the Church. By John Ignatius Döllinger, D.D., Professor of Ecclesiastical History in the University of Munich, etc. Translated by H. N. Oxenham, M.A. Oxford. London: Allen & Co., 1860. 2 vols. 12mo. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.

These two volumes are worthy of the perusal of every scholar. They form the introductory portion of Döllinger's great work on Ecclesiastical History, now in course of preparation, and are replete with the results of his vast learning. At the same time, the reader of ordinary intelligence and education need not be afraid of them. They are not dry or pedantic, but written in a style of natural simplicity and freshness which makes them attractive and entertaining as well as instructive. The translation, by an excellent scholar and good writer, is extremely well done, and the mechanical execution is in the best London style. Even the Dublin Review has condescended to praise this work, and therefore those who might suspect that it contains any peculiar opinions of what is called the 'Germanizing' school need not fear anything on that score. Dr. Döllinger is a sound, orthodox divine, and sincerely loyal to the holy see. The Roman theologians have controverted some of his opinions very strongly, but they have never called in question his orthodoxy, and we have good reason to believe that the Holy Father regards him with esteem and paternal affection as a true son of the church, who is doing her good service. The organs of that theological school in Germany which Dr. Döllinger is supposed to sympathize with the least always speak of him in the most respectful terms, even when criticising some of his statements very unsparingly. Some of our Catholic friends in England are not quite so charitable and moderate as the more thoroughly ripened theologians of Europe. They seem disposed to erect theological doctrines never defined or imposed by the authority of the holy see into a standard of orthodoxy, and to question the thorough loyalty of those who do not fully agree with themselves. Odious terms, such as the nickname of 'mini-misers,' invented by that very dogmatical publication the Dublin Review, are applied to them, and, in general, a quarrelsome kind of domestic polemics seems getting quite the vogue among a portion of the Catholic writers of England. We agree with F. Perrone, the great Roman theologian, that this is an evil much to be deprecated, and likely to do mischief. We do not sympathize with all that Dr. Döllinger has written, but we feel bound to condemn the disparaging tone in which some of the writers alluded to are wont to speak of him, and of others like him, who venture to make use of the liberty allowed by the church respecting questions not finally decided by authority. Happily, the present work is one about which there can be no difference of opinion. It is a thoroughly learned, and at the same time a readable and plain history of the first foundation of Christianity by Christ and his apostles; and we feel sure that it will contribute much to the edification of all who read it.

Poems. By Eliza Allen Starr. 12mo, pp. 224. Philadelphia: H. McGrath.

Miss Starr is already favorably known to the readers of THE CATHOLIC WORLD by various poetical contributions to our pages. She writes with remarkable grace and tenderness, with a very beautiful simplicity of style, and a religious elevation of thought which ought to make her volume welcome in every good Christian family. {717} The poetic impulse with her is neither a morbid yearning to sing imaginary woes, nor a mere fancy for the jingle of sweet words. Her verses express genuine and healthy feeling, and their tone is most melodious when her harp is strung to sacred themes. There is at times a mild tinge of melancholy in the book--a melancholy as of one who has suffered and struggled; but through it all shines the radiance of religious happiness, as though it were not all imaginary which the author sings in the character of "The Sacristan":

"Within thine altar's shade, Lord, I my nest have made, No more to roam: Thine own abiding-place Is mine for future space, My rest, my home.

....

"The earth, the air, the sea Rejoice to serve with me, With me to wait; For prostrate nature sighs To see her Lord disguise His heavenly state."

The little poem entitled "Espousals" is also full of real, unaffected piety:

"Haste to thy nuptials sweet With glowing feet, Thy inmost chamber fair, O heart! prepare, Therein, with joy, to bring Thy spouse and king.

"I see his coming light Disperse my night! O radiant orb of day! Thou may'st delay To quench thy feeble rays In heaven's own blaze.

"Lo! seraph tongues of flame Announce that name Whose echoed sweetness clings Where'er it rings; And thus informs with sound Remotest bound.

"O happy ears! attend, And lowlier bend! I feel his noiseless pace Through heaven's blue space; The stars but strew his floor, And thus adore.

"Celestial presence dear! Thou Godhead near! I yield my soul, my sense; Omnipotence! Behold, prepared, thy throne; Oh! claim thine own!"

In a different strain, but very pretty and delicate, is the following "Song of Welcome":

"My lonely days grew lonelier, The shadows spread apace, When on me, like a morning sun, Arose thy smiling face: Sad tears, sad tears, my joyful cheeks, Keep not of you a trace.

"The summer skies which o'er me bend In beauty so benign Are not so blue as the happy eyes Now beaming into mine! Heart's love, heart's love, what sun could cheer If thine should cease to shine!"

We commend Miss Starr's little volume with all heartiness, and we rejoice that American Catholic literature has received so welcome an addition to its scanty poetical stores. We ought not to omit a word of compliment to the publisher for the liberal manner in which he has brought it out. The rich cream paper, the clear type, and the excellent binding are signs of a new era in the Catholic book manufacture at which we all must rejoice.

First Historical Transformations of Christianity. From the French of Athanase Coquerel the Younger, by E. P. Evans, Ph.D. 12mo. Boston: W. V. Spencer, 1867.

This is a very weak and flippant production from the pen of a French rationalistic Protestant, who imagines that he is a philosopher of history. He pretends to show us various forms which pure Christianity has been made to assume by the different apostles, doctors, or sects who in turn took upon themselves to be its expositors. Of course, as Monsieur Coquerel the Younger would think, they each and all made bad work of it, from St. Peter down to the last publishing medium of spiritism. It is truly deplorable that the pure Christianity which Monsieur Coquerel the Younger now sees in all its simplicity should have had the misfortune to be thus Judaized, Hellenized, Paulized, Peterized, Joannized, Romanized, and diversely _ized_ by the Fathers of the church and heretics; and may we not also add, Protestantized and Coquerelized?

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Let us see what is the Christianity of Jesus according to Monsieur Coquerel's gospel: "In short, the whole instruction of Jesus can be included in the following formula: the work to be accomplished is the reign of God in all consciences; the universal motive through which this reign is to be established, the essential fact of this reign, is love, of which the twofold manifestation is pardon and new or eternal life; and these two manifestations presuppose two facts, whose certainty has no need of proof-- sin and immortality. Thus reducing all Christianity to a single formula, it may be said that Jesus revealed to all sinners the eternal compassion of the God of holiness, their Father." (P. 65.) This cant about pardon and the new life in the mouth of one who rejects the divinity of Jesus Christ, who is unwilling to impose the belief in his miracles upon any sincere Christian, (_sic_,) and who thinks the doctrine of hell is rank nonsense, would need explanation, did we not gather from a previous sentence that Monsieur Coquerel the Younger is as shallow a theologian as he is a philosopher. Speaking of our Lord, he says: "He has such an absolute certainty of the power of God, and of the efficacy of the good and the true; such a full confidence in the perfectibility of guilty man; such a high esteem for human nature, _wholly sinful_ as it is, that, in his eyes, the elevation, the healing, the salvation, the enfranchisement of every soul that is willing to return to God and love him are not an object of the slightest doubt." (P. 64.) Beside this we place one other quotation, which we think will suffice: "Liberal Protestants are constantly asked where they would fix the boundary which separates Christians from those who are not Christians. _Each man has the right to solve this formidable problem in the light of his own conscience!_" (P. 75.) And this man pretends to lecture the world for transforming Christianity to suit its own notions! We would advise Monsieur Coquerel the Younger to review his logic.

Critical And Social Essays, reprinted from the New York Nation. 12mo, pp. 230. New York: Leypoldt & Holt.

It is a good deal to say of a newspaper nowadays that it is possible to collect from its columns in the course of two years a whole volume of essays passably well worth preserving. And many of the essays in this neat little book are much better than passable. Of course one does not look for deep philosophy or strikingly original thought in the ephemeral papers dashed off for a week's entertainment, and sent flying over the country on the wings of the periodical press. It is enough if the subject be attractive, the argument mainly just, the style fluent, and now and then striking. The essays from _The Nation_ generally fulfil these conditions, and afford very agreeable recreation for odd intervals of leisure. The cold and almost cynical spirit of criticism, and the utter lack of enthusiasm and sympathy, which have done so much to deprive _The Nation_ of that influence in public affairs to which its literary merit entitles it, appear in a more favorable light in the pages of a book than in the columns of a periodical. Book-readers have time to appreciate graces of style, and to roll sweet morsels of thought and phrase under their tongues; but the journalist in America must deal with a different public, and must serve them with coarser materials. His weapon must be not the scalpel or the lancet, but the axe and the bludgeon.

Fathers And Sons. A Novel. By Ivan Sergheievitch Turgenef. Translated from the Russian, with the approval of the author, by Eugene Schuyler, Ph. D. 12mo, pp. 248. New-York: Leypoldt & Holt.

The object of this novel is to contrast the generation which is just passing away in Russia with the generation that is taking its place--the old lords of the soil, still half-bewildered by the inroads of civilization upon their semi-savage life, and the young party of progress, intoxicated with the new ideas of emancipation, the new learning, the new habits, and the new morality which is fast breaking up the old Tartar feudalism. We can well believe the translator's assertion that a tempest was raised by the appearance of the book in Russia. The portraits are flattering to neither generation, and they are so life-like that it is impossible to doubt they are substantially accurate representations of both. As a work of fiction, Fathers and Sons is particularly interesting to us. Artistically speaking, it is a very good novel indeed, and it is moreover almost the first glimpse we have had of the fictitious literature of a country toward which Americans are, whether rightly or wrongly, especially attracted. It gives us a better view of daily life in Russia than any book of travel or observation with which we are acquainted--better not only because clearer, but also because it is of necessity perfectly undistorted. {719} But the picture is painful enough. For most of the characters in the story the author evidently has no love; but even the best of them are singularly unamiable. And we close the volume with the reflection that, if there is no better life in Russia than the life he paints; if the men and women whom he brings before us are fair types of the average culture and virtue of the empire; if the fathers have no intelligence, and the sons neither human affection nor religion, the future of Russia must be far different from what modern writers are fond of predicting. The morality of the story is bad, but its badness is so transparent that it can hurt nobody. There is an offensive tinge of sensualism in it, too, and this is less apparent, and therefore more dangerous.

Barbarossa: A Historical Novel of the Seventh Century. By Conrad Von Bolanden. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 486. Philadelphia: Eugene Cuminiskey. 1867.

The historical novel is a difficult one to write. To strictly follow the bare facts of history will make the work dull to most readers of light literature; and to allow the imagination full play in working out its scenes and representing them as if they had been actual occurrences will offend the student of history. The middle ages, however, are full of matter for the historical novelist. We have too few gleaners in this prolific field. We can remember only one attempt of the kind in the English language within the last decade of years. William Bernard McCabe, in his "Bertha," has done good service toward making known, in a popular manner, the designs of the Emperor Frederick to become universal emperor, or _Pontifex Maximus_, as he hoped to be one day called.

The present work is a translation from the German, and describes the political workings of Frederick's ambition; his conquests in Italy, and the capture of Rome; his attempt to set up and install in that city his tool, the antipope Pascal, in opposition to the lawful successor of St. Peter, Alexander III.; all these events are well told. The interest of the story is kept up by introducing two lovers--a knight, the follower of Frederick, and an Italian lady, who, of course, marry at the conclusion of the tale. The character of Frederick's prime minister, Dassel, is well portrayed, and shows that, with all the emperor's strength of mind, he was, after all, only the puppet of his wily minister.

A little more elegance might have been observed by the translator, especially in the first part of the story, where carelessness and incorrectness of expression occur several times. For instance, we are told in one sentence that "Suddenly Otho of Wittelsbach advanced hurriedly," which sounds too much after the fashion of a _Ledger_ story. Again, news is brought to Frederick of the surrender of Cinola to the Milanese, when the following dialogue occurs: "What is the strength of the Milanese?" "About three hundred men." "Have they burned the castle?" "_I am ignorant of that fact, sire._"

But these are, after all, but slight defects, and do not mar the beauty of the tale. We can heartily recommend the work to the readers of light literature, as both instructive and entertaining, two things which are not always combined in the historical novel.

Appleton's Annual Cyclopaedia for 1866.

This volume is an improvement on the preceding one, in one respect at least, that is, in the summary which it gives of the progress of the physical sciences. It contains, as usual, a condensed history of the year, and is ornamented with fine, spirited engravings of three very notorious public characters: the King of Prussia, Bismarck, and Girabaldi. It is well worthy of a place in every library, and is, in fact, almost indispensable as a book of reference.

Notes On Doctrinal And Spiritual Subjects. By the late Frederick W. Faber, D.D., of the Oratory. Vol. II. London: Richardson & Son. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.

With the character of Father Faber's writings most of our readers are well acquainted, and we have already given a special notice of them in a review of the first volume of this work. The present volume contains a large number of his hitherto unpublished writings, among which are sketches of discourses upon the notes of the church, treatises upon the sacrament, controversial lectures spiritual conferences, and various miscellaneous papers. {720} They are of especial value to the younger members of our clergy, to whom we commend them as furnishing ample matter for sermons, instructions, and lectures.

The Man With the Broken Ear. Translated from the French of Edmond About, by Henry Holt. 12mo, pp. 254. New York: Leypoldt & Holt.

The ingenuity and wit of this story cannot make amends for its grossness. The novels of M. About's previously rendered into English were enough to show that he cared nothing for the good opinion of Catholics, and in this grotesque tale he has equally shown his disregard for the tastes of refined people of every creed. Still, it is fair to say in his praise that the contrasts of character which form the chief feature of the book are admirably managed, and the dialogue sparkles with vivacity. Mr. Holt, who is both publisher and translator, has acquitted himself in his double function with noteworthy credit.

Cummiskey's Juvenile Library: Florie's Series. 12 vols. 16mo. Translated from the French. E. Cummiskey, Publisher, 1037 Chestnut street, Philadelphia.

This is a very interesting series of children's stories. They are well translated and published in good style.

Stories On The Commandments

Caroline; Or, Self Conquest

The Seven Corporal Works Of Mercy and Matie's Troubles.

P. F. Cunningham, Philadelphia.

Those three volumes are an addition to this publisher's well-selected list of tales for the young. Although they are published in the same style as The Young Catholic Library, the stock and workmanship is much inferior.

Books for children's use should be published in a more durable form.

Beauties Of Faith; Or, Power Of Mary's Patronage. Leaves from the Ave Maria. P. O'Shea, New York.

The first part of this volume is taken up with short stories illustrative of the power of Mary's patronage. The second part contains the beautiful story of Cobina, by Mrs. Anna H. Dorsey. Altogether it forms a volume of very interesting matter.

Coaina, The Rose Of The Algonquins. By Mrs. Anna H. Dorsey. P. O'Shea, New York.

Since writing the above, the story of Coaina comes on our table in another shape from the same publisher. This is a charming Indian tale. We cannot see the wisdom of using it to swell the bulk of the volume of selections mentioned above, after having issued it as a separate volume. If those who have facilities for publishing would give us translations or reprints of the many excellent books of this kind published in France, Germany, and England, they would do us greater service.

Manual of the Lives of the Popes, Etc. By J. C. Earle. Reprinted from the English Edition. Baltimore: Murphy & Co.

This neatly printed little book is useful as a catalogue of the popes, and a record of some of the principal facts in their reigns. It has no critical value in regard to disputed or doubtful questions, and pretends to none.

Books Received.

From P. O'Shea, New York. The Science of Happiness; or, Beatitudes in Practice. By Madame Bourdon. 1 vol. 16mo. Price, $1.

From D. Appleton & Co., New York. Appleton's Hand-Book of American Travel. By E. Hall. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 283.

From Leypoldt & Holt, New York. Co-operative Stores; their History, Organization, and Management. Based on the recent German work of Eugene Kichter. pp. 131. Price, 50 cents.

From P. O'Shea, New York. Rosa Immaculata; or, The Tower of Ivory, or the House of Anna and Joachim. By Mary Josephine. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 250. Price, $2.

{721}

The Catholic World

Vol. V., NO. 29. September, 1867.

"Rome or Reason." [Footnote 247]

[Footnote 247: The Jesuits in North America in the Seventeenth Century. By Francis Parkman. Boston: Little, Brown & Co. 1867. 8vo, pp. 468.

The Professor at the Breakfast-Table; with the Story of Iris. By Oliver Wendell Holmes. Boston; Ticknor & Fields. 1866. 12mo, pp. 410.

Rationalism and Catholicism. Inquirer, Cincinnati, May 26, 1867.]

Mr. Parkman understands and describes very well the Indian character--a very simple character, and within the range of his comprehension. There is nothing deep or impenetrable in the Indian, and his ideas, habits, and customs are invariable. He is a child in simplicity, but he is cunning, fierce, treacherous, ferocious, more of a wild beast than a man--a true savage, nothing more, nothing less. Mr. Parkman has lived with him, studied his character and ways, and may, as to him, be trusted as a competent and faithful guide, save when there is a question of superstition, in which the Indian abounds, or of religion, which he accepts with more docility and ease than many learned and scientific white men.

Mr. Parkman may also be trusted for the purely material facts of the Jesuit missions among the Indians in the seventeenth century, and he narrates them in a style of much artistic grace and beauty; but of the motives which governed the missionaries, of their faith and charity, as well as of their whole interior spiritual life, he understands less than did the "untutored Indian." His judgments, reflections, or speculations on the spiritual questions involved are singularly crude, marked by a gross ignorance not at all creditable to a son of "The Hub." He claims to be enlightened, to be a man of progress, and he has indeed advanced as far as Sadduceeism, which believes in neither angel nor spirit; but the savage retains more of the elements of Christian faith than he appears to have attained to. He is struck, as every one must be, by the self-denial, the disinterestedness, the patient toil, the unwearying kindness, superiority to danger or death, and heroic self-sacrifices and martyrdom of the missionaries; but he sees in them only the workings of a false faith, superstitious missions, and a fanatic zeal. The Jesuit who left behind all the delights and riches of civilization, gave up all that men of the world hold most dear, braved all the dangers of the forest, of the savage, performed fatiguing journeys, underwent the inclemencies of the climate and the seasons, suffered hunger and thirst, in want of all things, submitted to captivity, tortures, mutilations, and death, was, in his judgment, a poor, deluded man; his faith, which bore him up or bore him onward, was an illusion, and his charity, which never failed or grew cold, was only an honest but mistaken zeal! Do men gather grapes of thorns or figs of thistles?

{722}

It cannot be said that Mr. Parkman has overrated the marvellous labors and sacrifices of the Jesuits for the conversion of the North American Indians; but he is mistaken in supposing that they stand out as anything singular or extraordinary in the general history of Catholic missions. They did well; they were brave, indefatigable, self-denying, heroic, and cold must be the heart that can read their story without emotion; but their high qualities and virtues are due to their general character as Catholics, not to their special character as Jesuits. Non-Catholic writers are very apt to consider that Jesuits are a peculiar sect, in some way distinguishable from the Catholic Church, and that their merits belong to them not as Catholic priests and missionaries, but as Jesuits. What Mr. Parkman admires in them is really admirable; but its glory is due to Catholic faith and charity, which the Jesuit has in common with all Catholics, and he has toiled no harder, braved no more dangers, suffered no greater hardships, or a more cruel and horrid death, or met them with a spirit no more heroic than have other Catholic missionaries among heretics and infidels, from the apostles down to the last martyr in China, Anam, or Oceanica. It has been only by such suffering and such deeds as Mr. Parkman narrates, that the world has been converted to the Christian faith and retained in the Catholic Church. At all times, since the descent of the Holy Ghost on the day of Pentecost, has the Catholic Church nursed in her bosom, and sent into the world to preach Christ and him crucified, men not at all inferior in faith and love, in patient endurance, and heroic self sacrifice to the Jesuit missionaries among the North American Indians. She has never wanted laborers, confessors, martyrs; and a religion that never fails to create and inspire them is not, and cannot be, a false religion, a delusion, a fanaticism. It is only in the Catholic Church you find or have ever found them. Let her have the credit of them.

The Professor at the Breakfast Table has been for some time before the public, and every body has read it. Its author has, we believe, a high reputation in the medical profession, and certainly has attained to distinction as a poet and as a writer of prose fiction. He has wit and pathos, a lively imagination, and a keen sense of the ludicrous. The snake portion of his Elsie Vonner is horrible, but several of the characters in that remarkable book are admirably drawn--are real New England characters, drawn as none but a New Englander could draw them, and perhaps, none but a New Englander can fully appreciate. He is like many of the descendants of the old Puritans, who, having lost all faith in the Calvinism of their ancestors, still identify it with Christianity, and float in their feelings between the memory of it and a vague rationalism and sentimentalism which is simply no belief at all. He would like to be a Christian, to feel that he has faith, something on which he can rest his whole weight without fear of its giving way under him, but he knows not where to look for it. He finds many attractions in the Catholic Church, but, thinking that she holds what so offends him in the faith of his ancestors, he dares not trust her.

There is a large class of educated, thinking, and even serious-minded Americans who turn away from the church and refuse to consider her claims, not because she differs from the Protestantism in which they have been reared, but because she does not, in her spirit and teaching, differ enough from it. Those outside of the church, and who credit not the evangelical cant against her, identify her teaching with Jansenism, regard Jansenists as the better class of Catholics, and Jansenism is a form of Calvinism, and Calvinism is a system of pure supernaturalism, while the active American mind cannot consent that nature should count in the religious life for nothing. {723} It would, perhaps, relieve them a little if they knew that not only the Jesuits condemned Jansenism, but the church herself condemns it, and Jansenists are as much out of the pale of the church as are Calvinists or Lutherans themselves. So-called orthodox Protestants were formerly in the habit of charging Catholics with rationalism and Pelagianism, and even now accuse them of denying the doctrines of grace or salvation through the merits and grace of Jesus Christ. This fact alone should suffice to teach such men as the Professor at the Breakfast-Table that the difference between Catholicity and Puritanism is much greater than they suppose.

The Professor, in defending himself against the change of want of respect for Puritanism, says, pp. 154-155: "I don't mind the exclamation of any old stager who drinks Madeira worth from two to six Bibles a bottle, and burns, according to his own premises, a dozen souls a year in segars, with which he muddles his brains. But as for the good and true and intelligent men we see all around us, laborious, self-denying, hopeful, helpful--men who know that the active mind of the age is tending more and more to the two poles, Rome and Reason, the sovereign church or the free soul, authority or personality, God in us or God in our masters, and that, though a man may by accident _stand_ half-way between these two points, he must _look_ one way or the other--I don't believe they would take offence at anything I have reported." From the connection in which this is said, and the purpose for which it is said, it is clear that the Professor holds that the active mind of this century is tending either Romeward or Reasonward, that the doctrines held by his Puritan ancestors and so-called orthodox Protestants can be sustained only by the authority of a sovereign church, and that we must accept such authority, or give up all dogmatic belief, and allow the free, unrestricted use of reason.

The writer in the Cincinnati Inquirer seems to agree with him. A certain Protestant minister, an Anglican, we presume, had said in a sermon, that "the church's greatest enemies are now Catholicism and rationalism." The writer, in commenting on this proposition, says: "Catholicism is the theology of authority; rationalism, the theology of reason;" and "Protestantism is Catholicism with a dash of rationalism, or rationalism with a dash of Catholicism." Both represent Catholicity and reason as standing opposed each to the other, as two opposite poles, and each makes as does the age no account of the _via media_ church receiving the shots of both reason and authority, and discharging its double battery in return against each.

Now, is it not time that thinking men, and authors who claim intelligence and mean to be just, should stop this contrasting of Rome or authority and reason? The cant has become threadbare, and men of reputation and taste should lay it aside as no longer fit for use. It does not by any means state the fact as it is, for there is not the least discrepancy between the church and reason, nor is there, in accepting and believing the revealed word of God on the authority of the church proposing it, the least surrender of reason or nature. The Catholic has all of reason that belongs to human nature, and full opportunity to exercise it; and his soul is as free as the soul can be, and he is, in fact, the only man that has really a free soul. If God is in his masters, he is also in him. He has no less internal light because he has external light, and no less internal freedom because he has external authority. The Professor is quite mistaken in presenting the church and reason as two opposite poles. Nay, his illustration is not happy, for the two poles, if we speak geographically, belong to one and the same globe, and are equally essential to its form and completeness, and, if we speak magnetically, and mean positive and negative poles, they are only the two modes in which one and the same substance or force operates, and certainly in Catholic faith both authority and reason are alike active, and mutually concur in producing one and the same result.

{724}

It is only when we borrow our views of Catholicity from the theology of the Reformation, or suppose that it is substantially the same, that the authority of the church can be regarded as opposed to reason or repugnant to nature. He who has read the fathers has discovered in them no abdication of reason or want of intellectual freedom; and he who is familiar with the mediaeval doctors knows that no men can use reason more freely or push it further than they did. Melchior Cano, a theologian of the sixteenth century, in his Locis Theologicis, a work of great authority with Catholics, enumerates natural reason as one of the common-places of theology, whence arguments may be drawn to prove what is or is not of faith. A school of philosophers have latterly sprung up among Catholics, called traditionalists, who would seem to deny reason and to found science on faith; but they have fallen under censure of the Holy See, and been required to recognize that reason precedes faith, and that faith comes as the complement of science, not as preceding or superseding it. By far the larger part of the errors condemned in the syllabus of errors attached to the Encyclical of the Holy Father, dated at Rome, 8th of December, 1864, are errors that tend to destroy reason and society. The church has always been vigilant in vindicating natural reason and the natural law.

But the Reformation was a complete protest against reason and nature, and the assertion of extreme and exclusive supernaturalism. In Luther's estimation reason was a stupid ass. The reformers all agreed in asserting the total depravity of human nature, and in maintaining the complete moral inability of man. According to the reformed doctrines, man never actively concurs with grace, but in faith and justification is wholly impotent and passive. Man can think only evil, and the works he does prior to regeneration, however honest or benevolent, are not simply imperfect, but positively sins. This was the reformed theology which the writer of this article had in his boyhood and youth dinged into him till he well-nigh lost his reason. The church has never tolerated any such theology, and they who place her and reason in opposition are really, whether they know it or not, charging her with the errors of Protestantism, which she has never ceased, in the most public, formal, and solemn manner, to condemn. There are, no doubt, large numbers included under the general name of Protestants, who imagine that the Reformation was a great movement in behalf of intelligence against ignorance, of reason against authority, mental freedom against mental bondage, of rational religion against bigotry and superstition; but whoever has studied the history of that great movement knows that it was no such thing--the furthest from it possible. It was a retrograde movement, and designed in its very essence to arrest the intellectual and theological progress of the race. Its avowed purpose was the restoration of primitive Christianity, which, whatever plausible terms might be adopted, meant, and could mean only, to set the race back some fifteen hundred years in its march through the ages, and to eliminate from Christendom all that Christianity for fifteen centuries had effected for civilization. The Protestant party, was by its own avowal, the party of the past, and, if there are Protestants who are striving to be the party of the future, they succeed only by leaving their Protestantism behind, or by transforming it.

The church has always been on the side of freedom and progress, and the normal current of humanity has flowed and never ceased to flow from the foot of the cross down through her communion; and whatever life-giving water has flowed into Protestant cisterns, it has been from the overflowings of that current, always full. {725} You who are outside of it, save in the application of the truths of science to the material arts, have effected no progress. You have worked hard, have been often on the point of some grand discovery, but only on the point of making it, and are as far from the goal as you were when Luther burnt the papal bull, or suffered the devil to convince him of the sin of saying private masses. You have always found your works after a little while needing to be recast, and that your systems are giving way. You have been constantly doing and undoing, and never succeeding. Save in the physical sciences and some achievements in the material world, you are far below what you were when you started. Of course, you do not believe it, because you confound change with progress, and you count getting rid of your patrimony increasing it. It is idle to tell you this, for you have already fallen so low that you place the material above the spiritual, and the knowledge of the uses of of steam above the knowledge and love God.

Rome or reason, Rome or liberty, is not the true formula of the tendencies of the age; nor is it Catholicism or rationalism, but Catholicity or naturalism. The extremes opposed to Catholicity are, on the one hand, exclusive supernaturalism, or a supernaturalism that condemns and excludes the activity of nature, and, on the other, exclusive naturalism, or a naturalism that denies and excludes all communion between God and man, save through natural laws, or laws impressed on nature by its Creator, and held to bind both him and it. Your evangelicals are exclusive supernaturalists, as were the great body of the Protestant reformers; Auguste Comte, J. Stuart Mill, Herbert Spencer, Mr. Parkman, and the Professor are exclusive naturalists, who deny the reality of all facts or phenomena not explicable by natural laws or natural causes. All the sciences, since Bacon, are constructed on naturalistic principles, and theology, philosophy, or metaphysics, which cannot be constructed without the recognition of the supernatural, are rejected by our _savans_ as vain speculations or idle theories without any basis in reality. They belong to the age of ignorance and superstition, and will never be recognized in an age of light and science. As the church clings to them, insists upon them, she is behind the age, and they who adhere to her are to be tolerated and pitied as we tolerate and pity idiots and the insane, unless, indeed, they are clothed with more or less power; then, indeed, we must make war on them and exterminate them.

Few who have studied this age with any care will question the fidelity of this picture. The active living mind of this age unquestionably tends either to this exclusive naturalism or to the Catholic Church, which is the synthesis of the natural and the supernatural, of authority and freedom, reason and faith, science and revelation. Protestantism, which is exclusive supernaturalism, it is becoming pretty well understood, cannot be sustained. It cannot be sustained by reason, for it rejects reason; it cannot be sustained by authority, for in rejecting the church it has cast off all authority, but that of the state, which has no competency in spirituals. It has supported its dogmas, as far as it has supported them at all, on Catholic tradition, the validity of which it denies. This cannot last, for, where people are free to think and have the courage to reason without let or hinderance from the state, they will not long consent to affirm and deny tradition in one and the same breath. They will either fall into the naturalistic ranks or be absorbed by the Catholic Church, and it is useless to trouble ourselves with them as Protestants.

The naturalists or rationalists, by far the most numerous, and in most Protestant or non-Catholic states already the governing body, are repelled from the church by their supposition that all the substantial difference between her and Jansenists or Calvinists is, that in the one case super-naturalism is taught and explained by a living authority, claiming a divine commission, and in the other it is not taught at all, but collected by grammar and lexicon from a book said to have been written by divine inspiration. {726} The Catholic theory is the more logical and more attractive of the two, but both alike discard reason, and insist on the submission of the understanding to an external authority, and it matters little whether the authority is that of the church or of a book written many ages ago. In either case the faith is proposed on authority, which assumes to command the reason and to deprive the soul of her natural freedom. I am forbidden to think and follow my own convictions, and must, on pain of everlasting perdition, believe what others bid me, whether it accords with my own reason or not. This, we take it, is the view entertained by the worthy Professor, and the writer of this many years ago preached it, and counted the Professor himself among his hearers, if not among his disciples. Now, we need not, after the explanation we have given, say that this view is altogether wrong. The Protestant asserts the supernatural in a sense that excludes or supersedes nature, and, therefore, natural reason; the Catholic adopts as his maxim, _Gratia supponit naturam_, and asserts the supernatural as the complement of the natural, or as healing, strengthening, and elevating it to the plane of the supernatural, or a destiny far superior to any possible natural beatitude. This is in the outset a very important difference, for, if grace supposes nature, the supernatural the natural, the authority on which we are required to believe the supernatural may aid, may strengthen, or illumine natural reason, but cannot supersede it or deprive it of any of its natural activity and freedom. The supernatural adds to the natural, according to Catholic faith, but takes nothing from it. The prejudice excited by Protestantism against the supernatural cannot bear against it as asserted by Catholicity.

But we would remind our naturalistic friends that nature does not suffice for itself. It is impossible by nature alone to explain the origin or existence of nature. The ancients tried to do it, but they failed. Some attempted to do it by the fortuitous combination of eternally existing atoms, others made the universe originate in fire, in water, in air or earth, as some moderns try to develop it from a primitive rock or gas, or suppose it originally existed in a liquid or a gaseous state, whence it has grown into its present form. But whence the primitive rock or the gas? whence the fire, water, air, or earth? whence the original germ? Naturalism has no answer. We have a natural tendency, strong in proportion to the strength and activity of our reason, to seek the origin, the principles, the causes of things, but this tendency nature can not satisfy, because nature has not her origin, principle, or cause in herself. For this reason Mr. Herbert Spencer relegates origin and end, principles and causes, and whatever pertains to them to the region of the unknowable, and maintains that we can know only phenomena, and therefore that science consists simply in observing, collecting, and classifying phenomena, not in the explication of phenomena by reducing them to their principle and referring them to their cause or causes.

We can know phenomena, but not noumena, is asserted by the reigning doctrine among physicists, which is as complete a denial of reason as can be found in any of the reformers. It reduces our intelligence to a level with that of the brutes that perish, for what distinguishes our intelligence from theirs is precisely reason, which is the faculty of attaining to principles or causes--first causes and final causes--both in the intellectual and the moral order, while brutes have intelligence only of phenomena. Hence, philosophers, who define things _per genus et per differentiam_, define man a rational animal, or animal plus reason. {727} To our physicists, like the Lyells and the Huxleys, or to such philosophers as Mr. Stuart Mill, who knows not whether he is Mr. Stuart Mill or somebody else, whether he is something or nothing, this amounts to very little; for they, the physicists, we mean, are specially engaged in collecting facts to prove that man is only a developed chimpanzee or gorilla, and that the human intelligence differs only in degree from the brutish. But, then, what right have they to complain that belief in the supernatural tends to degrade human nature, to deprive reason of its dignity, and man of his glory? Moreover, this restriction of our power of knowing to simple phenomena, never satisfies reason, which would know not only phenomena, but noumena, and not only noumena, but principles, causes, the principle of principles and the cause of causes, the origin and end of all things, that is, God, and God as he is in himself. You cannot, except by brutalizing men to the last degree, suppress this interior craving of reason to penetrate all mysteries, to explore all secrets, and to know all things, nor can you by reason alone appease it. Do you propose to suppress nature, extinguish reason, and call it promoting science, vindicating the dignity of man?

Reason can never be made to believe that all reality is confined to what Mr. Herbert Spencer calls the knowable, and we the intelligible. There is nothing of which reason is better or more firmly persuaded than that there is more reality than she herself knows or can know. Reason asserts her own limitations, and will never allow that she can know no more because there is nothing more to be known. The intelligible does not satisfy her, because in the intelligible alone she cannot find the explication of the intelligible, or, in other words, she cannot understand the intelligible without the superintelligible; for, though she cannot without divine revelation grasp the superintelligible, she can know this much, that the superintelligible is, and that in it the intelligible has its root, its origin, cause, and explication. Here is a grave difficulty that every exclusive rationalist encounters, and which is and can be removed only by faith. Nature, reason; science alone never suffices for itself, as all our savans know, for where their knowledge ends they invent hypotheses. It is not that reason is a false or deceptive light, but that it is limited, and we have not the attribute of omniscience any more than we have that of omnipotence.

So is it with our craving for beatitude. Whether God could or could not have so constituted man, without changing his nature as man, that he could rest in a natural beatitude, that is, in a finite good, we shall not attempt to decide; but this much we may safely assert, as the united testimony of the sages and moralists of all ages and nations, and confirmed by every one's own experience, that nothing finite, and whatever is natural is finite, can satisfy man's innate desire for beatitude. "Man," says Dr. Channing, "thirsts for an unbounded good." The sum of all experience on the subject is given us by the wise king of Israel, "_Vanitas vanitatum, et omnia vanitas_--Vanity of vanities, all is vanity." The eye is not satisfied with seeing, the ear with hearing, nor the heart with knowing. We turn away with loathing from the finite good as soon as possessed, and which the moment before possession we felt would, if we had it, make us happy. The soul spurns it, and cries out from the depths of her agony for something that can fill up the void within her, and complete her happiness by completing her being. We need not multiply words, for the fact is old, and all the world knows it. Nature cannot satisfy nature, and the soul looks, and must look beyond it, for her beatitude. So much is certain.

Hence it is that men in all ages and nations have never been able to satisfy either their reason or their craving for happiness with nature alone, and have, in some form, recognized a supernatural order, or a reality of some sort above and beyond nature, whence comes nature herself. {728} Neither atheism, or the resolution of God into natural laws or forces, nor pantheism, or the absorption of natural laws or forces into the Divine Being itself, has ever been able to satisfy the man of a real philosophic or scientific genius, because either is sophistical and self-contradictory. Either is repugnant to the natural logic of the human understanding or the inherent laws of thought. Even such naturalists as Agassiz and our Dr. Draper find it necessary to recognize in some sense a Supreme Being or God, although, for the most part, like the old Epicureans, they leave him idle, with little or nothing to do. But God, if he exists at all, must be supernatural, and the author of nature. If God is supernatural and the creator of nature, he must have created nature for himself, and then nature must have its origin and end in him, and therefore in the supernatural. Man, then, has neither his origin nor end in the natural, and neither without the supernatural is explicable or knowable; without a knowledge of our origin and end, or an answer to the questions, whence came we? why are we, and how? and whither go we? we can have no rule of life, cannot determine the positive or the relative value of any line of conduct, and must commit ourselves to the mercy of the winds and waves of an unknown sea, without pilot, chart, rudder, or compass.

Nor is even this enough. Not only is the natural inexplicable without the supernatural, but even the intelligible, too, is not intelligible without the superintelligible, as we have already said. We know things, indeed, not mere phenomena, but we do not know the essences of things, and yet we know that there is and can be nothing without its essence, and that the ground and root of what is intelligible in a thing is in its unknown and superintelligible essence. So in the universe throughout. God, as creator, as universal, eternal, necessary, immutable, and self-existent being, is intelligible to us, and the light by which all that is intelligible to us is intelligible; but we know that what is intelligible to us is not God in his essence, and that what in him is intelligible to us has its source, its reality, so to speak, in this very superintelligible essence. Hence it follows that to real science of anything we need to know the supernatural, and by faith, or analogical science, at least, the superintelligible. We cannot satisfy nature without the science and possession of the essences or substances of things, and therefore not without faith, "for faith is the substance of things to be hoped for," the evidence of things not seen. _Fides est rerum substantia sperandarum, argumentum non apparentium_, according to St. Paul, who, even they who deny his inspiration, must yet admit was the profoundest philosopher that ever wrote. We think he was so because divinely inspired, but the fact that he was so no competent judge can dispute. St. Augustine owes his immense superiority over Plato and Aristotle chiefly to his assiduous study of the epistles of St. Paul, which throw so strong a light not only on the whole volume of Scripture, but on the whole order of creation, and the divine purpose in the creation and the redemption, regeneration, justification, and glorification of man through the incarnation of the Word, and the cross and passion of our Lord Jesus Christ.

But as we can know even by faith the superintelligible, the unknowable of Mr. Herbert Spencer, which even he dares not assert is unreal or non-existent, only by divine or supernatural revelation, it follows, that without such revelation, no science satisfactory to natural reason herself is possible. There is, then, and can be no antagonism between revelation and science, faith and reason, or supernatural and natural. The two are but parts of one whole, each the complement of the other. This dialectic relation of the two terms asserted by Catholic theology is denied by Protestant theology either to the exclusion of nature and reason, or to the exclusion of both the supernatural and the superintelligible, and hence the dualism which rends in twain the whole non-Catholic world, and presents revelation and science, reason and faith, authority and liberty, natural and supernatural, church and state, heaven and earth, time and eternity, God and man, as mutually hostile terms, forever irreconcilable. {729} The non-Catholic world does not know or it forgets that the church presents the middle term that unites and reconciles them, and that the Catholic feels nothing of this interior struggle of two mutually destructive forces which rends the hearts and souls of the wisest of non-Catholics, not because he does not think or has abdicated reason, as the Professor imagines, but precisely because he does think, and thinks according to the truth and reality of things. He has unquestionably his struggles between the flesh and the spirit, between virtue and vice, between temptations to sin and inspirations to holiness, but presents in his life none of those fearful internal tragedies so frequently enacted among serious and earnest non-Catholics, and which make up so large and so distressing a portion of the higher and more truthful portion of non-Catholic literature. Non-Catholic poetry, when not a song to Venus or Bacchus, is either a fanciful description of external nature, scenes, and events, or a low wail or a loud lament over the internal tragedies caused by the struggle between faith and reason, belief and doubt, hope and despair, or vainly to penetrate the mysteries of life and death, God and the universe. Catholic poetry, Catholic literature throughout, knows nothing of those tragedies, is peaceful and serene, and is therefore less interesting to those who are not Catholics. We have (we speak personally) had some experience of those interior struggles, and many a tragedy has been enacted in our own soul, but it is with difficulty we can recall them; in the peace and serenity of Catholic faith and hope they have almost faded from the memory, and yet the period of our life since we became a Catholic has been with us the period of our freest and most active and energetic thought. If we have worn chains, we have not been conscious of them, and they certainly cannot have been very heavy, or have eaten very deeply into the flesh. The reason of it is that we find in Catholic faith and theology the two elements which in the non-Catholic world are in perpetual war with each other, perfectly reconciled, and mutually harmonized.

The peace the Catholic finds is not the sort of peace that was said to reign in Warsaw. The Professor is greatly mistaken if he supposes it is obtained by the suppression of reason, or that reason is forgotten in the engrossing nature or artistic perfection of the external services of the church. The offices of the church are beautiful, grand, and, if you will, imposing, but they are all provocative of thought, meditation, reflection, for they all symbolize the greatest of all mysteries--God dying for the creature's sin, God become man, that man may become God. Take away this great mystery, and the offices of the church become meaningless, purposeless, powerless. Without faith in that mystery to which they all refer, and which they at every instant recall, they would be no more imposing than the pomp and music of a military review or a concert in Central Park. From first to last they challenge our faith, and, if there were any discrepancy between our faith and reason, they would in a thoughtful mind bring it up in distinct consciousness, instead of suppressing or making us forget it. A Lord John Russell could call the sublime services of the church "mummery," and such do the mass of Protestants regard them. To the profane all things are profane, and the offices of the church are really edifying only to those who believe the mystery of the Incarnation. Unbelievers who are not scoffers may admire their poetry and the music which accompanies them, but would admire equal poetry and music in the theatre just as much, and perhaps even more.

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No; the peace of the Catholic is a real peace. Neither faith nor reason, revelation nor science, authority nor liberty is suppressed; but all real antagonism between them is removed, and they are seen and felt to be but congruous parts of one dialectic whole. Peace reigns because the mutually hostile parties are really reconciled, and made one. The Professor, no doubt, will smile at our assertion, and set it down to our simplicity or enthusiasm, but we have this advantage of him, that we know both sides, and taught or might have taught him more than thirty years ago the philosophy he brings out so racily at the breakfast table.

Our nature was constructed by the supernatural for the supernatural, and it can no more live its normal life without a supernatural medium than it could have sprung into existence without a cause above and independent of itself. Regeneration is, therefore, as necessary to enable it to attain its destiny or beatitude as generation was to usher it into natural existence. Hence it is that, when men cast off in their belief and affections the supernatural, and live as natural men alone, they sink even below their normal nature, and lose even their natural light and strength, live only a life which the Scriptures call death, the death which Adam underwent in consequence of his disobedience to the divine order. When men undertake by their simple natural reason to construct a system of philosophy, they construct systems which natural reason herself rejects. Reason disdains her own work, and hence pure rationalists never construct anything that will stand, and they build up systems only to be demolished by themselves or successors. Of the systems in vogue in our youth not one is now standing, and we have seen them replaced by two or three new generations of systems that have each in turn gone the way of all the earth; and, unless we speedily follow them, we may be called to write the epitaphs of those now revelling in the heyday of their young life. The thing is inevitable, because our nature was made to act in synthesis with the supernatural, and is only partially itself when compelled to operate by itself alone.

This fact that man's normal life demands the supernatural, and that his own reason, though not able to know the superintelligible, or to say what it is, yet assures him that there is a superintelligible, fits him by nature to receive the supernatural revelation of the superintelligible; for it only supplies an indestructible and deeply felt want of his nature. His reason needs it and his nature craves it, and when receiving it relishes it as the hungry man does wholesome and appropriate food. As the natural and supernatural, the intelligible and superintelligible, are not contradictory or mutually repellant orders, but parts of one complete and indissoluble whole, only ordinary evidence is required to prove the fact of revelation; and as God is infinitely true, truth itself, his word, when we know that we have it, is ample authority, the highest possible, and the best of all conceivable reasons, for believing the revelation. So faith in a supernatural revelation, in whatever is proved to be the word of God, is, so far from being repugnant to reason or requiring an abdication of reason, the highest and freest act of reason possible.

The Professor objects to believing on the authority of the church, but we do not believe the revelation on the authority of the church; we take on her authority only the fact that it is divine revelation; the revelation itself we believe on the veracity of God. But, if we considered the church as a mere body, collection, or company of men, however wise, learned, or honest we might regard them, we should not hold her authority sufficient for believing that what she proposes as the revelation really is revelation. Every man taken individually is fallible, and no possible number, union, or combination of fallibles can make an infallible, and only an infallible authority is competent to declare what God has or has not revealed. The church is more than a collection, body, or company of individuals, as the human race, what our liberals call humanity, is more than an aggregation of individuals. {731} There is, indeed, no humanity without individuals, but it is not itself individual, or dependent on individuals for its existence. The positivists, who would call no individual man divine, pretend that humanity is divine, and worship it as God. What the race is to individual men in the order of generation, that, in some sense, is the church to them in the order of regeneration. She lives not without them, but does not live by them. She is the regenerated race, and bears to Jesus Christ, the incarnate Word, who was with God and who is God, the relation, in the order of regeneration, that the human race bears to Adam, its natural progenitor, and therefore she lives a divine and human life, which she receives not from her members, but imparts to them. Jesus Christ is the progenitor of regenerated humanity, and this regenerated humanity is in the largest sense what we call the church, in which sense it includes all the faithful, the laity as well as their pastors and teachers.

The church, again, is the body of our Lord, in which dwelleth the Holy Ghost. Individuals are to her what the particles which the body assimilates are to the body. There is no body without them, yet they are not, individually or collectively, the body. The life of the body is not derived from them, for the body, by a vital process, assimilates them to itself, not they the body to themselves. The body, when suffering from a fever or when deprived of food, assimilates them only feebly, and wastes away or grows thin, and, when dead, assimilates them not at all, which shows that the vital power which carries on the process of assimilation is in the body, not in the particles, a fact far better known to the Professor than to us, and a fact, too, which may help remove the difficulties sciolists imagine in the way of the resurrection of the body.

The vital power or principle which gives life to the body and enables it to carry on the process of assimilation and elimination, the church teaches, is the soul, for she has defined that the soul is the _form_ of the body, _Anima est forma oorporis_. But this has nothing to do with our present purpose. The vital principle, the life of the church, is our Lord Jesus Christ himself. The Holy Ghost dwells in her as the soul in the body, animates her, guides and directs her, and therefore is she one, holy and Catholic, as he is one, holy and Catholic, infallible by his perpetual presence and assistance as he is infallible. The Word incarnate explicates his life in her as Adam explicates his life in the race. The infallibility is from the presence and assistance of the Holy Ghost, and is in her very interior life. The Word is in her, a living Word, and the infallibility attaches to her, to this interior Word which she lives, but not to individuals as such in her communion. The pope regarded as a man, irrespective of his office, is no more infallible than he is impeccable, or than is any Christian believer.

But the church as a body has her organs, and as a visible body she has visible organs, through which she teaches the truth she has received and expresses the life she lives. These organs are the bishops or pastors in communion with their visible head, the successor in the See of Rome of Blessed Peter, the Prince of the Apostles. We call them organs of the church, inasmuch as the faith and love, the truth and life, they express is her life, which in turn is the life of him who said, "Because I live ye shall live also," and, "Behold, I am with you all days, even to the consummation of the world!" and who expressly declares himself "the way, the truth, and the life." The infallibility of the church comes from the indwelling Word and the assistance of the Holy Ghost; the infallibility of the organs comes from the infallibility of the church.

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Now, supposing the church to be what we represent her to be, we presume even the Professor will acknowledge her to be fully competent to teach without error the revelation supernaturally made and committed to her, for the revelation committed to her is deposited externally with her bishops and pastors, and internally in her living and unfailing faith, in her very life and interior consciousness. It is both a recorded and a present living revelation, which she is living and explicating in her continuous activity, the Word spoken from the beginning, and the Word speaking now. "Say not," says St. Paul, (Rom. x. 6-8,) "in thy heart: Who shall ascend into heaven? that is, to bring Christ down: or who shall descend into the deep? that is, to bring up Christ again from the dead. But what saith the Scripture? The word is near thee, even in thy mouth, and in thy heart: this is the word of faith, which we preach." This was addressed by St. Paul to Christian believers, "to all that are at Rome, the beloved of God, called to be saints," and shows that the Christian not only hears the word in his ears, but has it in his mouth, in his heart, that is, in his very life, and he lives and breathes it. It is the very element of his soul, and he can have no higher certainty, not even in case of a mathematical demonstration, than he has that his faith is true, and that it is the living God he believes. The Professor, then, in regard to the faithful, has no ground for asserting as he does an antithesis between "Rome and reason, the sovereign church and the free soul, God in our masters and God in us;" for Rome is the highest reason, the sovereign church is both external and internal, and God is both in us and in our teachers. We have not only the veracity of God as the ground of our faith, but a divinely constituted and assisted medium of bringing us to it, and sustaining it in us.

The church undoubtedly teaches the faith or divine revelation which has been committed to her through her pastors and doctors. But the competency of these to teach follows from the fact that they can teach only in union with the church; that she authorizes their teaching, and is ever present to correct them if they err, and that they are even externally commissioned by our Lord himself to teach what he has revealed. A mere external commission, which we know historically was given to the apostles and their successors, would not of itself give the capacity to teach or ensure infallibility in teaching; but he who has all power in heaven and in earth, who is God as well as man, and is himself "the way, the truth, and the life," assuredly would not, and could not, without belying his essential and immutable nature, issue a commission to teach and command all nations to hear and obey them as himself, without taking care that they should have the ability to teach his word and to teach it infallibly. That he does this is pledged in the very issue and in the words of the commission itself: "All power is given to me in heaven and in earth. Go ye, therefore, and teach all nations; baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost; teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you; and, behold, _I am with you_ all days, even to the consummation of the world." (St. Matt xxviii. 18-20.)

This external commission is all that needs to be proved by external evidence to the world outside of the church, and there is no more intrinsic difficulty in proving it than there is in proving the commission of George Washington as general of the American army in the Revolution, of Lord Raglan as commander-in-chief to the day of his death of the British forces employed in the Crimean war, or any other historical fact whatever. The unbroken existence of the church founded by the apostles from their day to ours, and the uniform testimony she has universally and uninterruptedly borne to the fact, would suffice to prove it, even had we no other proofs or evidence. The church, without citing her in her supernatural character, and taking her simply as an historical witness, is all that is needed, for she is a standing monument of the fact. {733} In her corporate capacity she spans the whole distance of time from the apostles, and at each intervening moment she has been a present witness of the fact, testifying to what was present before her. The church as a corporation, without any appeal to her mystic character, has not been subject to any succession of time, has known no lapse of years, and is as present today to the events of the apostolic times as she was when those events occurred. She is at any moment we choose their contemporary, and, as a contemporary witness to extraordinary facts, her testimony is as good for us as was that of the apostles themselves to their personal contemporaries. Indeed, it is literally and truly the same, for her corporate existence from the time of the apostles to ours, or her historical identity, is unquestionable.

We are not now citing the continuous existence of the church for anything but the simple external fact of the external commission given by our Lord himself to his apostles. To that fact, whatever you think of her, she is a competent witness, and, having constantly testified to it from that day to this, her testimony is conclusive. Assume, then, the fact of the external commission, to which we who are Catholics need no external testimony, since we find the highest of all possible testimony in the internal life of the church, all the rest follows of itself. What the church believes, and teaches through her pastors and doctors, or what they in unison with her and her faith teach as the revelation of God committed to her, is his revelation, and we believe it because we believe him. Then we believe she is what she professes to be, the living body of our Lord, who lives in her and is her life, and through whom the Holy Ghost carries on the work of regeneration and glorification of all souls that do not resist him, but by his assistance coöperate with him.

Now, where in all this, from the first to the last, find you any discrepancy between Rome and Reason, the sovereign church and the free soul, between God in us and God in our masters? There is no discrepancy. There is more in it than natural reason by her own light knows, but nothing against reason, or which reason does not feel that she needs for own full and normal development. There is in it more than there is in nature, because our destiny, our end, that is, our supreme good, like our origin, lies in the supernatural order, not the natural, for our nature can be satisfied with no finite or created good, and it needs no argument to prove that the natural is not capable of itself of attaining to the supernatural. To assert the supernatural as the means of elevating nature to the plane of a supernatural destiny and of enabling it to reach it, assuredly is not to discard or to depress nature.

The difficulties which exclusive rationalists and naturalists feel in the case grow out of their supposition that Rome teaches that the intelligible and superintelligible are identical with the natural and supernatural, and that the natural and supernatural are two separate worlds, each standing opposed to the other, or two contradictory plans or systems, with no real nexus or medium of reconciliation between them, that is, that Rome, saving her authority to teach and govern, teaches Protestantism. The intelligible and superintelligible are distinguishable only in relation to our limited intelligence, but in the real order are identical, one and the same, and would be seen to be so by an intelligence capable of taking in all reality at one view. The natural and supernatural are distinguishable, but not separable, any more than is the effect from the cause. They are simply distinct parts of one complete system, or one dialectic whole, united as well as distinguished by the creative act of God. They are expressed, in the Christian or teleological order, by the terms generation and regeneration. Man is created by the supernatural, but the race is explicated in the order of generation by natural laws; in the order of regeneration, by the election of grace. Generation is initial; regeneration is teleological, and completes generation, or places man on the plane of his end, as generation places the individual on the plane of his natural existence.

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Now, it is clear that without generation there can be no regeneration, as without regeneration the end is not attainable. The two terms express two processes, or the two itineraries of creation--the procession of existences from God as First Cause by way of creation and their explication by natural laws, and the return of existences by means of supernatural grace to God, without absorption in him, as their end or Final Cause. The natural order or generation, the order explicated by natural laws, proceeds from and is sustained by the supernatural, for God is supernatural, since he is the author of nature; the end, or the final cause, is supernatural, since it is in God; the medium of return, then, must be also supernatural, since the natural is not and cannot be adequate to a supernatural end. Evidently, then, there is and can be no opposition between the natural and supernatural but the opposition between the cause and effect, the medium and the end, the part and the whole. The supernatural is necessary to originate, sustain, and complete the natural. Hence, the difficulties created or suggested by Protestant theology have no place in relation to the teachings of Rome. Protestantism escapes an eternal war only by supposing either the natural or the supernatural; Rome escapes it by reconciling the two, or presenting in the real order the medium of their union.

We may now dispose of the question of miracles and supernatural visions, etc., which excite the disdain or contempt of Mr. Parkman and his class of thinkers or no-thinkers. Man exists from, by, and for the supernatural. Christianity is supernatural, and is the medium, and the necessary medium, by which man attains his end, or supreme good. It is teleological, and hence the whole teleological life of man is supernatural. The supernatural is that which God does immediately by himself; the natural is that which he does mediately through the action of second causes or so-called natural laws, as generation, germination, growth, etc., which are in the secondary order explicable by natural or created causes. Now, as the supernatural is the origin, medium, and end of man, and as Christianity or the teleological order unites dialectically--really unites, as God and man are really united in the Incarnation--the natural and supernatural, there is and can be no _à priori_ difficulty or antecedent improbability that God, in preparing the introduction in time of the Christian order, and in carrying it on to the end for which he creates it, should intervene more or less frequently by his direct and immediate action--action upon nature, if you will, but without the agency of natural causes. The whole Christian order, on its divine side, though included in the original plan or decree of creation, is an intervention of this sort. Grace is the direct action of God the Holy Ghost in regenerating the human soul, elevating it to the plane of its destiny, and enabling it to persevere to the end. The part assigned to natural agents is ministerial only, or signs through which grace is signified. The direct and immediate action of God is normal in the order of Christianity, and, therefore, in no sense repugnant to the order of nature.

What, then, is a miracle? It is not a violation or suspension of the laws of nature, but a specific effect in the visible order produced by the direct and immediate action of God, for some purpose connected with the teleological order of creation, or the order of regeneration as distinguished from the order of generation. That he should do so from time to time, as seems to him good, is only in analogy with the very order he sustains for the perfection or completion of creation. There are, then, no _à priori_ objections to miracles. Hume's pretence that no testimony can prove a miracle, for it is more probable that men will lie than it is that nature will go out of her course, is of no weight, because nature does not work a miracle, nor does it in a miracle go out of its course. {735} The miracle is worked by God himself, and is in the teleological order of nature. Being wrought in the visible order, a miracle is as probable and as provable as any other historical event. The only questions are, is the event not explicable by natural causes? and are the proofs sufficient to prove it as an historical fact? No more evidence is needed to prove it than is required to prove any historical fact in the natural order itself. If a real miracle, it is as easily proven as a natural event.

No doubt many things pass for miracles which are explicable by natural causes, and many visions are taken to be supernatural which have nothing supernatural about them. We do not hold ourselves bound by our Catholic faith to believe all the marvellous occurrences recorded in the lives of the saints, or treated as such in popular tradition, were really miracles, wrought by the direct and immediate action of the Almighty. We are bound to believe only according to the evidence in each particular case. Credulity is as little the characteristic of Catholics as is scepticism itself. We are in relation to alleged particular miracles as free to exercise our reason and judgment as we are in regard to any other class of alleged historical facts, and to sift and weigh the testimony in the case. That miracles are possible, are not improbable, have never ceased in the church, and are daily wrought among the faithful, we fully believe; but, when it comes to this or that particular fact or event alleged to be a miracle, we exercise to the full our critical judgment, and follow what seems to us the weight of evidence. The alleged appearance of our Lady to the young shepherds of La Salette is possible and not improbable, but before we can be required to believe it we must have sufficient evidence of the fact.

Mr. Parkman in his quiet way smiles at the credulity of the good Jesuit fathers, who seem to believe the stories of Indian magic, witchcraft, or sorcery which they relate; but has he any evidence that there is no Satan, and that evil spirits are mere _entia rationis?_ Can he prove that magic, witchcraft, sorcery, _diablerie_, in any or all its forms, is impossible or even improbable? All the world from the earliest and in the most enlightened ages have believed in what the Germans call the Night-side of Nature, and no man has any right to allege so universal a belief is unfounded, except on very strong and convincing reasons. Has he such reasons? Can he disprove the whole series of facts recorded? Can he deny the facts alleged by our modern necromancers or spiritists, or prove not that some of them are, but that all of them, are explicable without the supposition of some superhuman agency? Doubtless there is much illusion, delusion, cheatery, but is there not also much inexplicable without satanic influence? Can he say that there is no Satan, that there are no fallen creatures superior to man in strength and intellect, who harass him, beset him, possess him, or that tempt him, and perform lying wonders well fitted to deceive him, and to draw him away from the worship of the true God, though, of course, unable to harm against the consent of his will? Their deviltry is superhuman, but not by any means supernatural, and they who speak of it as supernatural entirely mistake its character. As in the case of miracles, while we concede the general principle, when we come to particular facts attributed to satanic agency, we use our critical judgment, and are, we confess, very slow to believe, and hard to be convinced.

We think we have said enough to prove that it is time to leave off the cant about the despotism of Rome, and to desist from placing the church in contrast with the free soul. The two poles are rationalism and supernaturalism; Catholicity combines both in their real synthesis, a synthesis founded in the creative act of God which really connects creator and creature in one harmonious whole. {736} They who do not perceive it are ignorant of the teachings of Rome, and are mere sciolists. They have taken only superficial views of both reason and religion, and have far more reason to deplore their lack of light than to boast of their intelligence. There is infinitely more in this old church than is dreamed of in their philosophy.

Yet nobody pretends that the church teaches the details of science, and leaves nothing for the human intellect to observe, to investigate, to arrange, and classify. The church is Catholic, because she teaches in her doctrine, whether known by natural reason or only by divine revelation, the universal ideal, or the Catholic principles of all the real and all the knowable; but she does not teach all the details of cosmology, history, chemistry, mechanics, geography, astronomy, geology, zoology, physiology, pathology, philology, or anthropology. She teaches the ideal or general principles of all the sciences, and teaches them infallibly, and thus gives the law to all scientific investigation, which _savans_ in their inductions and deductions are not at liberty to transgress. Our philosophers and _savans_ are perfectly free to explore nature in all possible directions, but they are not free to invent hypotheses and theories not reconcilable with the universal principles she teaches, or to oppose their conjectures to the principles she asserts, because all such conjectures or theories are unscientific and false. The ethnologist is free to investigate the characteristics of the different races and families of men, but not free to deny the unity of the human race itself, or the descent of all men from one and the same primitive pair, who must have been immediately created and instructed by God himself. But this is saying no more than that the mathematician is not free to reject his axioms, or the geometrician his definitions; and we may add that, if our scientific men would take the principles the church teaches as their guide, they would find themselves much more successful in their observation and classification of natural phenomena, and save themselves from the ridicule which they now incur.

It follows from this that the sciences are not absolutely independent of the supervision of the church, and that she goes not out of her province when she censures officially theories, hypotheses, and conjectures which contradict the ideal truth committed to her charge. They by contradicting her principles are proved to be unsound and unscientific. But so long as the scientific confine themselves to facts and real principles, and do not run or attempt to run athwart the truth, they are perfectly free. The church interferes with them only when they impugn by their speculations the universal principles of things. The people, again, are free to adopt the form of government which they judge best, and civil governments are free to pursue the policy they judge the wisest and most prudent, so long as they contravene no principle or dictate of moral justice; and the individual is free to choose the calling in life he prefers, and to pursue it without let or hinderance from the church, so long as he violates no divine precept or law of God.

There is no doubt some restraint here, for the church excludes neither authority nor liberty. Liberty without authority is license, and as great an evil as authority without liberty, which is tyranny or despotism. The scientific, if truly scientific, study to know reality, the real and unmixed truth, which is alike independent of her and of them, and they can obtain it only by conforming to the immutable principles of things, according to which God has created and governs the universe. The church approves and encourages free thought and free inquiry, but she certainly does not permit her children, under pretence of free thought, free inquiry, or of science, to subvert the very principles on which all science, even thought itself, depends, or to degrade human nature and abase the dignity of reason by theories that deprive man of his humanity and rank him with the beasts that perish. {737} Such liberty is repugnant to the very essence of science, and cannot be entertained for a moment by any one who is anything more than a developed chimpanzee or gorilla. It is license, not liberty, and introduces only intellectual anarchy.

There is, too, a moral order in the universe, and the good of the individual and society can be secured only by conformity to it. No man, no nation, no society, no government has or can have the right to do wrong. The rejection of the restraints of the great fundamental principles of truth in science and the sciences, and of justice in the individual and in society, is the greatest of evils, and it is therefore that the church has it for her office to unite in an indissoluble synthesis both liberty and authority. To make the fact that she unites authority with liberty, and tempers each with the other, a ground of reproach against her is no proof of wisdom. She allows man all the liberty God gives him, and to ask for more is absurd.

In teaching the great principles of truth in all orders, and in judging of their explication and application, the church is infallible, but she is not infallible in the details of science. She is infallible in teaching whatever our Lord has commanded her, has revealed to her, and is realizing in her life, but not necessarily in matters not included in the faith. Her infallibility does not imply the scientific infallibility of all Catholics. It is no objection to her and no embarrassment to Catholics, that her children in the details of science have more or less erred. Others may be as well acquainted with these details as Catholics, and the scientific superiority of Catholics is in their knowledge of the great scientific principles, or what in science is ideal and catholic. Others may know the facts of history as well, but none can so well know the ideas or principles which govern the historical development of the race, and the science or philosophy of history. The same may be said of all the other sciences.

To fully develop and exhaust the great question we have touched upon in this article would require a volume, indeed many volumes. We have aimed rather at giving the principles and method of their solution than at giving the solution itself. We have left much for the reader to do for himself by his own thought and study. It is as necessary that readers should think freely and wisely as that authors should, for mind can speak only to mind. But we trust that we have said enough to vindicate Rome from the charges preferred against her, and to prove that they who take pleasure in reviling her or her faithful children have little reason to boast of their intelligence or to claim to be the more advanced portion of the race.

{738}

Impressions of Spain.

By Lady Herbert.

The journey to Madrid was uneventful. One more day was spent in Cordova; once more they visited that glorious mosque; one more day and night was spent in wearisome diligences and stifling wayside stations, and then they found themselves again established in their old comfortable quarters at the "Puerta del Sol."

It was a relief to think that the "lions" of the place had been more or less visited, and that all they had to do was to return to the places of previous interest, and thoroughly enjoy them. The cold during their former visit had precluded their making any expeditions in the neighborhood, which omission they now prepared to rectify. Spending the first few days in seeing their old friends, and obtaining letters of introduction from them, our travellers resolved that their first excursion should be to the Escurial.

The Escurial and Toledo.

A railroad is now open from Madrid which passes by the palace; so at half-past six, one morning, they took their places in the train, which soon carried them away from the cultivated environs of the city to a country which, for desolation, wildness, and grandeur, resembles the scenery at Nicolosi in the ascent of Etna. In the midst of this rugged mass of rocks and scrubby oak-trees, the large gloomy Escurial rises up, under the shadow, as it were, of the snowy jagged peaks of the Sierra Guadarama, which forms its background. There is a picture of it, by Rubens, in the gallery at Longford Castle, near Salisbury, which gives the best possible idea of the complete isolation of the great building itself, and of the savage character of the whole of the surrounding country.

Leaving the train, our party went to present their letters to the principal, Padre G----, who very kindly showed them everything most worth seeing in the place. It is a gigantic pile of masonry, built by Philip II. as a thanksgiving for the success of the battle of St. Quentin, and in the shape of a grid-iron, being dedicated to St. Laurence, on the day of whose martyrdom the vow was made. "Celui qui faisait un si grand voeu doit avoir eu grande peur!" was the saying of the Duke of Braganza; and the gloomy, cold, gray character of the whole place is but the reflex of the king's temperament. He employed the famous architect Herrera, whose genius was, however, much cramped by the king's insistence on the shape being maintained. It was finished in 1584.

The Jeronimite monks have been scattered to the winds, and the convent has been turned into a college; they have about 250 students. The church is large and solemn, but bare and uninviting, dismal and sombre, like all the rest. The choir is up-stairs, with fine carved stalls, among which is that of Philip II., who always said office with the monks. The painted ceiling is by Luca Giordano. The choir-books are more than 200 in number, in virgin calf, and of gigantic size; some of them are beautifully illuminated. At the back, in a small gallery, with a window looking on the great piazza below, is the famous white marble Christ, the size of life, by Benvenuto Cellini, given to Philip II. by the Grand Duke of Florence. On certain days it is exposed to the people from the window; but wonderful as may be its anatomy, the expression is both painful and commonplace. Beneath the church is the famous crypt containing the bodies of all the kings and queens of Spain since Charles V., arranged in niches round the octagonal chapel. {739} Each niche contains a black marble sarcophagus; the kings on the right, and the queens on the left. Here mass is always said on All Souls' Day, and on the anniversaries of their deaths. The present queen came once, and looked at the empty urn waiting for her, but did not repeat the experiment. "I have come once of my own freewill," she is supposed to have said, "but the next time I shall be brought here without it." It is a dismal resting-place; the damp, cold, slippery stairs by which you descend into it from the church seem to chill one's very blood, and the profound darkness, only lit up here and there by the flicker of the guide's torch, with the reverberation caused by the closing of the heavy iron door, till the thoughts with visions of death, uncheered by hope, and of a prison rather than a grave. Ascending with a feeling of positive relief to the church above, Padre G---- took them into the sacristy, which is a beautiful long, low room, with arabesque ceilings, and at the further end of which is a very fine picture by Coello, representing the apotheosis of the "Forma," or miraculous wafer: the heads are all portraits, and admirably executed. At the back is the little chapel or sanctuary where the "Forma" is kept and exhibited twice a year. Charles II. erected the gorgeous altar with the following inscription:

En magni operis miraculum intra miraculum mundi, coeli miraculum consecratum.

The legend states that at the battle of Gorcum, in 1525, the Zuinglian heretics scattered and trampled on the Sacred Host, _which bled_; and being gathered up and carefully preserved by the faithful, was afterward given by Rudolph II. to Philip II., which event is represented in a bas-relief. In this sacristy are also some vestments of which the embroidery is the most exquisite thing possible; the faces of the figures are like beautiful miniatures, so that it is difficult to believe they are done in needlework. [Footnote 248]

[Footnote 248: In the Dominican convent of Stone, in Staffordshire, the same exquisite work is now being reproduced; which proves that the art is not, as is generally supposed, extinct.]

But the great treasures of this church are its relics, of which the quantity is enormous. They are arranged in gigantic cupboards or "étagères," stretching from the floor to the ceiling, the doors of which are carefully concealed by the pictures which hang over them, above both the high altar and the two side altars at the east end. There are more than 7,000 relics, of which the most interesting are those of St. Laurence himself, (his skull, his winding-sheet, the iron bars of his gridiron, etc..) the head of St. Hermengilde, sent to the king from Seville, and the arm and head of St. Agatha. The reliquaries are also very beautiful, some of them of very fine cinquecento work. These are down-stairs. Up-stairs is a kind of secret chapel, where there are some things which were still more interesting to our travellers. Here are four MS. books of St. Theresa's, all written by her own hand; her Life, written by command of her confessor. Padre Bánez, with a voucher of its authenticity from him at the end; her Path of Perfection; her Constitutions and Foundations; also her inkstand and pen. Her handwriting is more like a man's than a woman's, and is beautifully clear and firm. There is also a veil worked in a kind of crochet by St. Elizabeth of Hungary, and sent by her to St. Margaret; a beautiful illuminated Greek missal, once belonging to St. Chrysostom; a pot from Cana in Galilee; a beautifully carved ivory diptych; the body of one of the Holy Innocents, sent from Bethlehem; some exquisite ivory and coral reliquaries, etc. From the church our party went up by a magnificent staircase to the library, which though despoiled, like everything else during the French invasion, still contains some invaluable books and MSS. {740} There is an illuminated Apocalypse of the fourteenth century, most exquisitely painted on both sides; a very fine copy of the Koran; many other beautiful missals; and in a room down-stairs, not generally shown to travellers, are some thousands of manuscripts, among which are a wonderful illuminated copy of the Miracles of the Virgin, in Portuguese and Gallego, of the eleventh century, most quaint and funny in design and execution; also a very curious illuminated book of chess problems and other games, written by order of the king Alonso el Sabio. It is a library where one might spend days and days with ever-increasing pleasure, if it were not for the cold, which, to our travellers, fresh from the burning sun of Seville, seemed almost unendurable. The cloisters, refectory, and kitchens are all on the most magnificent scale. In the wing set aside for the private apartments of the royal family, but which they now rarely occupy, the thing most worth looking at is the tapestry, made in Madrid, at the Barbara factory, (now closed,) from drawings by Teniers and Goya. They are quite like beautiful paintings, both in expression and color, though some of the subjects and scenes are of questionable propriety. There is a suite of small rooms with beautiful inlaid doors and furniture; a few good pictures, (among a good deal of rubbish,) especially one of Bosch, known as that of The Dog and the Fly; and a very interesting gallery or corridor, covered with frescoes, representing the taking of Granada on the one side and the battle of St. Quentin on the other, the victory of Lepanto occupying the spaces at the two ends. These frescoes are very valuable, both as portraits and as representing the costumes and arms of the period. They were said to be facsimile copies of original drawings, done on cloths on the actual spots. That of St. Quentin was specially interesting to one of the party, whose ancestor fought there, and in whose house in England (Wilton Abbey) is still shown the armor of Ann Conétable de Montmorency, of the Duc de Montpensier, of Admiral Coligni, and of other French prisoners taken by him in that memorable battle. Beyond this gallery is the little business-room or study of Philip II., with his chair, his gouty stool, his writing-table, his well-worn letter book, and two old pictures, one of the Seven Deadly Sins, the other an etching (of 1572) of the Virgin and Saints. Out of this tiny den is a kind of recess, with a window looking on the high altar in which he caused his couch to be laid when he was dying. The death-struggle was prolonged for fifty-three days of almost continuous agony, during which time he went on holding in his hand the crucifix which Charles V. had when he expired, and which is still religiously preserved. The gardens in front of this magnificent palace are very quaint and pretty, the beds being cut in a succession of terraces overlooking the plains below, and bordered with low box hedges cut in prim shapes, with straight gravel walks, beautiful fountains, and marble seats. But it is not difficult to understand why the poor queen prefers the sunny slopes of La Granja, or even the dulness of the green avenues of Aranjuez, to this gloomy pile, where the snow hardly ever melts in the cold shade of those inner courts, and where all the associations are of death in its most repulsive form. Above the Escurial, half-way up the mountain, is a rude seat of boulder stones, from whence it is said Philip II. used to watch the progress of the huge building.

Returning to the railway station, our travellers walked down the hill and through a pleasantly wooded avenue to a little "maisonnette" of the Infanta, built for Charles IV. when heir-apparent, and containing some beautiful ivories and Wedgwoods. The gardens are pretty and bright, but the whole thing is too small to be anything but a child's toy. An accident on the line, somewhere near Avila, detained our party for six mortal hours at a wretched little wayside station, of which the authorities flatly refused to put on a short special train, although there were a large number of passengers, in addition to our travellers, waiting, like them, to return to Madrid. {741} But the Spanish mind cannot take in the idea of any one being in a hurry. "Ora!" "Mañana!" (By and by! To-morrow!) are the despairing words which meet one at every turn in this country. In this instance, neither horses nor carriages being procurable, by which the journey to Madrid (only twenty miles) could have been accomplished with perfect facility by road, our travellers had nothing left for it but to wait. Patience, and such sleep as could be got on a hard bench, were their only resource until one in the morning, when the night express fortunately came up, and, after some demur, agreed to take them back to Madrid.

Too tired the following day to start early again for Toledo, as they had intended, our party took advantage of the kindness of the English minister to see the queen's private library, which is in one of the wings of the large but uninteresting modern palace. The librarian good-naturedly showed them some of the rarest of his treasures: among them is a beautiful missal, bound in shagreen, with lovely enamel clasps and exquisite illuminations, which had belonged to Queen Isabella of Castile; her arms, Arragon on one side and Castile on the other, were worked into the illuminations on the cover. There was a still older missal illuminated in 1315, in which is found the first mention of _St. Louis_ in the Kalendar. Here also are some of the first books printed in type, and a very fine MS. Greek copy of Aristotle.

Afterward, they came to a distant room, where Dr.---- found what he had long sought for in vain--a quantity of the MS. letters of Gondomar, minister from Spain to our King James I., giving an amusing and gossiping account of people and things in England at that time. In this library is also a very curious and interesting MS. life of Cardinal Wolsey.

In the evening, one of our party paid a visit to the Papal Nuncio, Monsignor B----, a very kind, clever, and agreeable man, living in a quaint old house, with a snug library, in which hangs a pretty oil painting of Tyana, a picturesque country near Barcelona, of which he is archbishop. From him, and from the venerable Monsignor S----, bishop of Daulia, she obtained certain letters of introduction to prelates and convents, which were invaluable in her future tour, and procured for her a kind and courteous welcome wherever she went.

The following morning, after a five o'clock mass in the beautiful little chapel of the sisters of charity, our travellers started for Toledo by rail, passing by the Aranjuez, the "Sans-Souci" of the Spanish queen, where all the trees in Castile seem to be collected for her special benefit, and where the sight of the green avenues and fountains is a real refreshment after the barren and arid features of the rest of the country.

Toledo is a most curious and beautiful old town, built on seven hills, like Rome. The approach to it is by a picturesque bridge over the Tagus, which rushes through a rent in the granite mountains like a vigorous Scotch salmon-river, and encircles the walls of the ancient city as with a girdle. Passing under a fine old Moorish horse-shoe arched gateway, a modern zigzag road leads up the steep incline to the "plaza," out of which diverge a multitude of narrow tortuous streets, like what in Edinburgh are called "wynds," as painful to walk upon as the streets of Jerusalem. However, after a vain attempt to continue in the Noah's Ark of an omnibus which had brought them up the steep hill from the station, and which grazed the walls of the houses on each side from its width, our travellers were compelled to brave the slippery stones and proceed on foot. The little inn is as primitive as all else in this quaint old town, where everything seems to have stood still for the last five centuries. Leaving their cloaks in the only available place dignified by the name of "Sala," and swallowing with difficulty some very nasty coffee, they started off at once for the cathedral, which stands in the heart of the city, surrounded by convents and colleges, and with the archiepiscopal palace on the right. {742} It is a marvel of Gothic beauty and perfection. Originally a mosque, it was rebuilt by Ferdinand, and converted by him into a Christian church, being finished in 1490. In no part of the world can anything be seen more unique, more beautiful, or more effective than the white marble screen, with its row of white angels with half-folded wings, guarding the sanctuary of the high altar, and standing out sharp and clear against the magnificent dark background formed by the arched naves and matchless painted glass, which, in depth and brilliancy of color and beauty of design, exceeds even that of Seville. "Shall you ever forget the blue eyes of those rose-windows at Toledo?" exclaimed, months after, Dr.---- to one of the party, who was dwelling with him on the wonderful beauties of this matchless temple. [Footnote 249]

[Footnote 249: Incredible as it may seem, the guide-books state that there are no less than 750 stained glass windows in this cathedral.]

The choir is exquisitely carved, both above and below; the stalls divided by red marble columns. Of the seventy stalls, half are carved by Vigarny and half by Berruguete: each figure of each saint is a study in itself. The high altar is a perfect marvel of workmanship, the "reredos" or "retablo" representing the whole life and passion of our Lord. At the back is the wonderful marble "trasparente," which Ford calls an "abomination of the seventeenth century," but which, when the sun shines through it, is a marvel for effect of color and delicacy of workmanship. The Moorish altar still remains at which Ferdinand and Isabella heard mass after their conquest of the Saracens; and close to this altar is the spot pointed out by tradition as the one where the virgin appeared to St. Ildefonso and placed the chasuble on his shoulders. It is veiled off, with this inscription on the pillar above:

Adorabimus in loco ubi steterunt pedes ejus.

The fine bas-relief representing the miracle was executed by Vigarny. Fragments of Saracenic art peep out everywhere, especially in the Sala Capitular, or chapter-room, of which the doorway is an exquisite specimen of the finest Moorish work, and the ceiling likewise. In this chapter-room are two admirable portraits of Cardinal Ximenes and Cardinal Mendoza, said to have been taken from life. The monuments in the side chapels are very fine, especially one of St. Ildefonso, whose body had been carried by the the Moors to Zamora, and was there discovered by a shepherd, and brought back again; of Cardinal Mendoza; of the Constable Alvaro de Luna; and of several Spanish kings. Here also rests the body of St. Leocadia, martyred in the persecution under Diocletian, and to whom three churches in Toledo are dedicated. During the wars with the Moors, her body was removed to Italy, and thence to Mons; but was brought back by Philip II. to her native city, and is now in an urn in the sacristy. At the west end of the cathedral is a very curious chapel, where the Muzarabic ritual is still used. This appears to be to the Spaniards what the Ambrosian is to the Milanese, and was established by Cardinal Ximenes. The sacristy is a real treasure-house, containing an exquisite tabernacle of gold brought by Christopher Columbus, incensories, chalices, crosses, and reliquaries, in gold and enamel, and "cristal de roche," (some given by Louis of France,) and the missal of St. Louis, of which the illuminations are as fine as any in the Vatican. The robes, mantles, and ornaments of the Virgin are encrusted with pearls and jewels. Cardinal Mendoza removed one side of the marble screen of the high altar to make room for his own monument. In contrast to this, is another archbishop's tomb, near the altar of the miraculous Virgin. They wanted to give him a fine carved sepulchre, and were discussing it in his presence a short time before his death. {743} He insisted on a simple slab, with the following words:

"Hic jacet pulvis, cinis, nullus."

Close to the bénitière at the south entrance, is a little marble slab attached to the pillar, and on it a little soft leather cushion, which had excited the curiosity of one of our party on entering. On returning for vespers, she found laid on it a fine little baby, beautifully dressed, with a medal round its neck, but quite dead! One of the canons explained to her that when the parents were too poor to pay the expenses of their children's funerals, they brought the little bodies in this way for interment by the chapter. The cloisters to the north of the cathedral are very lofty and fine, and decorated with frescoes; and the doors with their magnificent bronze bas-reliefs, in the style of the Florence baptistery, and gloriously carved portals, are on a par with all the rest. The "Puerta del Perdon," and the "Puerta de los Leones," especially, are unique in their gorgeous details, and in the great beauty and life-like expression of the figures.

The chapter library is in good order, and contains some very fine editions of Greek and Latin works: a Bible belonging to St. Isidore; the works of St. Gregory; a fine illuminated Bible given by St. Louis; a missal of Charles V.; a fine Talmud and Koran; and some very interesting MSS. In the ante-room are some good pictures.

The palace of the archbishop is exactly opposite the west front of the cathedral. No one has played a more important part in the history of his country of late years than the present Archbishop of Toledo. High in the favor and counsels of the queen, he at one time determined, for political reasons, to leave Spain and settle himself in Italy, but was recalled by the voice of both queen and people, and remains, beloved and honored by all; and although upward of eighty years of age, and rather deaf, is still a perfect lion of intellectual and physical strength. He received our travellers most kindly, and in a fatherly manner invited them to breakfast, and afterward to be present at a private confirmation in the little chapel of his palace, at which ceremony they gladly assisted. He afterward sent his secretary, a most clever and agreeable person, who spoke Italian with fluency, to show the ladies the convent of Sta. Teresa, situated in the lower part of the town. This convent was started, like all the rest of the saint's foundations, amidst discouragements and difficulties of all kinds. The house which had been promised her before her arrival was refused through the intrigues of a relative of the donor; then the vicar-general withdrew his license; and St. Theresa began to fear that she would have to leave Toledo without accomplishing her object. Through the intervention of a poor man, however, she at last heard of a tiny lodging where she and her sisters could be received. It was a very humble place, and there was but one room in it which could be turned into a chapel; but that was duly prepared for mass, and dedicated to St. Joseph. Poor and meagre as the sanctuary was, it struck a little child who was passing by, by its bright and cared-for appearance, and she exclaimed: "Blessed be God! how beautiful and clean it looks!" St. Theresa said directly to her sisters: "I account myself well repaid for all the troubles which have attended this foundation by that little angel's one 'Glory to God.'"

Afterward, all difficulties were smoothed; a larger house was built; and the poor Carmelites, from being despised and rejected by all, and in want of the commonest necessaries of life, were overwhelmed with supplies of all kinds, so that one of them, in sorrow, exclaimed to St. Theresa: "What are we to do, Mother? for now it seems that we are no longer poor!"

{744}

It was this very house which our travellers now visited, and a far cheerier and brighter one it is than that of Seville. It contains twenty-four sisters: among their treasures are the MS. copy of St. Theresa's Way of Perfection, corrected by the saint herself, and with a short preface written in her own hand; a quantity of her autograph letters; a long letter from Sister Ann of St. Bartholomew; St. Theresa's seal, of which the ladies were given an impression; the habit she had worn in the house, etc., etc. But the most curious thing was the picture, painted by desire of the saint, of the death of one of the community. We will tell the story in her own words: "One of our sisters fell dangerously ill, and I went to pray for her before the Blessed Sacrament, beseeching our Lord to give her a happy death. I then came back to her cell to stay with her, and on my entrance distinctly saw a figure like the representations of our Lord, at the bed's head, with His arms outspread as if protecting her, and he said to me: 'Be assured that in like manner I will protect all the nuns who shall die in these monasteries, so that they shall not fear any temptation at the hour of death.' A short time after, I spoke to her, when she said to me: 'Mother, what great things I am about to see!' and with these words she expired, like an angel." St. Theresa had this subject represented in a fresco, which is still on the wall of the cell. Here also she completed the narrative of her life, now in the Escurial, by command of Padre Ibañez, and here is her breviary, with the words (which we will give in English) written by herself on the fly-leaf:

"Let nothing disturb thee; Let nothing affright thee; All passeth away; God only shall stay. Patience wins all. Who hath God needeth nothing. For God is his All."

Leaving this interesting convent, our travellers proceeded to San Juan de los Reyes, so called because built by Ferdinand and Isabella, and dedicated to St. John. It was a magnificent Gothic building; but the only thing in the church spared by the French are two exquisite "palcos" or balconies overlooking the high altar, in the finest Gothic carving, from whence Ferdinand and Isabella used to hear mass: their ciphers are beautifully wrought in stone underneath. Outside this church hang the chains which were taken off the Christian prisoners when they were released from the Moors. Adjoining is the convent, now deserted, and the palace of Cardinal Ximenes, of which the staircase and one long low room alone remain. But the gem of the whole are the cloisters. Never was anything half so beautiful or so delicate as the Moorish tracery and exquisite patterns of grape-vine, thistle, and acanthus, carved round each quaint-shaped arch and window and door-way. Festoons of real passion flowers, in full bloom, hung over the arches from the "patio" in the centre, in which a few fine cypresses and pomegranates were also growing, the dark foliage standing out against the bright blue sky overhead, and beautifully contrasting with the delicate white marble tracery of this exquisite double cloister. It is a place where an artist might revel for a month.

Their guide then took them to see the synagogues, now converted into Christian churches, but originally mosques. Exquisite Saracenic carvings remain on the walls and roofs, with fine old Moorish capitals to the pillars, of their favorite pine apple pattern, and beautiful colored "azulejos" (tiles) on the floors and seats. Several of the private houses which they afterward visited at Toledo might literally have been taken up at Damascus and set down in this quaint old Spanish town, so identical are they in design, in decorations, and in general character. The nails on the doors are specially quaint, mostly of the shape of big mushrooms, and the knockers are also wonderful. Could the fashion, once in vogue among "fast" men in England, of wrenching such articles from the doors, be introduced into Spain, what art treasures one could get! but scarcely anything of the sort is to be bought in Toledo. {745} After trying in vain to swallow some of the food prepared for them at the "fonda," in which it was hard to say whether garlic or rancid oil most predominated, our travellers toiled again in the burning sun up the steep hill leading to the Alcazar, the ancient palace, now a ruin, but still retaining its fine old staircase and court-yard with very ancient Roman pillars. From hence there is a beautiful view of the town, of the Tagus flowing round it, and of the picturesque one-arched bridge which spans the river in the approach from Madrid, with the ruins of the older Roman bridge and forts below. The Tagus here rushes down a rapid with a fine fall, looking like a salmon-leap, where there ought to be first-rate pools and beautiful fishing; and then flows swiftly and silently along through a grand gorge of rocks to the left. By the river-side was the Turkish water-wheel, or "sakeel," worked by mules. The whole thing was thoroughly Eastern; and the red, barren, arid look of the rocks and of the whole surrounding country reminded one more of Syria than of anything European. Our travellers were leaning over the parapet of the little terrace-garden, looking on this glorious view, when a group of women who were sitting in the sun near the palace-gates called to their guide, and asked if the lady of the party were an Englishwoman, "as she walked so fast." The guide replied in the affirmative. One of them answered, "O! qué peccado! (what a pity!) I liked her face, and _yet she is an infidel_." The guide indignantly pointed to a little crucifix which hung on a rosary by the lady's side, at which the speaker, springing from her seat, impulsively kissed both the cross and the lady. This is only a specimen of the faith of these people, who cannot understand anything Christian that is not Catholic, and confound all Protestants with Jews or Moors.

Going down the hill, stopping only for a few moments at a curiosity shop where, however, nothing really old could be obtained--they came to the Church of La Cruz, built on the site of the martyrdom of St. Leocadia. It is now turned into a military college; but the magnificent Gothic portal and facade remain. The streets are as narrow and dirty in this part of the town as in the filthiest eastern city; but at every turn there is a beautiful doorway, as at Cairo, through which you peep into a cool "patio," with its usual fountain and orange-trees; while a double cloister runs round the quadrangle, and generally a picturesque side staircase, with a beautifully carved balustrade, leading up to the cloisters above, with their delicate tracery and varied arches. The beauty of the towers and "campanile" is also very striking. They are generally thoroughly Roman in their character, being built of that narrow brick (or rather tile) so common for the purpose in Italy, but with the horse-shoe arch: that of S. Romano is the most perfect. There is also a lovely little mosque, with a well in the court-yard near the entrance, which has now been converted into a church under the title of "Sta. Cruz de la Luz," with a wonderful intersection of horse-shoe arches, like a miniature of the cathedral at Cordova. Toledo certainly does not lack churches or convents; but those who served and prayed in them, where are they? The terrible want of instruction for the people, caused by the closing of all the male religious houses, which were the centre of all missionary work, is felt throughout Spain; but nowhere more than in this grand old town, which is absolutely _dead_. The children are neglected, the poor without a friend, the widow and orphan are desolate, and all seek in vain for a helper or a guide.

On the opposite side of the Tagus, and not far from the railway station, are the ruins of a curious old chateau, to which a legend is attached, so characteristic of the tone of thought of the people that it is given verbatim here. [Footnote 250]

[Footnote 250: This legend has been translated by Fernan Caballero, in her Fleurs des Champs.]

{746}

"The owner had been a bad and tyrannical man, hard and unjust to his people, selfish in his vices as in his pleasures; the only redeeming point about him was his great love for his wife, a pious, gentle, loving woman, who spent her days and nights in deploring the orgies of her husband, and praying for God's mercy on his crimes. One winter's night, in the midst of a terrible tempest, a knocking was heard at the castle door, and presently a servant came in and told his mistress that two monks, half dead with cold and hunger, and drenched by the pitiless storm, had lost their way, and were begging for a night's lodging in the castle. The poor lady did not know what to do, for her husband hated the monks, and swore that none should ever cross his threshold. 'The count will know nothing about it, my lady,' said the old servant, who guessed the reason of her hesitation; 'I will conceal them somewhere in the stable, and they will depart at break of day.' The lady gave a joyful assent to the servant's proposal, and the monks were admitted. Scarcely, however, had they entered, when the sound of a huntsman's horn, the tramping of horses, and the barking of dogs, announced the return of the master. The sport had been good; and when he had changed his soiled and dripping clothes, and found himself, with his pretty wife seated opposite him, by a blazing fire, and with a well-covered table, his good humor made him almost tender toward her. 'What is the matter?' he exclaimed, when he saw her sad and downcast face. 'Were you frightened at the storm? yet you see I am come home safe and sound.' She did not answer. 'Tell me what vexes you; I insist upon it,' he continued; 'and it shall not be my fault I do not brighten that little face I love so well!' Thus encouraged the lady replied: 'I am sad, because, while we are enjoying every luxury and comfort here, others whom I know, even under this very roof, are perishing with cold and hunger.' 'But who are they?' exclaimed the count, with some impatience. 'Two poor monks,' answered the lady bravely, 'who came here for shelter, and have been put in the stable without food or firing.' The count frowned. 'Monks! Have I not told you fifty times I would never have those idle pestilent fellows in my house?' He rang the bell. 'For God's sake do not turn them out [on] such a night as this!' exclaimed the countess. 'Don't be afraid, I will keep my word,' replied her husband; and so saying, he desired the servant to bring them directly into the dining-room. They appeared; and the venerable, saint-like appearance of the elder of the two priests checked the raillery on the lips of the count. He made them sit down at his table; but the religious, faithful to his mission, would not eat till he had spoken some of God's words to his host. After supper, to his wife's joy and surprise, the count conducted the monks himself to the rooms he had prepared for them, which were the best in the house; but they refused to sleep on anything but straw. The count then himself went and fetched a truss of hay, and laid it on the floor. Then suddenly breaking silence, he exclaimed: 'Father, I would return as a prodigal son to my Father's house; but I feel as if it were impossible that he should forgive sins like mine.' 'Were your sins as numberless as the grains of sand on the sea-shore,' replied the missionary,' faithful repentance, through the blood of Christ, would wash them out. Therefore it is that the hardened sinner will have no excuse in the last day.' Seized with sudden compunction, the count fell on his knees, and made a full confession of his whole life, his tears falling on the straw he had brought. A few hours later the missionary, in a dream, saw himself, as it were, carried before the tribunal of the Great Judge. In the scales of eternal justice a soul was to be weighed: it was that of the count. Satan, triumphant, placed in the scales the countless sins of his past life: the good angels veiled their faces in sorrow, and pity, and shame. Then came up his guardian angel, that spirit so patient and so watchful, so beautiful and so good, who brings tears to our eyes and repentance to our hearts, alms to our hands and prayers to our lips. {747} He brought but a few bits of straw, wet with tears, and placed them in the opposite scale. Strange! _they weighed down all the rest_. The soul was saved. The next morning, the monk, on waking, found the castle in confusion and sorrow. He inquired the reason: its master had died in the night."

Zaragoza And Segovia.

The following morning found our travellers again in Madrid, and one of them accompanied the sisters of charity to a beautiful fète at San Juan de Alarçon, a convent of nuns. The rest of the day was spent in the museum; and at half-past eight in the evening they started again by train for Zaragoza, which they reached at six in the morning. One of the great annoyances of Spanish travelling is, that the only good and quick trains go at night; and it is the same with the diligences. In very hot weather it may be pleasant; but in winter and in rain it is a very wretched proceeding to spend half your night in an uncomfortable carriage, and the other half waiting, perhaps for hours, at some miserable wayside station. After breakfasting in a hotel where nothing was either eatable or drinkable, our party started for the two cathedrals. The one called the "Seu" is a fine gloomy old Gothic building, with a magnificent "retablo," in very fine carving, over the high altar, and what the people call a "media naranja" (or half-orange) dome, which is rather like the clerestory lantern of Burgos. In the sacristy was a beautiful ostensorium, with an emerald and pearl cross, a magnificent silver tabernacle of cinquecento work, another ostensorium encrusted with diamonds, a nacre "nef," and some fine heads of saints, in silver, with enamel collars. But at the sister cathedral, where is the famous _Virgen del Pilar_, the treasury is quite priceless. The most exquisite reliquaries in pearls, precious stones, and enamel; magnificent necklaces; earrings with gigantic pearls; coronets of diamonds; lockets; pictures set in precious stones; everything which is most valuable and beautiful, has been lavished on this shrine. In the outside sacristy is also an exquisite chalice, in gold and enamel, of the fifteenth century; and a very fine picture, said to be by Correggio, of the Ecce Homo. The shrine of the Miraculous Virgin is thronged with worshippers, day and night; but no woman is allowed to penetrate beyond the railing, so that she is very imperfectly seen. It is a _black_ figure, which is always the favorite way of representing the Blessed Virgin in Spain: the pillar is of the purest alabaster. There is some fine "azulejo" work in the sacristy; but the cathedral itself is ugly, and is being restored in a bad style. Our party left it rather with relief, and wandered down to the fine old bridge over the Ebro, which is here a broad and rapid stream, and amused themselves by watching the boats shooting through the piers--an operation of some danger, owing to the rapidity of the current. There is a beautiful leaning tower of old Moorish and Roman brickwork, in a side street, but which you are not allowed to ascend without a special order from the prefect. The Lonja, or Exchange, is also well worth seeing, from its beautiful deep overhanging roof. This is, in fact, the characteristic of all the old houses in Zaragoza, which is a quaint old town formed of a succession of narrow tortuous streets, with curious old roofs, "patios," columns, and staircases. After having some luncheon, which was more eatable than the breakfast, our travellers took a drive outside the town, and had a beautiful view of the lower spur of the Pyrenees on the one hand, and of the towers, bridges, and minarets of the city on the other. Then they went to the public gardens, laid out by Pignatelli, the maker of the canal, which are the resort of all the people on fête-days: they were very gay, and full of beautiful flowers. {748} From thence they drove to the castle, or "Aljaferia," where there is a very curious moresque chapel still existing, though sadly in ruins. Above are the rooms occupied by Ferdinand and Isabella, and the apartment where St. Elizabeth of Portugal was born, with the font where she was baptized. The hall of the ambassadors is very handsome, with a glorious moresque roof, and a gallery round. The castle is now turned into a barrack; but the officers, who, with true Spanish courtesy, had accompanied the priest who was showing the rooms to our travellers, _had never seen them before themselves_. How long they had been quartered there none of our party had the courage to ask! But this is a specimen of the very little interest which appears to be taken by the Spaniards in the antiquities or art treasures of their country. Not one of them was ever to be seen in the matchless gallery of Madrid. Coming home, they visited San Pablo, a curious and beautiful subterranean church, into which you descend by a flight of steps. A service was going on, and an eloquent sermon, so that it was impossible to see the pictures well; but they appeared to be above the average. This church has a glorious tower in old Roman brickwork. The palace of the Infanta has been converted into a school. It is the most perfect specimen of the Renaissance style of Gothic architecture, with beautiful arches, columns, staircase, and fretted roof. Exhausted with their sight-seeing, our travellers went back to their inn; agreeably surprised, however, at the vestiges of ancient beauty still left in Zaragoza, after the frightful sieges and sacking to which the city has twice been subjected.

In the evening, the Canon de V----, who had been their kind cicerone at the cathedral in the absence of the bishop, came to pay them a visit, and gave them a very interesting account of the people, and a great deal of information about the convents and religious houses in the place, especially that of the Ursulines, who have a very large educational establishment in the town. He has lately written a very interesting account of the foundress of this order.

The return to Madrid was necessarily accomplished again by night; and jaded and tired as they were the following day, our party had not the courage for any fresh expedition. One only visit was paid, which will ever remain in the memory of the lady who had the privilege. It was to Monsignor Claret, the confessor of the queen and Archbishop of Cuba, a man as remarkable for his great personal holiness and ascetic life as for the unjust accusations of which he is continually the object. On one occasion, these unfavorable reports having reached his ears, and being only anxious to retire into the obscurity which his humility makes him love so well, he went to Rome to implore for a release from his present post; but it was refused him. Returning through France, he happened to travel with certain gentlemen, residents in Madrid, but unknown to him, as he was to them, who began to speak of all the evils, real or imaginary, which reigned in the Spanish Court, the whole of which they unhesitatingly attributed to Monsignor Claret, very much in the spirit of the old ballad against Sir Robert Peel:

"Who filled the butchers' shops with big blue flies?"

He listened without a word, never attempting either excuse or justification, or betraying his identity. Struck with his saint-like manner and appearance, and likewise very much charmed with his conversation during their couple of days' journey together, the strangers begged, at parting, to know his name, expressing an earnest hope of an increased acquaintance at Madrid. He gave them his card with a smile! Let us hope they will be less hasty and more charitable in their judgments for the future. Monsignor Claret's room in Madrid is a fair type of himself. Simple even to severity in its fittings, with no furniture but his books, and some photographs of the queen and her children, it contains one only priceless object, and that is a wooden crucifix, of the very finest Spanish workmanship, which attracted at once the attention of his visitor. {749} "Yes, it is very beautiful," he replied, in answer to her words of admiration; "and I like it because it expresses so wonderfully _victory over suffering_. Crucifixes generally represent only the painful and human, not the triumphant and Divine view of the Redemption. Here, He is truly Victor over death and hell."

Contrary to the generally received idea, he never meddles in politics, and occupies himself entirely in devotional and literary works. One of his books, Camino recto y seguro para llegar al Cielo, would rank with Thomas à Kempis's Imitation in suggestive and practical devotion. He keeps a perpetual fast; and when compelled by his position to dine at the palace, still keeps to his meagre fare of "garbanzos," or the like. He has a great gift of preaching; and when he accompanies the queen in any of her royal progresses, is generally met at each town when they arrive by earnest petitions to preach, which he does instantly, without rest or apparent preparation, sometimes delivering four or five sermons in one day. In truth, he is always "prepared," by a hidden life of perpetual prayer and realization of the Unseen.

After taking leave of him and the Nunzio, and of the many other kind friends who had made their stay at Madrid so pleasant, our travellers started at eight o'clock in the evening for Villa Alba, where they were to take the diligence for Segovia. The night was clear and beautiful, and the scenery through which they passed was finer than any they had seen in Spain. At dawn they came almost suddenly on this most quaint and picturesque of cities, standing on a rocky knoll more than 3,000 feet above the sea, encircled by a rapid river, and with the most magnificent aqueduct, built by Trajan to convoy the pure water of the river Frio from the neighboring sierra to the town. This aqueduct commences with single arches, which rise higher as the dip of the ground deepens, until they become double. The centre ones are 102 feet high, and the whole is built of massive blocks of granite, without cement or mortar. A succession of picturesque towers and ancient walls remain to mark the boundaries of the old Roman city.

The diligence unceremoniously turned our travellers out into the street at the bottom of the town, and left them to find their way as best they could to the little "fonda" in the square above. It was very clean and tidy, with the box-beds opening out of the sitting-rooms, which are universal in the old-fashioned inns of Spain, and always remind one of a Highland bothie. The daughter of the house showed off her white linen with great pride, and was rather affronted because two of the party preferred going to church to trying her sheets, stoutly declaring that "no one was yet awake, and no mass could yet be obtained." However, on leaving her, and gently pushing open one of the low side-doors of the cathedral close by, the ladies found that the five o'clock services had begun at most of the altars, with a very fair sprinkling of peasants at each. The circular triple apse at the east end of this cathedral, from the warm color of the stone, and the beauty of its flying buttresses and Gothic pinnacles, is deservedly reckoned one of the finest in Spain. The tower also is beautiful; and the view from the cupola over the city, the fertile valleys beneath, and the snow-tipped mountains beyond, is quite unrivalled. The interior has been a good deal spoiled by modern innovations, but still contains some glorious painted glass, a very fine "retablo" by Juni of the "Deposition from the Cross," and some curious monuments, especially one of the Infanta Don Pedro, son of Henry II.. who was killed by being let fall from the window of the Alcazar by his nurse. The Gothic cloisters are also worth seeing. After service, as it was still very early, the two ladies wandered about this beautiful quaint old town, in which every house is a study for a painter, and found themselves at last at the Alameda, a public promenade on the ramparts, shaded by fine acacias, and the approach to which, on the cathedral side, is through a beautiful Moorish horse-shoe arched gateway. {750} From thence some stone steps led them up to a most curious old Norman church, with an open cloister running round it, with beautiful circular arches and dog-toothed mouldings; opposite is a kind of Hôtel de Ville, with a fine gateway, cloistered "patio," and staircase carved "à jour." In a narrow street, a little lower down, is the exquisite Gothic façade of the Casa de Segovia, and turning to the left is another curious and beautiful church, La Vera Cruz, built by the Templars, and with a little chapel in it on the exact model of that of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. The zigzag and billet dog-tooth mouldings round the windows and doorways are very fine. A little higher up is the Parral, a deserted convent, with a beautiful church, richly carved portal and choir, fine monuments, cloisters, and gardens: the latter had such a reputation that they give rise to the saying, "Las huertas del Parral, paraiso terrenal." Fairly tired out with sight-seeing before breakfast, the ladies climbed up again to the Plaza de la Constitucion, which was like the square of an old German town, having endlessly varied and colored houses with high roofs; and were glad to find the rest of the party awake at last, and sitting round a table with the invariably good chocolate and white bread of the country. The meal over, one of the ladies started off with a little boy as her guide, to present her letters of introduction to the bishop, who lived in a picturesque old palace in the Plaza of San Esteban, the fine church opposite, with its beautiful tower, Saxon arches, and open cloister, being dedicated to that saint. He received his visitor with great good nature, and instantly countersigned the Nunzio's order for her to visit the Carmelite convent of Sta. Teresa, sending his vicar-general to accompany her. This house is the original one purchased for the saint, in 1574, by Dona Ana de Ximenes, who was the first lady to receive the habit in Segovia. It is dedicated to St. Joseph, and the first mass was said in it by St. John of the Cross. The nuns maintain the reformed rule in all its austerity. They showed their visitor the saint's cell, now converted into an oratory, and also the room of St. John of the Cross, whose convent is in the valley below, just outside the walls of the town. There his body rests--that body still uncorrupted, of one of whom it has been truly said that he was a "cherub in wisdom and a seraph in love." On the door of his cell is his favorite sentence:

Pati et contemni pro Te!

This convent is rich both in his letters and in those of St. Theresa. Here it was that the saint received the news of the death of her favorite brother, Laurence de Cepeda. She was quietly at work during recreation when he appeared to her; the saint, without uttering a word, put down her work and hastened to the choir to commend the departed spirit to our Lord. She had no sooner knelt before the blessed sacrament than an expression of intense peace and joy came over her face. Her sisters asked her the reason, and she told them that our Lord had then revealed to her the assurance that her brother was in heaven. His sudden death occurred at the very moment when he had appeared to her in the recreation room. Over the door of her oratory are the words, "Seek the cross," "Desire the cross;" and a little farther on, "Let us teach more by works than by words." After spending two or three hours with the sisters, the English lady was compelled reluctantly to leave them and return to her party, who were waiting for her to go with them to the Alcazar.

This palace, originally Moorish, was rebuilt by Henry IV. in the fifteenth century. It was the favorite residence of Isabella of Castile, and from thence, on the occasion of a revolution, she rode out alone, and "by her sweetness of countenance more than by her majesty," as the old chronicle says, "won over the people to return to their allegiance." {751} Our King Charles I. lodged here also, and is recorded to have supped on certain "troutes of extraordinary greatness," doubtless from the beautiful stream below. At the time of the French invasion the Alcazar was turned into a military college, and these wretched students, in a freak of boyish folly, set fire to a portion of one of the rooms two years ago. The fire spread; and all that is now left of this matchless palace is a ruined shell, the façade, the beautiful Moorish towers and battlements, one or two sculptured arabesque ceilings, and the portcullised gateway, each and all testifying to its former greatness and splendor. Its position, perched on a steep plateau forming the western extremity of the town, is quite magnificent, and the views from the windows are glorious. Our travellers staid a long time sitting under the shade of the orange-trees in the battlemented court below, enjoying the glorious panorama at their feet, and watching the setting sun as it lit up the tips of the snowy sierra which forms the background of this grand landscape; while the beautiful river Eresma flowed swiftly round the old walls, its banks occupied at that moment by groups of washerwomen in their bright picturesque dresses, singing in parts the national songs of their country. In the valley below were scattered homesteads and convents, and a group of cypresses marking the spot where, according to the legend, Maria del Salto alighted. This girl was a Jewess by birth, but secretly a Christian; and having thereby excited the anger and suspicions of her family, was accused by them of adultery, and condemned, according to the barbarous practice of those times, to be thrown from the top of the Alcazar rock. By her faith she was miraculously preserved from injury, and reached the ground in safety; a church was built on the spot, of which the "retablo" tells the tale.

Segovia is famous for its flocks, and for the beauty of its wool: the water of the Eresma is supposed to be admirable for washing and shearing.

Our travellers now began to think of pursuing their journey to Avila; but that was not so easy. The diligence which had brought them flatly refused to convey them back till the following night, except at a price so exorbitant that it was impossible to give it. And here, as everywhere else in Spain, you have no redress. There are no carriages whatever for hire, except in the two or three large capitals, like Madrid and Seville; and even should carriages be found, there are no horses or mules to draw them--or, at any rate, none that they choose to let out for the purpose. Such as they are, they are always reserved for the diligence; and if the latter should happen to be full, the unhappy passengers may wait for days at a wayside "posada" until their turn comes. Therefore, it is absolutely necessary in Spain to write and make the contract for places beforehand: and to be hard-hearted when the time comes, as it almost invariably happens that you leave behind certain luckless travellers who have not adopted a similar precaution; and the struggle for seats, and consequent overcrowding of the carriages, are renewed at every station. Making a virtue of necessity, our travellers at last made up their minds to another miserable diligence night out of bed--the fatigue of which must be felt to be thoroughly sympathized with--and spent the intervening hours of the evening in dining, and then going to a religious play, which they had seen advertised in the morning, and which was a very curious exhibition of popular taste and religious feeling. The little theatre was really very clean and tidy, and there was nothing approaching to irreverence in the representations given. A similar scene in a very different place recurred to the memory of one of the party, as having been witnessed by her in Paris, some years ago, when on a certain occasion she accompanied a somewhat stiff puritanical old lady to the opera. {752} A ballet was given as an entr'acte, in which the scenery was taken from the book of Genesis, and Noah and his sons appeared just coming out of the Ark. This was too much for the good lady: "If Noah either dances or sings," she exclaimed, "I'll leave the house!" The poor Segovians, trained in a different school, saw nothing incongruous in the representation of the shepherds, and the wise men, and the cave of Bethlehem: and only one comical incident occurred, when, on a child in the pit setting up a squeal, there was a universal cry of _Where's Herod?_ At ten o'clock they left their play, with its quiet and respectable little audience, and once more found themselves tightly stowed in their diligence prison for the night. The moon, however, was bright and beautiful, and enabled them to see the royal hunting-box and woods, and the rest of the fine scenery through which they passed, so that the journey was far less intolerable than usual, as is often the case when a thing has been much dreaded beforehand. At four o'clock in the morning they were turned out, shivering with cold, at a wayside station, where they were to take the train to Avila; but were then told, to their dismay, by a sleepy porter, that the six o'clock train had been taken off, and that there would be none till ten the next morning, so that all hopes of arriving at Avila in time for church (and this was Sunday) were at an end. The station had no waiting-room, only a kind of corridor with two hard benches. Establishing the children on these for the moment with plaids and shawls, one of the party went off to some cottages at a little distance off, and asked in one of them if there were no means of getting a bedroom and some chocolate? A very civil woman got up and volunteered both; so the tired ones of the party were able to lie down for a few hours' rest in two wonderfully clean little rooms, while their breakfast was preparing. The question now arose for the others: "Was there no church anywhere near?" It was answered by the people of the place in the negative. "The station was new; the cottages had been run up for the accommodation of the porters and people engaged on the line; there was no village within a league or two." Determined, however, not to be baffled, one of the party inquired of another man, who was sleepily driving his bullocks into a neighboring field, and he replied "that over the mountains to the left there was a village and a curé; but that it was a long way off, and that he only went on great "festas." It was now quite light; the lady was strong and well; and so she determined to make the attempt to find the church. Following the track pointed out to her by her informant, she came to a wild and beautiful mountain path, intersected by bright rushing streams, crossed by stepping stones, the ground perfectly carpeted with wild narcissus and other spring flowers. Here and there she met a peasant tending his flocks of goats, and always the courteous greeting of "Vaya Usted con Dios!" or "Dios guarde á Usted!" as heartily given as returned. At last, on rounding a corner of the mountain, she came on a beautiful view, with the Escurial in the distance to the left; and to the right, embosomed, as it were, in a little nest among the hills, a picturesque village, with its church-tower and rushing stream and flowering fruit-trees, toward which the path evidently led. This sight gave her fresh courage; for the night journey and long walk, undertaken fasting, had nearly spent her strength. Descending the hill rapidly, she reached the village green just as the clock was striking six, and found a group of peasants, both men and women, sitting on the steps of the picturesque stone cross in the centre, opposite the church, waiting for the curé to come out of his neat little house close by to say the first mass. The arrival of the lady caused some astonishment; but, with the inborn courtesy of the people, one after the other rose and came forward, not only to greet her, but to offer her chocolate and bread. {753} She explained that she had come for communion, and would go into the church. The old white-haired clerk ran into the house to hasten the curé, and soon a kind and venerable old man made his appearance, and asked her if she wished to see him first in the confessional. He could scarcely believe she had been in Segovia only the night before! Finding that she was hurried to return and catch the train, he instantly gave her both mass and communion, and then sent his housekeeper to invite her to breakfast, as did one after the other of the villagers. Escaping from their hospitality with some difficulty, on the plea of the shortness of the time and the length of the way back, the English lady accepted a little loaf, for which no sort of payment would be heard of, and walked with a light heart back to the station, feeling how close is the religious tie which binds Catholics together as one family, and how beautiful is the hearty, simple hospitality of the Spanish people when untainted by contact with modern innovations and so-called progress. There was no occasion when this natural, high-bred courtesy was not shown during the four months that our travellers spent in this country; and those who, like the author of Over the Pyrenees into Spain, find fault on every occasion with the manners of the people, must either have been ignorant of their language and customs, or, having no sympathy with their faith, have wounded their susceptibilities, and to a certain degree justified the rudeness of which they pretend to have been the victims.

Original.

Beams.

"Why seest thou the mote in thy brother's eye, but the beam that is in thine own eye thou considerest not?"

Disciple.

"How's this! And hath my brother ne'er a beam That may be plucked from out his eye? And are my brother's beams all motes, And none have beams but I?"

Master.

"E'en so, For beams enough there be, I trow; And who will claim them, if not thou?"

Disciple.

"'Tis well! I'll claim mine own. (Methinks it has of late much larger grown.)"

Master.

"Suffices it, if thou wilt claim but one. Then shall thy brother, in thy sight, have none. For beams do so prevent pride's selfish view That, if thy brother's beam did weigh a ton, It would appear the smallest mote to you."

{754}

Early Rising. [Footnote 251]

[Footnote 251: This article is translated from the Conferences Destinées aux Femmes du Monde, par Mgr. Landriot.]

"De Nocte Surrexit."

Sleep was given man to sustain life, to invigorate his strength, and to serve him as the best and most useful of medicines; one single prescription perfectly accomplished sometimes sufficing for the cure of serious disease, or, at least, the amelioration of violent pain. Sleep is the salutary bath that renovates life, the entire being growing younger under its influence; it is a station in the desert of this world; and often, after dull and wearying journeys, one comes to repose in this oasis prepared by divine Providence, enabled the next day to pursue the route with renewed courage and activity. The time of sleep is not only useful to the body, but the soul: it calms all agitation, spreads a balm over piercing grief, and hinders the precipitation of words and actions. Thus the ancients designated night the good counsellor; those even whom passion or bodily infirmity keep awake are subservient to her designs, and, in the calm which, through shade, she diffuses everywhere, she recalls man to better sentiments. If he is Christian, she quickens within him the fibres of prayer; a single aspiration toward heaven sufficing sometimes to crush the bad or dangerous germs of thought, and prepare for the morrow a pure and uncloudy sky. In other times, there was so much calmness and placidity in the sleep of the just, said St. Ambrose, that it was like an ecstasy in which, while the body reposed, the soul, to speak thus, was separated from its organs, and united itself to Christ: Somnus tranquillitatem menti invehens, placiditatem animae ut tanquam soluto nexu corporis se ablevit, et Christo adhaereat. [Footnote 252]

[Footnote 252: Ep. xvi. No. 4, p. 960.]

Again, sleep is an excellent preacher, because it recalls to us the image of death: the ancients named it the brother of death, and both are sons of night. The daily arrival of sleep should make us say: "The other brother will come soon, and this time I will extend myself on my bed, never more to rise. Each visit of the night should be an invitation to prepare me for the last and solemn departure."

Sleep is, then, excellent in itself; but how greatly it may be abused; and, if we do abuse it, it will produce effects exactly contrary to those I have just enumerated; that is to say, it will weaken the body, stupefy the ideas, and that, far from refreshing and repairing life, it will prepare for it a kind of living sepulchre in which to bury it.

It is not sufficient to determine the quantity of sleep, which should be wisely regulated, without according or refusing too much to nature. We must also calculate the quality of sleep.

Now, according to general observation, the sleep from the real night to the real morning, that is to say, which is taken in the interval of nine and five or six o'clock, is the best, the most salutary, and the most favorable to health. I do not say that it is absolutely necessary to sleep all the time, I have indicated: this is merely the space designed to choose one's hours of sleep. Let us willingly admit all the exceptions necessitated by transitory relations; but, as a general thesis, it is better to retire early and rise early in the morning. It is the best, the most favorable time for the nocturnal bath we call sleep; the body better refreshes itself, the repose is more conformable to the laws of nature; therefore is it sweeter, at once lighter and more profound, and has not the heaviness which indicates an abnormal condition. {755} Sleep, prolonged too much in the morning because it has been retarded at night, has serious inconveniences. It communicates to the general system a sickly languor which becomes the habitual condition of certain temperaments. Life with them is a sort of perpetual convalescence, and never do they enjoy the most precious gift of nature, a state of health, truly and solidly established. See, on the contrary, these robust village girls; at night at an early hour they demand of their beds the repose for their tired members; in the morning they rise with the crow of the cock. In winter, the fire is lighted at dawn of day on the domestic hearth; the house-keeping is arranged, the order of the day disposed in advance, the breakfast of the laborers is ready to be served, and the sun has not yet appeared above the horizon. During the summer, these same children of the village accompany the star of day in its matutinal march; their chests dilate, and they strengthen themselves in breathing the fresh and perfumed air shed with the rays of sun, and they seem to breathe life and health. Later these same girls marry, and, if they are not imprudent, they may for many years continue an existence made up of fruitful labor, and ornamented sometimes with all the charms and freshness of a vigorous old age; for their regimen is an excellent medicine which gives them a commission of long life.

But whence, on the contrary, comes that weakness of temperament so observable in women of the world? It may be deduced from various causes, but one of the principal is the mode of life too generally adopted, especially in large cities. A part of the night is spent in _soirées_, to finish only with longer _matinées_; a portion of the day is given to sleep, and from this results a general debility of constitution, fatigue of the nervous system, a numbness of the organs, and in all an habitual and continual prostration. There may be exceptional temperaments that resist these effects; but it is incontestable, in the eyes of an impartial observer, that the loss of health, especially among women, is due in great part to the life of excess I here mention. "Prolonged night watches," said a learned man, "necessarily bring on a fatigue which bears on the brain and on the digestive and respiratory organs. And fatigue of this nature, far from favoring sleep, renders it incomplete and painful. From thence, in great measure, comes this valetudinary state which we meet with so habitually among the women of our cities; balls and _soirées_ ruin their health in advance, and it is often on youth even, but still oftener in ripe and old age, that the foolish and miserable dissipations of the world leave their sad and fatal impress." [Footnote 253]

[Footnote 253: Leçons de la Nature, nouvelle édition, par M. Desdouits, 1. 3. 188e considér, t. iii. p. 125.]

You would, then, condemn _soirées_? I pray you to remark that, if there is something to condemn, it is not I who condemns them; these are facts according to nature and the temperament of the human body. Is it not true that the health of many women of the world is weakened? No one can deny this. Is it not also true that one of the principal causes is the world's manner of organizing social relations? It is a fact of which science every day gives undeniable proof. I am far from condemning _soirées_; and perhaps you have not forgotten that, in our reunions, I applied myself some years ago to show you how religion was the friend of honest pleasures and the demands of society; on condition that they should be regulated by wisdom, and that the interests of both body and soul were faithfully managed; for so greatly does Christianity respect our bodies that we can sin in compromising one's health by serious imprudences. Merry conversations in the evening have all sorts of advantages. They divert the mind, refresh the body, bring hearts together, dissipate clouds, and bind more closely the ties of family and friendships. In a certain degree, pleasures are necessary to man. {756} I speak of innocent pleasures that virtue can admit, and those who entertain some doubt in this respect can consult the writings of the greatest theologians of the church, and especially St. Thomas. This great doctor has on this point a clearness and precision, and at the same time a reason and wisdom, at once full of reserve and condescension. The rule he establishes is to use all pleasure with moderation, according to time, place, and the circumstance of those with whom we live: _moderatè pro loco, et tempore, et congruentiâ eorum quibus convivit, (temperatus.)_ [Footnote 254]

[Footnote 254: See in particular L'Ethique et La Somme.]

"There are many people," said Fenélon, "who like to groan over everything, and weary themselves continually by encouraging a disgust for all rational amusement. For me, I avow I could not accommodate myself to such rigidity. I like something more simple; and I believe that God himself likes it much better. When diversion is innocent in itself, and is entered into according to the rules of the state wherein Providence has placed us, then I believe all required of us is to take part in it, as in God's sight and with moderation. Manners more rigid and more reserved, less complaisant and less open, only serve to give a false idea of piety to worldly people, who are already sufficiently prejudiced against it, and who believe God is only served through a sombre and mortified life." [Footnote 255]

[Footnote 255: _Avis a une Personne de la Cour_. Manuel de Piété. Ed. Dupanloup. ]

We would wish, then, that Christian societies would adopt for their maxim these beautiful words of St. Chrysostom: "Christians have the sense for delicate pleasures, but decency should preside over all." It is impossible to make more reasonable concessions to human nature, but is not religion authorized, therefore, to show herself severe to all who exceed the bounds of wisdom, conformity, and virtue, and even for all who compromise the interests of health or fortune? Would it not be possible, to return to our subject, to combine in our reunions of family and society everything for the general good and the vigorous health of actual generations? Allowing for exceptional circumstances, where one may be obliged to be up later, would it not be possible to make _soirées_ shorter, rendering them, at the same time, more agreeable and more frequent, more salutary and less compromising to health? This is the problem I propose to solve; and is it not a singular thing that here religion interposes to say to you, Think of the interests of your bodies; you sin the same by seriously neglecting them? "Hoc esset peccatum" said St. Thomas. This excess in the length of _soirées_ comes to us from paganism. In the time of Seneca they existed, and these are the terms which this philosopher used toward them: "There are people who reverse the uses of day and night. Thus, nothing looks more sad and broken-down than the appearance of such persons, who are, so to say, dedicated to the night; their color is that of sick people, they are pale and languishing, carrying a dead flesh in a living body. And this is not the only evil: their minds are surrounded by shadows apparently, benumbed, and inhabiting the clouds. Is it possible not to deplore an irregularity which banishes the light of day, and passes life in darkness and shade?" [Footnote 256]

[Footnote 256: Epist. 122.]

Sometimes I am asked, if religion were to command half the sacrifice that the world demands if it ordered a part of every night spent in fatiguing both body and soul, what would not be said against it? What anathemas, what bitter reproaches! But the world speaks, and no one says anything; we are enchanted, or, at least, appear so. St. Francis de Sales has given us, on this subject, some reflections wherein the delicate point of a pleasant malice is touched with superior reason, and I should reproach myself did I not present them to you: "We have seen gentlemen and ladies pass not only one night, but several in succession at play--worldly people said nothing, friends gave themselves no trouble concerning them; but let us give one hour to meditation, or rise a little earlier than usual to prepare for communion, these same friends would run for the doctor to cure us of jaundice or hypochondria. {757} We may occupy thirty nights in dancing, no one complains; but for the single watch of Christmas night every one coughs, and cries next day with the stomach-ache."

The salutary regimen of retiring and rising early is very precious for the soul, and the duties of life much better fulfilled. The soul is calmer at night, calm as everything that is regular and not troubled and turned topsy-turvy by the thousand preoccupations of a too worldly life. In the evening, before going to sleep, we can fix our attention on ourselves, analyze the day, its thoughts, desires, and actions, praise, blame, or correct, and, as a skilful merchant, make an account of our losses and gains. Do not imagine such a practice is confined to narrow minds; it is the usage of reason and sound philosophy, as are all other practices of an enlightened devotion. Pagans as well as Christians have given us a lesson on this subject. Listen to Pythagoras: "Never allow sleep to close thine eyes before having examined every action of the day. In what have I failed? What have I done? What duty have I forgotten? Commence by the first of thy actions, run over the others; in fine, reproach thyself with what thou hast done ill, and rejoice in what thou hast done well." "What can be more beautiful," said Seneca, "than this habit of inquiring into a whole day? What sleep succeeds to such a review of one's actions! How calm, deep, and free it is when the soul has received its share of praise or blame, and, submitting to its own control, its own censure, it secretly tries its own conduct! For me, I have taken this authority on myself, and every day I cite myself to appear before the tribunal of my conscience. So soon as the light has gone, I scan my day entirely, weigh anew my acts and my words, dissemble nothing, and omit nothing." [Footnote 257] Adopt this habit, everything in you will gain by it--reason and piety; a sweet serenity will be diffused around your soul, and you will sleep in angelic peace _somnus sanitatis in homine_. [Footnote 258] You have sometimes seen children sleep. What calm! What sweetness of expression! What kindness of feature! What living and silent rest! This will be the image of your sleep.

[Footnote 257: Da la Colere, 1. 3. c. 36.]

[Footnote 258: Ecclus. xxxi.]

But--and now we touch a delicate point--it is the result of life's organization that you ought to get up in the morning. I hear already a deep sigh of fear from your trembling couch. First, then, let us understand the value of the words, Get up in the morning. I do not exhort you to imitate a very delicate lady, who said, during her sojourn at Vichy, "I commence my day at four o'clock in the morning, in order that my body may not take off too much from my soul." [Footnote 259]

[Footnote 259: Lettres de Madame Swetchine. t. ii. p. 111.]

I do not propose you this model, for I am very sure, if I opened a register, I should find very few members for the confraternity of Madame Swetchine. Let us leave, then, the value of the expression slightly undecided. Get up in the morning; let it only be the earliest hour possible, and this, perhaps may be too late. Once, however, the hour of your rising determined, hold to it, with a firmness proportioned to the difficulty of the step, and let the unfortunate bed shut up again the magnetic fluid whereby one is drawn to it, I do not say in spite of one's self, but with a sweetness of violence which nails one to the post. I avow we are here in face of one of the most terrible of enemies, and this enemy the pillow. When we want to leave it in the morning, it assumes the artificial language of the siren, and caresses us with tender precaution. It seems to say: Why do you leave me? are you not better here? what a sweet temperature! what inappreciable well-being! don't you see it is too soon? do you not feel your limbs too tired, and as yet enjoying a very incomplete repose? {758} Touch your forehead and you will see you begin to have headache; a few quarters of an hour more will dissipate it; to-morrow you will rise earlier! Then it's so cold out of bed: why brave the inclemency of the seasons? The day is long enough; you will have time enough for everything; in truth, do not be so severe with yourself. After such eloquent language the dear pillow extends its two arms to entangle you, and soon the victory is consummated; true, it was easy, none are so happy as the vanquished; and behold you fallen again and buried for several hours more.

I speak very seriously in telling you that one of the most difficult enemies to vanquish is this pillow of the morning; and there is but one way to conquer it: it is a prompt and decisive blow, a military charge, a jump out of bed: charge the enemy by a vigorous sally, and the victory is yours. An old Capuchin said that, after long years of a religious life, what cost him most was to rise at four o'clock in the morning. It is true there is a sacrifice to make, a real sacrifice, incontestable; but here life is full of sacrifices, and each one is followed by a sentiment of true happiness, and each victory gives to man an astonishing power. When I see a person who has the courage to get up in the morning, I have immediately a high opinion of his firmness of character, and I say to myself: This person, when occasion demands it, will know how to develop extraordinary energy; each morning his nature is tempered again in the struggle against his pillow, and this combat is often more difficult, especially on account of its continuity, than that of the soldier on the field of battle. Besides, wait as long as you will, even if you sleep until mid-day, you will have to make a sacrifice on leaving your bed. Sometimes the more you think of it, the sacrifice will be greater, and increased by the sad perspective of the approaching effort; so with one minute of decision, prompt and generous, all is over, and the enjoyment of the active day has commenced. Long waiting in bed when one is awake makes serious detriment to the soul; the whole being is softened, and plunged into a sort of reverie, more or less sensual, which may lead to the brink of certain abysses. Take care, the butterfly flutters on its golden wings, then goes to burn itself in the light which shines for it so treacherously; image of those aerial promenades where, by dint of approaching certain deceitful lights, one ends by damaging the wings of the soul, or, at least, rubbing off the velvet nap of a pure conscience. "It is dangerous," said St. Ambrose, "for the sun to come and trouble with its indiscreet rays the dreams of a lazy mind in its bed." [Footnote 260]

[Footnote 260: In Ps. 118, s. 19, No. 22, t. ii. p. 1476.]

The Italian poet, speaking of morning, says: "At the hour when one's mind is greatest stranger to the flesh, and less near terrestrial thoughts, then is it almost divine in its visions." [Footnote 261]

[Footnote 261: Dante, Purgat. c. 9, v. 16-19.]

Each day, after a good night, we can renew our souls with the wonders of a beautiful spring morning; all is fresh in mind and body, all interior faculties are warmed; life experiences a sort of need of expansion; all thoughts, all desires seem to tremble with cheerfulness, as plants in a celestial garden. If the sun of prayer arises on the horizon, all the germs of good awake, develop, and mount up in proportion as the divine heat becomes more intense. "The manna," said the prophet, "disappearing at the dawn of day; was to show us, my God, that we must anticipate the rising of the sun to receive thy most precious benedictions." [Footnote 262]

[Footnote 262: Sap. xvi. 28.]

There is something remarkable in our Lives of the Saints; morning prayer is always specially mentioned: "My God," said the prophet "thou wilt favorably hear my prayer in the morning." [Footnote 263]

[Footnote 263: Ps. v. 4.]

"I will present myself before thee in the morning, and will see thy glory." [Footnote 264]

[Footnote 264: Ps. v. 5.]

"It is in the morning that my prayer will surprise thee." [Footnote 265]

[Footnote 265: Ps. xxxvii. 14.]

"In the morning thy mercy is shed on us abundantly." [Footnote 266]

[Footnote 266: Ps. lxxxix. 14.]

"Those who watch from the morning," said Wisdom, "will find me." [Footnote 267]

[Footnote 267: Prov. viii. 17.]

{759}

Our Lord himself is called "splendid star, star of the morning:" "_Ego Stella splendida et matutina_." [Footnote 268]

[Footnote 268: Apoc. xxii. 16.]

In these continual repetitions I can only see a perfectly fixed and stationary thought: the natural relation established by divine Providence, and which she loves to preserve in a supernatural world. The morning is the hour when life recommences on earth; the hour when everything is reborn, solitude favoring the first leap of life, which retakes its course where the dew is deposited, and gives fresh nourishment to the plant. It is also the most delightful hour for the collection of thought, for the effusion of the dew of souls. The sky is charged with rain that night has condensed; the manna is everywhere, but it soon disappears; and, whilst indolence loses its power of body and mind in the swaddling-clothes of sleep, the active soul has laid in its provision of celestial nourishment, has disposed its interior heaven for the entire day, has dissipated in advance the shadows of the day, and established time's serenity until the next sleep. One of the most precious and the sweetest hours of life is the hour of morning prayer. I do not merely speak of vocal prayer; I wish to say the prayer of union with God, the silence and the repose of the soul in God; I wish to say this opening of the mouth of the soul which aspires to divine milk, drinking in silence, light, and love, and hiding itself in the bosom of that mother _par excellence_ we call God, and that so few Christians understand. _Os meum aperui et attraxi spiritum_. [Footnote 269] If you only realized the gift of God we call the love of morning: _Si scires donum Dei!_ [Footnote 270]

[Footnote 269: Ps. cxviii. 181.]

[Footnote 270: Joan. iv. 10.]

.....

There is a freshness in it, a suavity and an energy, which come directly from God. Have you never been on the mountains in summer, at three o'clock in the morning, when the first rays of the sun appear? How limpidly they seem to come! They have not passed through other breasts; the purest essence of the planet of day is ours, and thus we seem to realize our union with God while most men are asleep. On these divine mountains the soul has the first-fruits of celestial favors; she is penetrated with light, love, and strength; a gentle intoxication for the day, which, far from weakening the soul, gives firmness to our thoughts and actions, and sheds a perfume of joy on all our works. Were there no other reasons for rising in the morning, I would say to you, Disengage yourself from your pillow, the Lord comes to visit you with choice favors; but the least delay will be proof of your indifference, and you will force him to go further to seek souls more worthy his benefits. There is no one who would refuse to rise early if each morning a messenger were to tell him, A prince is come among you and waits for you. Place your God in the place of your prince, and you will do well. If you wish to accomplish some great work in your life, get up in the morning. The morning hours are not so deranged, the calm of a sweet solitude surrounds you, and you more readily expedite your affairs. You can occupy yourself with business or the regulation of your household, with your reading, your intellectual work if you love study, and the result in some years of these extra hours will be incalculable. By rising two hours earlier each day, you will have gained at the end of forty years, twenty-nine thousand hours, that is more than seven years, and solely counting the twelve working hours of the day. To increase one's life seven years in forty is enormous, and what can be done during this continuous time is almost incredible. Clement of Alexandria said, "Wrest from sleep all of our lives we can."

Sleep is truly a thief who ravishes our greatest treasures; a thief, too, we cannot entirely chase away, but we can run him off the ground and hinder his encroachments on our actual life. "We live but the half of our lives," said Pliny the elder; "the other half is consumed in a state similar to death,.... and still we do not count the infancy which knows nothing, or the old age of imbecility." {760} Then have the courage to take something each day from this brother of death, who thus divides our life in two, and for himself would reserve the better part; let us give to nature what is necessary, but make no concession to indolence.

The most favorable time to commit this robbery is during the first hours of the morning. "The quality of time is different at this hour," said Madame Swetchine.

One hour of the morning is worth two at night, because the mind in its freshness is naturally more collected, its strength is not yet dispersed, and it is not exhausted by the fatigue of the day. The morning hours resemble, in the agility of the mind and the rejuvenated forces of the soul, the first hour of the courser just placed in the carriage. So the same author we love to cite advised early rising, cost what it might, "in order to reserve some hours of the morning for entire solitude." "It is not only," said one of her friends, "to consecrate to God the first hours of the day that she commenced it so early, but to have also considerable time to give to study." She said to me on that day, that the pleasure it gave her only increased with years. "I am come to this," she said, "when I approach my table to resume my labors, my heart beats with joy." [Footnote 271]

[Footnote 271: Lettres, t. ii. p. 443.]

She avowed, besides, that, deprived of these her accustomed hours, all the rest of the day seemed pillaged. If you would not be pillaged, rise in the morning; then you can do as you please, no one will come to disturb you, you will consecrate the closest and best of your strength to the most serious and truest duties of your existence; and, when the hour of pillage comes, that is, the hour when you must cut your life in little pieces, to dispense it in a thousand nothings more or less necessary, you will, at least, have secured its better and most precious part. If you rise late, your life will be a perpetual pillage, and whoever pleases will tear it in shreds from you.

Plato--if you will not consider pagan morality severe--Plato said somewhere: "It is a shame for the mistress of a household to be awakened by her servants; she should awaken them." [Footnote 272]

[Footnote 272: Les Lois, 1-7, p. 808.]

Such words may seem an exaggeration; but, if such were here the case, would not everything go better in the interior of the family? Woman, as we have said with the holy Scripture, is the sun of her household; but it should be the sun which everywhere announces the awakening of nature. It mounts first on the horizon, and soon everything rises in the universe, plants, animals, and men. The sun is never awakened by his satellites; he himself gives the signal. Let the strong woman do the same. _Sicut sol oriens in altissimis Dei, sic mulieris bonae species in ornamentum domus ejus._[Footnote 273]

[Footnote 273: Eccl. xxvi. 21.]

{761}

The Wandering Jew. [Footnote 274]

[Footnote 274: Curious Myths of the Middle Ages. By S. Baring Gould, M.A., London, Oxford, and Cambridge, Rivingtons. 1866.]

There are certain popular fables which, in one shape or another, seem to have wandered all over the world, and to have planted themselves, and grown, and developed progeny in the folk-lore of nearly every nation. Of all these none has been more generally a favorite than the fiction of Time sparing in his flight some solitary human being, before whose eyes the centuries unroll their mighty panorama; cities and nations rise, flourish, and decay; changes pass over the face of nature herself; seas dry up and rocks crumble to dust; while for one man only age brings no decay and life seems to have no termination. The early Christian legends are full of such stories. There are rumors of mysterious witnesses, hidden for ages from the world's eyes, not dead but sleeping, who are to come forth in the last days of time, and bear testimony against Antichrist; and one of these was conjectured to be the apostle St. John, of whom our Lord said to St. Peter, "If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?" So there was a belief that the beloved disciple still slept at Ephesus, awaiting the summons, and the earth above his breast heaved as he breathed. Joseph of Arimathea, according to another beautiful legend, was rewarded for the last tender offices which he performed for the dead Christ by perpetual life in the blessed city of Sarras, where he drew divine nourishment from the holy grail, that precious chalice which the Saviour used at the Last Supper, and which caught the blood that trickled from his side upon the cross. The poetical legend of the seven sleepers of Ephesus, who fled from the persecution of Decius to a cavern on Mount Celion, and slept there three hundred and sixty years, until God raised them up to confound a growing heresy against the immortality of the soul; and the still more beautiful story of the monk of Hildesheim, who, doubting how with God a thousand years could be as yesterday, listened to the melody of a bird in the greenwood during three minutes, and found that in those minutes three hundred years had flown away, are familiar to all our readers. But pagan literature also abounds in stories of miraculously long slumbers. The beautiful shepherd Endymion was condemned by Jupiter to perpetual sleep in a cavern of Mount Latmus; or, according to another form of the story, to a slumber of fifty years, at the end of which time he was to arise. The giant Enceladus was imprisoned under Mount Etna, and as often as he turned his weary body, the whole island of Sicily was shaken to its foundations. The epic poet Epimenides, while tending his sheep, retired one hot day into a cavern, and slept there fifty-seven years. This reminds one of the tale of Rip Van Winkle. The Emperor Frederic Barbarossa, so an old German fable relates, is waiting with six of his knights in the heart of a mountain in Thuringia, for the time to release Germany from bondage and raise it to the first place among nations. When his great red beard has wound itself thrice around the stone table at which he sits, he will awake and rush forth to do his appointed work. So, too, it was believed that Charlemagne survived in some mountain recess, and would appear again at the fulfilment of the days of Antichrist to avenge the blood of the saints. {762} The British King Arthur, the Portuguese Don Sebastian, Ogier the Dane, and the three Tells of Switzerland were expected by the superstitious peasantry to reappear at some distant day and become the deliverers of their country; and there are even some remote parts of France where a popular belief survives that Napoleon Bonaparte is still living, and will put himself some day at the head of another victorious host. Who of us is not familiar with that pretty fairy tale of the sleeping beauty?

"Year after year unto her feet, She lying on her couch alone, Across the purple coverlet The maiden's jet-black hair has grown.

......

"She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirred That lie upon her charmed heart. She sleeps: on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest; She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest."

And who of us in his childhood has not read with a delight which repeated perusals could not satiate of the coming of the fairy prince, who was fated, after a hundred years, to wake that sleeping palace into life, and bear away the happy princess far across the hills, "in that new world which is the old"?

"And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Through all the world she followed him."

These many stories are only the protean forms of one favorite popular conception; the idea of one individual standing still, while the world sweeps by, and either blest or curst with a perpetual renewal of youth, or else awaking out of a sleep of centuries to find creation wearing a new face and new generations acting out the great drama of history. The different modifications of the story seem to derive their peculiar character from the peculiarities of the time and country in which they originate. The pagan tendency to personify all the phenomena of nature is exemplified in the myth of Enceladus, under which were represented the throes of Mount Etna. The wild, warlike, and semi-pagan spirit of Germany, which peoples dark mountain recesses with mysterious forms, and fastens a legend to each frowning crag and almost inaccessible fastness, finds apt expression in the legend of the sleeping Barbarossa and his mailed companions. And how beautifully the piety of the monkish chroniclers has embellished the same fiction in the fables of the seven sleepers and the monk of Hildesheim! In the former of these two stories, however, it is worthy of remark that an actual fact has been blended with the fiction. The seven sleepers are real historical personages, and their names are enrolled in the list of canonized saints. They were martyrs whom the Emperor Decius caused to be walled up alive in a cave, where many generations afterward their relics were found; and this discovery of the relics has been amplified into an actual resuscitation of the living men. The narrative in this spurious form is given by Jacobus de Voragine in his Golden Legend, and was made the subject of a poem by Goethe. The German poet adds that there was a dog with the seven Christians, and that immediately after their awakening, as soon as they had been seen by the king and people of Ephesus, they disappeared for ever from the sight of man:

"The most blessed angel Gabriel, By the will of God Almighty, Walling up the cave for ever, Led them into paradise."

The most remarkable of all the varieties of this fiction is the legend of the Wandering Jew. Like the story of St. John's sleep at Ephesus, it seems to be based upon a false interpretation of Scripture. "There are some of them standing here," said our Lord, "who shall not taste death till they see the Son of Man coming in his kingdom," (St. Matt. xvi. 28.) And it was the old belief that this prophecy was being literally fulfilled in the person of a Jew who was wandering over the face of the earth, and would continue to wander until the day of judgment. {763} The earliest mention of this mythical person occurs in Matthew Paris's Chronicle of English History, wherein he records that, in 1228, a certain Archbishop of Greater Armenia visited the abbey of St. Albans, on a pilgrimage to the shrines of the saints in England; and in the course of conversation he was asked "whether he had ever seen or heard any thing of Joseph, a man of whom there was much talk in the world, who, when our Lord suffered, was present and spoke to him, and who is still alive in evidence of the Christian faith; in reply to which, a knight in his retinue, who was his interpreter, replied, speaking in French, 'My lord well knows that man, and a little before he took his way to the western countries the said Joseph ate at the table of my lord the Archbishop of Armenia, and he has often seen and conversed with him.'" The archbishop went on to relate that, when Jesus had been delivered up to the Jews and they were dragging him out to be crucified, "Cartaphilus, a porter of the hall, in Pilate's service, as Jesus was going out of the door, impiously struck him on the back with his hand, and said in mockery, 'Go quicker, Jesus, go quicker, why do you loiter?' And Jesus, looking back on him with a severe countenance, said to him, 'I am going, and you shall wait till I return.' And according as our Lord said this Cartaphilus is still awaiting his return. At the time of our Lord's suffering he was thirty years old, and when he attains the age of a hundred years he always returns to the same age as he was when our Lord suffered. After Christ's death, when the Catholic faith gained ground, this Cartaphilus was baptized by Ananias, (who also baptized the apostle Paul,) and was called Joseph. He dwells in one or other divisions of Armenia, and in divers eastern countries, passing his time among the bishops and other prelates of the church; he is a man of holy conversation and religious; a man of few words, and very circumspect in his behavior; for he does not speak at all unless when questioned by the bishops and religious; and then he relates the events of olden times, and speaks of things which occurred at the suffering and resurrection of our Lord, and of the witnesses of the resurrection, namely, of those who rose with Christ, and went into the holy city, and appeared unto men. He also tells of the creed of the apostles, and of their separation and preaching. And all this," added the archbishop, (though we should think the statement rather superfluous,) "he relates _without smiling or levity of conversation_, as one who is well practised in sorrow and the fear of God, always looking forward with dread to the coming of Jesus Christ, lest at the last judgment he should find him in anger, whom, on his way to death, he had provoked to just vengeance." There is something not easy to explain in this story. Matthew Paris was an eye-witness of the events which he relates, so there can be little doubt that the Armenian prelate or his interpreter did really tell some such wondrous tale as this to the monks of St. Albans. Was it a pure invention? Or did the interpreter, by a familiar species of embellishment, represent his master as having seen the wandering Jew when he had only _heard_ of him? Or had the archbishop been deceived by some impostor who had taken advantage of the popularity of the legend to palm himself off upon the credulous as its veritable hero? One thing at all events is clear from the narrative of the monk of St. Albans; and that is, that the fable was by no means a new one in his time, though he is the earliest known writer who has handed it down to us. The Jew, according to this narrative, refused all gifts that were offered him, being content with a little food and scanty raiment; but with all his humble piety he seems to have cherished an odd sort of pride; for it is related that "numbers came to him from different parts of the world, enjoying his society and conversation, and to them, _if they are men of authority_, he explains all doubts on the matters on which he is questioned."

{764}

After the Armenian had visited the shrine of "St. Tumas de Kantorbire" in England and "Monsigour St. Jake," whereby we suppose is meant Santiago de Compostela in Spain, he went to Cologne to see the heads of the three kings, and there he is reported, in a rhyming chronicle by Philip Mouskes, afterward Bishop of Tournay, as repeating the story he had told at St. Albans, but with very slight differences.

There is no further mention of the Wandering Jew in literature for more than two hundred and fifty years; but, in 1505, he turns up to some purpose in Bohemia, where a poor weaver named Kokot was in great perplexity to find a treasure that had been buried by his great-grandfather sixty years before. The Jew had been present when the treasure was hid away, and he now appeared opportunely to show the heir where to find it. He seemed at this time to be about seventy years of age. About the same time we hear of him in the East, where there was a tradition that he appeared to the Arabian conqueror Fadhilah, and predicted the signs which were to precede the last judgment. But this mysterious visitor, who is called Zerib Bar Elia, seems to have been confounded in a curious way with the prophet Elijah. The most circumstantial account of the undying one was given about the middle of the sixteenth century by Dr. Paul von Eitzen, afterward Bishop of Schleswig, who seems to have been thoroughly deceived by one of the many impostors who arose during that century and the next, claiming to have been survivors of the rabble who followed Jesus to Calvary. Dr. Von Eitzen's story is that, being in church one Sunday in Hamburg, in the year 1547, "he observed a tall man with his hair hanging over his shoulders, standing barefoot during the sermon over against the pulpit, listening with deepest attention to the discourse, and whenever the name of Jesus was mentioned bowing himself profoundly and humbly, with sighs and beating of the breast. He had no other clothing in the bitter cold of the winter, except a pair of hose which were in tatters about his feet, and a coat with a girdle which reached to his feet; and his general appearance was that of a man of fifty years." The learned doctor was so much struck by the man's looks that after the sermon he made inquiries about him. He found that he was a mystery to everybody. Many people, some of them of high degree and title, had seen him in England, Scotland, France, Italy, Spain, Denmark, Sweden, Poland, Hungary, Russia, Persia, and other countries, and nobody knew what to make of him. So Dr. Von Eitzen sought him out and questioned him. "Thereupon he replied modestly that he was a Jew by birth, a native of Jerusalem, by name Ahasuerus, by trade a shoemaker; he had been present at the crucifixion of Christ, and had lived ever since, travelling through various lands and cities, the which he substantiated by accounts he gave; he related also the circumstances of Christ's transference from Pilate to Herod, and the final crucifixion, together with other details not recorded in the evangelists and historians; he gave accounts of the changes of government in many countries, especially of the East, through several centuries, and moreover he detailed the labors and deaths of the holy apostles of Christ most circumstantially." The stranger added that he had done his best with others to have Christ put to death, and that, when sentence had been pronounced, he ran home and called his family together that they might look at the deceiver of the people as he was carried to execution. When the Lord was led by to Calvary, he was standing at the door of his shop with his little child on his arm. Spent with the weight of the cross which he was carrying, Christ tried to rest a little, but Ahasuerus, for the sake of obtaining credit among the other Jews, and also out of zeal and rage, drove the Lord forward and bade him hasten. "Jesus, obeying, looked at him and said, 'I shall stand and rest, but thou shalt go till the last day.' {765} At these words the man set down the child, and, unable to remain where he was, he followed Christ, and saw how cruelly he was crucified, how he suffered, how he died. As soon as this had taken place, it came upon him suddenly that he could no more return to Jerusalem, nor see again his wife and child, but must go forth into foreign lands, one after another, like a mournful pilgrim. Now, when, years after, he returned to Jerusalem, he found it ruined and utterly razed, so that not one stone was left standing on another; and he could not recognize former localities.

.....

Dr. Paul von Eitzen, along with the rector of the school of Hamburg, who was well read in history and a traveller, questioned him about events which had taken place in the East since the death of Christ, and he was able to give them much information on many ancient matters; so that it was impossible not to be convinced of the truth of his story, and to see that what seems impossible with men is, after all, possible with God." It does not seem to have required Dr. Von Eitzen's investigation to prove that what is impossible with man may be possible with God; but how any amount of questioning could demonstrate the truth of the stranger's story we are at a loss to see. It apparently failed to strike the reverend doctor and his associate that the Jew could have learned the history of the East as easily as they learned it themselves; and even if he made a good many blunders in his narrative, it is by no means certain that his questioners were wise enough to detect them.

This impostor, for so we may safely call him, observed the traditional silence, modesty, temperance, and poverty which the legend uniformly ascribes to the Wandering Jew, never accepting a larger alms than two skillings, (about nine cents,) which he immediately gave to the poor; never laughing; gladly listening to pious discourse; reverencing with sighs the utterance of the divine name; and waxing very indignant whenever he heard any one swear, especially by God's death or pains. He spoke the language of whatever country he travelled in, and had no foreign accent; so at least the account runs, but it does not appear how that fact was ascertained, nor is there mention of any competent linguist having examined his abilities in that line. He never staid long in one place.

Twenty-eight years afterward, that is, in 1575, two legates sent from Schleswig to the court of Spain declared on their return home that they had encountered the same mysterious person in Madrid, and conversed with him. In appearance, manner of life, habits, and garb, he was just the same as he had appeared in Hamburg. He spoke good Spanish. It is not said, however, that these legates had themselves seen the man when Dr. Von Eitzen talked with him twenty-eight years before, and the probability is, that they only inferred from the description left of that strange traveller that the wanderer in Madrid was the same person. In 1599, he is reported at Vienna; in 1601, at Lubeck; and about the same date at Revel in Livonia, and Cracow in Poland. He was also seen in Moscow, and in January, 1603, we find record again of his appearance at Lubeck. The next year he was in Paris. Rudolph Botoreus, who records his visit to that city in his history, apologizes for mentioning what may seem a mere old wives' fable, but says the story was so widely believed that he could not omit it. Bulenger, about the same date, also mentions the report of the Jew's arrival in Paris, but confesses that he neither saw him nor could hear anything authentic concerning him.

The frequency of the reappearance of this mythical character in different parts of Europe during the seventeenth century seems to indicate that the imposture was a profitable one. He assumes different names and tells his story with several variations. In one work he is called Buttadaeus. Elsewhere he is known as Isaac Laquedem. {766} In some accounts it is said that he was born of the tribe of Napluali, seven or eight years before the birth of Christ. He ran away from his father, who was either a carpenter or a shoemaker, to accompany the three wise men to Bethlehem; and his description on his return of the wonders he had seen and the rich presents which the magi laid at the feet of the babe whom they hailed King of the Jews, led to the massacre of the innocents. He was, according to this version, a carpenter by trade, and made the cross upon which the Lord suffered. At the end of every hundred years he falls into a fit or trance, from which he awakes with renewed youth, returning always to the age at which he was when the Saviour was crucified. He has tempted death in every conceivable form; he has courted pestilence, thrown himself into the thickest of battles, and called upon the sea to swallow him; but a miraculous interposition of divine power preserves him through everything, and the curse still drives him on from land to land, and will allow him no rest until the crucified Son of Man shall come in his glory to judge the world. Penitent and devout, yet tortured with remorse, he sweeps on perpetually round and round the world, and the sudden roar of a gale at night is attributed by the vulgar to the passing of the everlasting Jew. There is a Swiss story that he was seen one day standing on the Matterberg contemplating the scene with mingled awe and wonder. Once before he stood on that desolate spot, and then it was the site of a flourishing city. Once again he will revisit it, and that will be on the eve of judgment.

So late as the beginning of the last century a man calling himself the Wandering Jew made considerable noise in England, where many of the common people were found ignorant enough to believe in him. Following the custom of some of his early predecessors, he preferred the conversation of persons of distinction, and spared no pains to thrust himself into aristocratic company. Some of the nobility, half in jest, half out of curiosity, were wont to talk with him, and pay him as they might a mountebank. He used to say that he had been an officer of the sanhedrim, and that he had struck Christ as he was led away from Pilate's judgment seat. He remembered all the apostles, in proof of which he used to give what purported to be a description of their appearance, dress, and peculiarities; he had been acquainted with the father of Mohammed, and had disputed with the prophet himself about the crucifixion of Christ; he knew Saladin, Tamerlane, and Bajazet; he was in Rome when Nero set it on fire, and he remembered minutely the history of the crusades. He spoke many languages, and even conversed with an English nobleman in Arabic. Oxford and Cambridge sent professors to discover whether he was an impostor. It does not appear that he shrank from their examination, for it is pretty certain that he had been a great traveller, and it is not at all improbable that he was well enough read in history to perplex his questioners. On matters of detail it was easy enough for him to impugn the accuracy of authorities which contradicted him. Educated persons were not long in learning to laugh at his assumptions, but the vulgar trusted him, and even believed in his power of healing the sick. We are not aware that the humbug was ever thoroughly exposed to the satisfaction of the people at large, and when he afterward passed over to Denmark and Sweden he left probably a plenty of dupes behind him. The last recorded appearance of a person claiming to be the Wandering Jew was in 1774 at Brussels.

It would be a curious and interesting study to trace, if we could, the origin of this myth, but it is a baffling inquiry. Its kinship with the stories of long slumbers, marvellous resuscitations, and miraculous prolongation of life is sufficiently apparent, yet it presents remarkable differences from all these, and it is noteworthy that, during the five centuries and more in which we know that it flourished, it underwent no considerable modifications, such as popular legends in general are subject to. {767} When we first hear of it, it is already wide spread and as completely developed as it was when it finally dropped out of popular belief. And, as our readers can see from the narratives we have quoted, there never was even plausible reason to believe that the story was true. None of the testimony as to the Jew's appearances will bear the very slightest examination. Either the stories are manifest fabrications, or the persons to whom they refer were merely ordinary vagabonds. No vagabond, however, could have established such pretensions unless there had previously been some legend in vogue to suggest them and to induce people to accept them. Some have imagined that Ahasuerus is a type of the whole Jewish race, which, since it rejected the Redeemer, has been driven forth to wander over the face of the earth, yet is not to pass away until the end of time. This, however, can hardly be; for Ahasuerus becomes a devout Christian, and, moreover, one of his principal characteristics is contempt of money. Others identify him with the gypsies, who are said to have been cursed in a similar way because they refused shelter to the Virgin and child during the flight into Egypt; but this is only a local superstition which never obtained extensive acceptation. The more probable explanation is, that some pious monk borrowed one of the old legends which we referred to at the beginning of this article, and adding to it a conception taken from the words of the Saviour, "There are some of them standing here who shall not taste death till they see the Son of Man coming in his kingdom," constructed an allegory which was afterward accepted for literal truth in a not very critical age, and was kept alive by a succession of impostors.

{768}

Original.

"Abide In Me."

"I am the vine, you the branches."

"I AM the Vine." "'Tis true, dear Lord, and yet the fruit, And cool, green leaves that cast the grateful shade, Are mine." "Fie, silly branch! Without a root Deep hidden in the lowly earth, Thy fruit or leaves would ne'er had birth. How quickly would thy coronal of leaves, Which now from men such flattery receives, Lose all its glory in their sight, and fade And die; Thy fruit for tastelessness be spurned; Thyself be cast into the fire and burned, If I Who am, of all thou hast, the source, Did not with living sap the force Supply." "Lord! pardon me my foolish pride; Too much in my own strength I do confide. Decree That henceforth I shall bare and barren be, If I give not all glory unto thee; And chide My wayward spirit when it turns aside, And thinks to live and flourish, and yet not abide In thee."

Abridged from The Dublin University Magazine.

The Invasions Of Ireland By The Danes.

A knowledge of history is considered an essential portion of the mental acquirements of every gentleman and lady, but it is for the most part a disagreeable, and, in many respects, a slightly immoral study, if we apply the same criterion to it which we do to its relative, romance. Moral lecturers on fiction instruct us that any novel or romance which centres its chief interest in wicked men or women, and devotes the greater portion of its pages to their proceedings, is an immoral, or, at least, an unedifying book. We need not waste pages or lines here in pointing out what sort of designs or deeds enter into the tissue of historical narrative, but as (the above reasoning notwithstanding) history is, and will continue to be, a popular and engrossing study, it is of importance that we be acquainted with the true nature of past events.

Desiderata for a Good Irish History.

With regard to our own country we have not in this case been well favored. Those histories which have appeared in print rest for their authority on hitherto inedited MSS., many portions which are of a legendary and romantic character. It is evident that it is only when all these MS. chronicles, that are worth the trouble and expense, are published and compared with each other and with foreign contemporary history, we can arrive with any certainty at the truth or probability of past events, the existence or otherwise of some semi-mythic heroes, or truthful chronological arrangement.

For the coming history of Ireland we are thankful that preparations have been making. We have had Keating's history badly translated for three half-centuries. He compiled it in the seventeenth century from MS. documents, some of which are unhappily not now in existence. Dr. O'Connor was enabled, through the munificence of the Duke of Buckingham, to get into print, accompanied by a Latin translation, the Annals of Tighernach, a monk of Clonmacnois, in the eleventh century, and a portion of the Annals of Ulster, but these books are nearly as inaccessible as the original MSS. {769} The Annals of the Four Masters, (the O'Clerys of Donegal Abbey, early part of the seventeenth century,) edited by the late Dr. O'Donovan, have been issued in a costly style by the firm of Hodges & Smith. For about a quarter of a century our Archaeological and Celtic Societies have been publishing, with translations, papers of great value, and at last, though at the eleventh hour, government has lent a hand in bringing before the public valuable materials for the future historian of Ireland. These consist of a portion of the ancient Irish code: the Senchus Mhor, the Chronicum Scotorum, edited by Mr. Hennessy, and the Wars of the Gael with the Foreigners, [Footnote 275] (with translation,) edited by Rev. Dr. Todd. This, we trust, is only an earnest of what government means to do. We hope to see in succession the Annals of Tighernach, of Lough Cé, of Ulster, [Footnote 276] and others issued at the moderate price adopted.

[Footnote 275: The War of the Gaedhill with the Gaill; or The Invasions of Ireland by the Danes and other Norsemen. The Original Irish Text, edited with Translation and Introduction by James Henthorn Todd, D.D., A.B., M.R.I.A., F.S.A., Senior Fellow T.C.D. Published by the Authority of the Lords Commissioners of Her Majesty's Treasury, under the Direction of the Master of the Rolls. London: Longmans & Co.]

[Footnote 276: Tiernach O'Braoin, Abbot of Clonmacnois, died in 1088. The Annals that bear his name are continued to the fourteenth century. They exhibit great conscientiousness on the part of the writer, who never gives way to Bardic enthusiasm. The other chief books are the Annals of Inisfallen, probably begun by Maol Suthain O'Carroll, secretary to Brian Borumha, the Annals of Boyle, the Annals of Ulster, compiled by Charles Maguire, a learned ecclesiastic at the Isle of Shanat, in Lough Erne. His death occurred in 1493. The Annals begin at A.D. 441 and are continued to 1541. The Annals of Loch Cé, compiled by Brian MacDermot, relate events from the battle of Clontarf to 1590. The Annals of Connacht include all that passed from 1224 to 1562. The Annals of Clonmacnois were translated from the Gaelic into English in 1627, by Connia Mac Egan; the original is not extant.]

The deeply read and zealous editor of the work just quoted below would prefer to have been exercised on some of the others. We quote his own words:

"The editor cannot but regret that this tract, so full of the feelings of clanship,... should have been selected as the first specimen of an Irish chronicle, presented to the public under the sanction of the Master of the Rolls. His own wish and recommendation to his Honor was, that the purely historical chronicles, such as the Annals of Tighernach, the Annals of Ulster, or the Annals of Loch Cé, should have been first undertaken. The two former compilations, it is true, had been already printed [Footnote 277], although with bad translations and wretchedly erroneous topography; and a rule which at that time existed prohibited the Master of the Rolls from publishing any work which, even in part, had been printed before. This rule has since been judiciously rescinded, and it is hoped that his lordship will soon be induced to sanction a series of the chronicles of Ireland, especially the two just alluded to, which, it is not too much to say, are to the history of Ireland and of Scotland what the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle is to that of England. The Annals of Loch Cé (pr. Kay) belong to a later period. They begin with the battle of Clontarf, and continue the history, with some few gaps, to 1590."

[Footnote 277: The Annals of Ulster are given only to the year 1131. The Dublin MS. extends to 1503. The Chronicum Scotorum is not here mentioned, because it is already on the list of the Master of the Rolls, edited by Mr. W. M. Hennessy.--_Note by Rev. Dr. Todd._]

Nothing can be more to the purpose or better worthy of attention than the sequel of this passage.

"Until these and other sources of history are made accessible, it is vain to expect any sober or trustworthy history of Ireland. The old romantic notions of a golden age, so attractive to some minds, must continue to prevail....

"The authors of our popular histories were avowedly ignorant, with scarcely an exception, of the ancient language of Ireland--the language in which the real sources of Irish history are written. It was as if the authors of the history of Rome had been all ignorant of Latin, and the writers of our histories of Greece unable to read Greek. Even this would not, however, fully represent the real state of the case as regards Ireland. Livy and Tacitus, Herodotus and Thucydides, are printed books, and good translations of them exist. But the authorities of Irish history are still for the most part in manuscript, and unpublished, untranslated, and scattered in the public libraries in Dublin, Oxford, and London, as well as on the continent of Europe, Hence our popular histories leave us completely in the dark, and often contain erroneous information. Wherever the Irish names of places or persons are concerned they are at fault. They are entirely silent on the genealogies, relationships, and laws of the clans and their chieftains a subject so essential, to the right understanding of Irish history."

{770}

The most popular of our histories is that translated from the Irish of the learned Dr. Geoffry Keating, by Dermod O'Connor, and first published, Westminster, 1726. It was but indifferently done. Dr. Todd gives a decided preference to that lately executed by O'Mahony, and published in America. Dr. Todd gives his readers the pleasant information that two perfect copies of the original Irish, executed by John Torna O'Mulconry, a contemporary of Dr. Keating, are preserved in the library of Trinity College, Dublin.

The Mss. Of Our Danish Chronicle.

The narrative in the work under notice embraces two centuries, ending with the battle of Clontarf, A.D. 1014. Of the two hundred pages devoted to the subject, the wars waged by Mahon of Thomond and his younger brother, Brian Borumha, occupy a hundred and fifty. The fact is accounted for by giving the authorship to Mac Liag, Brian's chief bard, or some other devoted filea or seanachie of his house, who survived the great day at Clontarf. The learned editor furnishes ample accounts of the MSS. used in the work, and we proceed to make use of them for the information of our readers. A very small portion of it, to wit, one leaf, folio size, closely written on both sides in double columns, is preserved in the Book of Leinster. [Footnote 278] The contents of this leaf are given in the appendix.

[Footnote 278: The Book of Leinster was written by Finn, Bishop of Kildare, for Hugh MacGriffin, tutor of that antetype of Henry VIII., namely, Diarmuid MacMurroch It is a collection of narratives, tales, genealogies, and poems; some of these last attributed to Fionn MacCumball and his son Oisin. The death of its compiler in 1160 is noticed in the Annals of the Four Masters, under the date A.D. 1160.]

The second MS., also defective, is preserved in the library of Trinity College. We copy Dr. Todd's reference to it:

"This copy was found about the year 1840, by the late eminent scholar, Mr. O'Curry, bound up in one of the Seabright MSS., formerly in the possession of the celebrated antiquary, Edward Lluyd. There is nothing except the appearance of the MS., and its handwriting, to fix its age, but, judging from these criteria, we cannot be far wrong in supposing it to have been written about the middle of the fourteenth century. It is imperfect both at the beginning and at the end.... There are also some intervening defects, arising from a loss of leaves."

The MS. in which the valuable fragment is preserved is marked H, 2, 17.

"The third MS. is a paper copy preserved in the Burgundian library, Brussels, which has the advantage of being perfect. It is in the handwriting of the eminent Irish scholar, Friar Michael O'Clery, by whom it was transcribed in the year 1635. This appears by the following note at the end:

"'Out of the Book of Cueonnacht O'Daly, the poor friar, Michael O'Clery, wrote the copy from which this was written, in the convent of the friars in Baile Tighe, Farannain, (Multifarnham,) in the month of March of this year, 1628, and this (the present) copy was written by the same friar in the convent of Dun-na-n Gail, (Donegal,) in the month of November of this year, 1635.'"

The learned friar copied or introduced into his history catalogues and poems not to be found in the Dublin MS., and there are passages in the last not to be found in the Brussels copy. The chronicle now printed is, of course, the more copious, as it contains everything to be found in either.

It was not till some time after the discovery of the Dublin MS., by Mr. O'Curry, as recorded, that the existence of the Brussels copy became known. Dr. Todd proceeded to that city in August, 1848, and copied all the portions not to be found in the one at home. Afterward, as he observes:

"Through the influence of the Earl of Clarendon, then Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, he obtained from the Belgian government a loan of this and some other MSS., and in 1833 caused a complete copy of it to be made by Mr. O'Curry, for the library of Trinity College, Dublin. These transcripts have been carefully collated in forming the text of the present edition."

Who Wrote The Chronicle?

The authorship of the work is attributed to Muriertach Mac Liag, the chief bard of King Brian, but no sure conclusion can be come to on this point. {771} It is certain, however, that it is the production of a zealous Dalcassian, and that it was composed soon after the battle of Clontarf. We copy the curious circumstance which proves to certainty that the original compiler was contemporary with the concluding event of the narrative:

"It is stated in the account given of the battle of Clontarf, that the full tide in Dublin Bay on the day of the battle, 23d April, 1014, coincided with sunrise, and that the returning tide at evening aided considerably in the defeat of the enemy.

"It occurred to the editor, on considering this passage, that a criterion might be derived from it to test the truth of the narrative, and of the date assigned by the Irish to the battle of Clontarf. He, therefore, proposed to the Rev. Samuel Haughton, M.D., Fellow of Trinity College, and Professor of Geology in the University of Dublin, to solve for him this problem: 'What was the hour of high-water at the shore of Clontarf in Dublin Bay on the 23d April, 1014?' The editor did not make known to Dr. Haughton the object he had in view in this question, and the coincidence of the results obtained with the ancient narrative is therefore the more valuable and curious."

The result of Dr. Haughton's calculations, communicated to the Royal Irish Academy in May, 1861, was this:

"The tide along the Clontarf shore, when not obstructed by embankments and walls, could not have differed many minutes, on the 23d April, 1014, from 5 hours 30 minutes A.M., the evening tide being full in at 5 hours 55 minutes P.M.

"This proves that the author, if not himself an eye-witness, must have derived his information from those who were. 'None others,' as Dr. Haughton observes, 'could have invented the fact that the battle began at sunrise, and that the tide was then full in.' The importance of the time of tide became evident at the close of the day, when the returned tide prevented the escape of the Danes from the Clontarf shore to the north bank of the Liffey."

In the chronicle the author makes a distinction between races of the invaders, namely, the dark-haired Danes and the fair-haired Norwegians. The word Lochlann (lake land) is applicable to Norway with its numerous fiords, to which the ancient Irish writers applied the name of lochs. The epithet _gormglasa_ (bluish green) was probably applied to the plate armor worn by some of them.

Style and Spirit of the Work.

The following passage will furnish a fair specimen of the style of the chronicle, besides exhibiting the misery of a country divided into small kingdoms when a ferocious band of foreigners chose to make a lodgment in it:

"In a word, although there were an hundred hard-steeled iron heads on one neck, and an hundred sharp, ready, cool, never-resting, brazen tongues in each head, and an hundred garrulous, loud, unceasing voices from each tongue, they could not recount, nor enumerate, nor tell what all the Gaedhil suffered in common, both men and women, laity and clergy, old and young, noble and ignoble, of hardship, and of injury, and oppression in every house from these valiant, foreign, purely pagan people. Even though great were this cruelty, and oppression, and tyranny--though numerous were the oft-victorious clans of the many-familied Erinn--though numerous their kings, and their royal chiefs, and their princes--though numerous their heroes, and champions, and their brave soldiers, their chiefs of valor and renown, and deeds of arms--yet not one of them was able to give relief, or alleviation, or deliverance from that oppression and tyranny, from the numbers, and the multitudes, and the cruelty, and the wrath of the brutal, ferocious, furious, untamed, implacable hordes by whom that oppression was inflicted, because of the excellence of their polished, ample, treble, heavy, trusty, glittering corselets, and their hard, strong, valiant swords, and their well-riveted long spears, and their ready, brilliant arms of valor besides, and because of the greatness of their achievements and of their deeds, their bravery and their valor, their strength, and their venom, and their ferocity, and because of the excess of their thirst and their hunger for the brave, fruitful, nobly inhabited, full of cataracts, rivers, bays, pure, smooth-planed, sweet, grassy land of Erinn."

Little can the mere English reader, who may look on much of this as mere bombast, feel the charm which such substantives and epithets as the following had on the original hearers or readers of the work: "Luireach, lainndearda, luchtmara, tredualach, trom, trebhraid, taitnemach," (Loricas, polished, ample, treble, etc.)

{772}

Causes of the Invaders' Success.

The editor, alluding to the defeats suffered by the Irish forces on many occasions, finds no great difficulty in accounting for them, and this without the slightest reflection on their innate courage or skill in the use of their arms:

"The whole body of the clan were summoned to decide upon the question of war or peace. Every petty chieftain of every minor tribe, if not every individual clansman, had a voice not only in this primary question, but also, when the war was declared, in the questions arising upon subsequent military operations... The kings or chieftains were themselves chosen by the clan, although the choice was limited to those who possessed a sort of hereditary right, often complicated by a comparison of the personal merits of the rival claimants.

"The army was a rope of sand. It consisted of a number of minor clans, each commanded by its own petty chieftain, receiving no pay, and bound by no oath of allegiance to the king or chief commander. Each clan, no doubt, adhered with unshaken fidelity to its own immediate chieftain, but he on the smallest offence could dismiss his followers to their homes even at the very eve of a decisive battle.... These facts must be borne in mind if we would rightly understand the inherent weakness of warfare in ancient Ireland."

Thus many of the faults we choose to impute to our ancestors and their supposed natural propensities should be rather imputed to the circumstances in which they were placed than to themselves. A tribe could not reckon upon a continuance of peace with neighbors or strangers for a single week. A chief enjoying the strength, and courage, and wisdom of manhood was essential to their well-being, almost to their existence. The heir-apparent of the chief for the time might be a child or an incompetent youth. In this case it was but sound policy to elect during the chief's life his brother or other near relative to assume the command immediately on his decease. This was done, the election being restricted to the Duine Uasals (gentlemen) of the tribe. The scrutiny might be distinguished on occasions by the usual disagreeables of an election, but it prevented the inconveniences of an interregnum.

The Danish Proceedings Before Brian's Time.

The mere Irish were never much benefited by the nominal capital of their country. The Norwegians, getting it into their possession in 836 or 838, built a fortress there in 842, and the Danes, after a preliminary visit in 851, returned for reënforcements, and their king, Olaf the White, was recognized as supreme chief of all the foreigners in Ireland in 856, and made Dublin his headquarters.

There was a comparative rest from foreign invasions for about forty years, but Ireland's troubles began to thicken in the early part of the tenth century. Crowds of foreigners assembled, and the brave King of Ireland, Nial of the Black Knee, collected all the forces he could from Meath and the North, and attacked their united strength at Kilmashogue in the mountains beyond Rathfarnham. But the foreigners much outnumbered the natives, and the heroic king with twelve petty princes perished in the battle.

The ferocious invaders did not confine their attentions to Dublin and the north; they ravaged the pleasant south country, and feelingly does the chronicler describe the hellish mischief they committed. Overcome by his subjects, he sometimes even neglects his darling alliteration:

"They rent her (Erinn's) shrines, and her reliquaries, and her books. They demolished her beautiful, ornamented temples; for neither veneration, nor honor, nor mercy for Termonn, [Footnote 279] nor protection for church or for sanctuary, for God or for man, was felt by this furious, ferocious, pagan, ruthless, wrathful people. In short, until the sand of the sea, or the grass of the field, or the stars of heaven be counted, it will not be easy to recount, or to enumerate, or to relate what the Gaedhil, all without distinction, suffered from them. ... Alas! many and frequent were the bright and brilliant eyes that were suffused with tears, and dimmed with grief and despair at the separation of son from father, and daughter from mother, and brother from brother, and relatives from their race and from their tribe."

[Footnote 279: Church lands having the privilege of sanctuary.]

{773}

One of the most terrible of these southern descents was that made by Imar--son of Imar (Ivar) and his three sons Dubhceann, and Cu-Allaidh, and Aralt, (Black Head,) and Wild Dog, (Wolf,) and Harold. These worthies took possession of Limerick, and high and haughty were their proceedings.

"Such was the oppressiveness of the tribute and rent of the foreigners at large and generally, that there was a king from them over every territory, and a chief over every chieftainry, and an abbot over every church, and a steward over every village, and a soldier in every house, so that none of the men of Erinn had power to give the milk of his cow, nor so much as the clutch of eggs of one hen, in succor or in kindness to an aged man or to a friend, but was forced to preserve them for the foreign steward, or bailiff, or soldier. And though there were but one milk-giving cow in the house, she durst not be milked for an infant of one night, nor for a sick person, but must be kept for the steward, or bailiff, or soldier of the foreigners. And however long he might be from the house, his share or his supply durst not be lessened. And although there was in the house but one cow, it must be killed for the meal of one night, if the means of a supply could not be otherwise procured.... And an ounce of silver Findrunl was paid for every nose besides the royal tribute every year. And he who had not the means of paying it, had himself to go into slavery for it."

The alternative was the loss of the organ just mentioned.

Brian's Early Struggles.

But we have got to the tenth century, and the two youthful brothers destined to give a disabling blow to Danish tyranny are learning the profession of arms in their father's fortress in Thomond, (_Tuaith Muimhain_, North Munster.) These were Mathgamhain [Footnote 280] and Brian, sons of Cennedigh, (Kennedy,) chief of the tribe of Dal-Cais.

[Footnote 280: However the people of the tenth century pronounced this word, modern scholars are content to sound it Mahoun.

An old Munster king, Oilliol Oiuim, appointed in his will that the descendants of his two sons, Eogan and Cormac Oas, should sway the sceptre of the south in alternate succession. A very unwise proceeding, as future events proved.]

The first naming of these princes in the chronicle brings out an alliterative and patriotic glow on the pen of the enthusiastic chronicler.

"There were then governing and ruling this tribe two stout, able, valiant pillars, two fierce, lacerating, magnificent heroes; two gates of battle, two poles of combat, two spreading trees of shelter, two spears of victory and readiness, of hospitality and munificence, of heart and strength, of friendship and liveliness, the most eminent of the west of Europe, namely, Mathgamain and Brian, the two sons of Cennedigh, son of Lorcan, son of Lachtna, son of Core," etc.

Their cousins, the Eoganacht, having the lion's share in the government of Leath Mogha, the following were the principal privileges of the Dalcassians:

"It is the privilege of the host of Lugaidh's race To lead the battalions of the hosts of Mumhain, And afterward to be in the rere In coming from a hostile land.

"It is not fealty that is required of them, But to preserve the freedom of Caisel. [Footnote 281] It is not rent, it is not tribute, as hath been heard; It is not fostership nor fostership's fees.

[Footnote 281: The residence of the kings of the south assumed the title of Caisiol, (_Cios_, tribute, _ail_, stone.)]

......

"And even when there is not a king Out of you over Erinn of hosts, Only that you would not infringe on right, No human power could prevail over you."

Early in their lives the princes entered on a skirmishing warfare with the enemy; and when Mahon, weary of the resultless struggle, entered on a truce with the enemy, Brian still continued to harass them, and as his zealous biographer says, when he could not injure them on any day, he did it next night, and every inactive night was followed by a destructive day. He and his followers lived in temporary huts, and continued to kill daily and nightly their enemies "by companies, by troops, by scores, by hundreds, and (in case of a bad day or night) by quaternions."

"Great were the hardship and the ruin, the bad food and bad bedding, which they inflicted on him in the wild huts of the desert, on the hard, knotty, wet roots of his native country, whilst they killed his people, and his trusty officers, and his comrades; sorrowful, wretched, unpitied, weary, for historians say that the foreigners cut off his people, so that he had at last but fifteen followers."

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Mahon, finding his brother in this wretched state, appointed a meeting, and a conference was held, given in verse in the text, Mahon gently chiding Brian for exposing the lives of his brave followers to certain death; Brian delicately hinting that such and such of their ancestors would not be so patient of the presence of the foe in Thomond as he (Mahon) chose to be:

"_Mahon_. Alone art them, O Brian of Banba (Erinn)! Thy warfare was not without valor; Not numerous hast thou come to our house; Where hast thou left thy followers?

.....

"_Brian_. I have left them on Craig Liath, [Footnote 282] In that breach where shields were cleft. Birnn (Biörn)--it was difficult to cut off the man-- Fell there with his people.

[Footnote 282: Cariglea (Gray Rock) near Killaloe, seat of _Aoibhin_, (_Aoine_, Venus?) the Bean Sighe of the Dalcassian chiefs.]

.....

"Our fight at the Fergus was not soft; Weary of it were we on both sides; Our fight in the combat was no weak combat, Thirty with Elius fell.

.....

"These are our adventures, O man! O son of Cennedigh, the fair-skinned; Often did we deliver ourselves with success, From positions in which we despaired of escape. Cennedigh for wealth would not have been, Nor would Lorcan, the faithful, have been So quiescent toward the foreigners, As thou art, Mathgamhain!"

The result of the conference was a general gathering of the native fighting men to Cashel, and soon a general engagement took place between themselves and the foreigners at Sulcoit, in which these last sustained a terrible defeat. The chronicler then relates with much zest the march to Limerick, its destruction, and the treatment of the conquered:

"They carried off their jewels, and their best property, and their saddles beautiful and foreign, their gold and their silver, their beautiful woven cloth of all colors and of all kinds, their satins and silken cloth, pleasing and variegated, both scarlet and green, and all sorts of cloth, in like manner. They carried away their soft, youthful, bright, matchless girls, their blooming, silk-clad young women, and their active, large, and well-formed boys. The fort and the good town they reduced to a cloud of smoke, and to red fire afterward. The whole of the captives were collected on the hills of Saingel. Every one of them that was fit for war was killed, and every one that was fit for a slave was enslaved."

Family Quarrels.

A remnant of the Danish forces maintained a position in Inis Cealtra, (Scattery Island,) under Ivar, and six years later this chief induced the chiefs of the O'Donovans and O'Molloys to aid him to destroy the power of Mahon, now the acknowledged king of Munster, and even to take his life. These princes were of the Eoganacht branch of the royal line of Cashel, and, therefore, not friendly disposed to the present Dalcassian monarch. There are two differing narratives of the murder, with some poems interpolated, and a guess only can be made at the truthful succession of incidents. The editor presents as probable a version of the facts as can be got at among the confusion of the original accounts.

Mahon unfortunately accepted an invitation to O'Donovan's house at Bruree on the river Maigue, probably to bring about a more friendly feeling between the two rival branches of the descendants of their common ancestor, Oilliol Oluim.

The Bishop of Cork being active in the matter, and the Eoganacht chiefs having sworn neither to attempt his life nor blind him, he seems to have been quite unsuspicious. We next find him met by O'Molloy's people in a pass between Kilmallock and Cork, and about to be put to death. One of the accounts says that he had the Book of the Gospels of Barri (belonging to the cathedral of Cork) on his breast, but that, as soon as he saw his death determined on, he flung it the distance of a bow-shot away in order that it might not be stained with his blood. A cleric witness of the base deed denounced this curse on the O'Molloy, (Maelmuadh):

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"It is Aedh (Hugh) that shall kill thee, a man from the border of Aifi, On the north of the sun with the harshness of the wind. The deed thou hast done shall be to thee a regret: That for which thou hast done it thou shalt not enjoy. Perpetual shall be its misfortune; thy posterity shall pass away, Thy history shall be forgotten, thy tribe shall be in bondage; The calf of a pet cow shall overthrow thee at one meeting; Thou shall not conquer it, Aedhan shall slay thee."

"The north of the sun with the harshness of the wind" implied the burial of the treacherous chief on the north side of a hill, where the sun's rays would not reach his grave.

The denunciation of the bishop noticed the erics payable for the murder of the king, but so atrocious was the deed that Brian would not accept any recompense but the life of the culprit.

We extract a portion of the elegy made by Mahon's blind bard on the melancholy occasion:

"Loud to-day the piercing wail of woe Throughout the land of Ui Toirdhelbhaigh, (Torloch.) It shall be and it is a wail not without cause, For the loss of the hero Mathgamhain.

"Mathgamhain, the gem of Magh Fail, Son of Cennedigh, son of Lorcan; The western world was full of his fame-- The fiery King of Boromha.

.....

"The Dal Cais of the hundred churches remember How we overran Gaeth Glenn, When upon the illustrious Fergal's shield Mathgamhain's meal was cooked.

.....

"Although calves are not suffered to go to the cows In lamentation for the noble Mathgamhain, There was inflicted much evil in his day By those who are in Port Arda."

The custom of the Gael in matters militant was to appoint the time and place for battles--however enraged one party might be with the other. Brian sent mortal defiance to Molloy, threatening to besiege him in his own dun if he did not attend the notice. Murchad, Brian's eldest son, and the Osgur of his day, defied the caitiff chief to single combat. So the challenge was accepted and the battle took place, a large body of the Danes fighting under the banner of Maelmuadh. This chief was slain either by the hand of Murchad, or put to death in cold blood by Aedhan in a lonely hut after the fight. In this latter case he lost his eyesight in the field of Bealach Leachta through the curse pronounced on him, and was subsequently killed in the hut as mentioned.

A few lines of the poetical invitation to battle sent by Brian are worth quotation:

"Go, Cogaran the intelligent! Unto Maelmuadh of the piercing blue eye, To the sons of Bran of enduring prosperity, And to the sons of the Ui Eachdach.

.....

"Say unto the son of Bran that he fail not After a full fortnight from to-morrow, To come to Belach Lechta hither, With the full muster of his army and his followers.

.....

"Whenever the son of Bran son of Cian shall offer The Cumhal (blood fine) of my brother unto myself, I will not accept from him hostages or studs, But only himself in atonement for his guilt.

.....

"But if he do not come from the South To Belach Lechta the evergreen, Let him answer at his house The Dal Cais [Footnote 283] and the son of Cennedigh.

[Footnote 283: This name imports the "Tribe or Family of Cas."]

"For him shall not be accepted from them Gold, nor silver, nor land, Nor hostages, nor cattle, O man: Tell them this, and go!"

The Fight At Dunlavin.

There now remained no obstacle to the placing of the crown of Leath Mogha, [Footnote 284] the southern portion of the island, on the head of the brother and avenger of Mahon. He took hostages from the chiefs of Desmond, (_Deas_, South, _Muimhe_, Munster,) allowed sundry Danish groups of people to occupy places of trade, and finally, in the year 998, came to a conference with Malachy II., King of Leath Cuinn or northern portion of Erinn. We have no objection to Brian's triumphant procession up the Shannon, but are not clear about the privilege assumed by his Dalcassians, of making hostile visitations to districts on each side as they went up-stream. However. Malachy had set them a bad example a short time before.

[Footnote 284: The boundary line of these portions connected the bays of Dublin and Galway.]

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The natives and Danes of Leinster getting up an insurrection soon after this treaty with Malachy, Brian proceeded toward Dublin to bring them to their duty. They met him at Glean-Mama (Glen of the Gap) near Dunlavin, but sustained signal defeats at that pass and other points where they afterward rallied. The curious in topographical details will find much to interest them at pages cxliv., etc., of the introduction. The editor has made himself well acquainted with the natural features of the neighborhood of Dunlavin, having received some valuable information from Rev. Mr. Sherman, formerly Roman Catholic curate in the neighborhood. The site of the old fort is marked by an ancient cemetery, pagan tumuli, and fragments of stone circles, called by the inhabitants, Pipers' Stones. We must here make use of one of Dr. Todd's many and valuable archaeological notes:

"The Danes expected to reach Dunlavin, and perhaps to encamp there to meet the forces of Meath (under Malachy) and Munster. But Brian met them in the narrow defile of Glen Mama, thus cutting off their retreat. Here there was no room for a regular engagement, and the flight must have been immediate. The main body of the Danish army flew across the sloping land through Kinsellastown, to the ford of Lemmonstown, where a stand seems to have been made by them, and where it is said thousands fell in the conflict. To this day their bones are turned up in the fields about the ford, and some mounds on the banks of the stream are so filled up with them that the people leave them untilled, as being sacred repositories of the dead. The remnant of the defeated army fled to Holywood, about a mile to the east of the ford, and thence to the ford of the Horse-pass on the Liffey, about Poul a Phouca, (the Pooka's Hole,) where they were utterly routed. At the close of the last century the wild lands of Upper Crihelpe were reclaimed, and many relics of this retreat were brought to light, chiefly in a line from _Tubber Glen_ (Well of the Glen) to Lemmonstown ford. The workmen, coming on the pits where the bodies of the slain lay buried, left them intact, closing them up again. In the defile of Glen Mama, during the first week of May, 1864, one of these pits was accidentally opened, bones were turned up, and also the fragments of a Danish sword, (now in the possession of Dean Graves, Pres. R. I. A.) The clay was found black and unctuous, as if thoroughly saturated with human remains."

In the now nearly unknown cemetery of Crihelpe lie the remains of Harold the Danish prince, by the side of a granite post, furnished with an aperture for a wooden shaft, to convert it into a cross. It is called _Cruisloe_, (_Crois laech_, warrior's cross,) and serves as a rubbing-post for cattle.

This was considered one of the most important victories gained over the foreigners, both from the number of the slain and the spoils recovered--"Gold, silver, bronze, (_finndruine_,) precious stones, carbuncle gems, buffalo horns, and beautiful goblets. Much also of various vestures of all colors was found there likewise;" for, in the words of the text,

"Never was there a fortress, or a fastness, or a mound, or a church, or a sacred place, or a sanctuary, when it was taken by that howling, furious, loathsome crew, which was not plundered.... Neither was there in concealment under ground in Erinn, nor in the various solitudes belonging to Fians [Footnote 285] or to fairies, anything that was not discovered by these foreign, wonderful Denmarkians through paganism and idol worship."

[Footnote 285: Here is evidence of the existence of legends of the Fianna in the early part of the eleventh century.]

The tables were now completely turned on the foreigners. Instead of the state of vassalage in which they had held the natives, we now find the following state of things:

"There was not a winnowing sheet from Benn Edair (Howth) to Tech Duinn [Footnote 286] in Western Erinn that had not a foreigner in bondage on it, nor was there a quern (hand-mill) without a foreign woman, so that no son of a soldier or of an officer of the Gaedhil deigned to put his hand to a flail or to any labor on earth. Nor did a woman deign to put her hands to the grinding of a quern, or to knead a cake, or to wash her clothes, but had a foreign man or a foreign woman to work for them."

[Footnote 286: _House of Donn:_ the locality of the shipwreck of Donn, son of Milesius, in the south-west of Kerry. Donn was venerated as a fairy chief after his decease, the same as Aenghus of the Brugh, Mananan, Mac Lir, etc.]

Unedifying Doings at Kincora.

After a sojourn from Great to Little Christmas (February 2d) in Dublin, Brian returned to Kincora, (_Ceann Coraidh_, head of the weir.) {777} Meantime Sitric, son of Anlaf, the defeated Danish prince, fled to the court of Aedh, at Aileach, (north east of Donegal,) and afterward to that of Achy, king of East Ulster, at Down-patrick, but neither king would afford him protection, such was the awe of Brian's power. So, like a brave and wise chief, he proceeded directly to the Court of his conqueror, and requested peace and friendship. These were immediately granted, both from the inherent nobility of Brian's disposition and his desire to have a friendly and devoted governor for the distant city of Ath Cliath.

To strain the bonds that held his new ally to him still tighter, he gave him his daughter in marriage. This might be prudent or the reverse, but to take Sitric's mother Gormflaith (blue-_eyed_ noble lady) for his second wife showed little wisdom. This lady, sister to Maelmordha, King of Leinster, had for her first husband Olaf Cuaran, to whom she bore the Prince Sitric. Her next spouse was Malachy, King of Leath Cuinn, already more than once mentioned. After presenting him with a son, Prince Connor, she was repudiated, and, very little to Brian's domestic comfort, he was selected for her third experiment in matrimony. After sharing his royal bed and board for a season, she was repudiated the second time, and then probably went to add to the discomfort of the fortress of her son in Dublin, or her brother at Naas, or Dunlavin, or Dinn Righ, (Ballyknockan, near Leighlin Bridge.)

"The Njal Saga calls her Kormlada, and describes her as the fairest of all women, and best gifted in everything that was not in her own power, that is, in all physical and natural endowments, but she did all things ill over which she had any power, that is, in her moral conduct."--_Burnt Njal_, ii. 323.

We find at the period in question frequent marriage alliances between Irish and Danish families. In fact, when a foreign family or tribe had contrived to secure a footing in the country, and the first bitter dislike had blown over, the native chiefs began to look on them as they did each other, and in many cases a stronger feeling of friendship connected the foreign chief and his people to some neighboring native prince or flaith than prevailed among themselves. This was also the case afterward between natives and Anglo-Normans. Nothing could exceed the strength of ties that bound the individuals of a tribe to each other and to their chief, and in most cases the chiefs to the provincial kings, but enthusiasm for the cause of the Ard-Righ or for the general weal of the island was an exceedingly scarce commodity. The same indifferent spirit still exists.

The great chiefs proceedings for some time after these occurrences seem to have been prompted as much by ambition at least as by a national spirit. Still he did not depart from the generally observed rule among Gaelic kings and chiefs, that is, sending warning to those on whom they intended to make war, and appointing the time and place of battle. He gave Malachy plainly to understand that he should cede to him the dignity of Ard-Righ. The astonished sovereign claimed time to consult the princes of the North and his own chiefs, but neither from the Kinel Conaill [Footnote 287] nor the Kinel Eoghain could he get due encouragement, and he was obliged to acknowledge the humiliating fact to the southern chief.

[Footnote 287: In the original is given the poetical adjuration of Gilla Comghaill O'Sleibhin to Hugh, king of Hy Conaill, to join Malachy in his opposition to Brian. This King of Munster is treated in it as the King of Saxon-land in aftertimes by a bard of the fifteenth or sixteenth century. For a wonder the Ulster king did not yield to the power of poesy on that occasion.]

Still the latter was not disposed to take the brave prince at a disadvantage, and gave him a twelvemonth to mature his plans. The interview took place in Brian's camp, Malachy being accompanied by twelve score horsemen, and, when the agreement was made, the southern king proceeded homeward, first making a present of 240 horses to his future vassal. The Meath warriors would not deign to conduct each a led horse back to the royal fort, and Malachy was unwilling to offend Brian by refusing them. [Footnote 288]

[Footnote 288: Petty chiefs or princes paying tribute to their superiors received in turn gifts from the great men, in fact, were obliged to receive them--a genuine Irish procedure. (See the Book of Rights.)]

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He therefore begged of Murchad to accept them in token of his good-will, and the prince graciously assented. Malachy was not in a better condition at the year's end, and so the sovereignty of the island passed into Brian's hands without bloodshed. We have not space to treat in detail his after _visitations_ to the north, and his circuit of the kingdom to receive hostages and confirm his authority. When at Armagh, he gratified the ecclesiastical powers there by a donation of twenty ounces of gold, and by directing his secretary, the Abbot O' Carroll, to make this entry in their book in the Latin language. The curious may still read the original at page 16, BB, in the Book of Armagh, a collection begun in the eighth century:

"St. Patrick, going up to heaven, commanded that all the fruit of his labor, as well of baptisms as of causes and of alms, should be carried to the apostolic city which is called _Scotice_ (in Gaelic) ARDD MACHA. So I have found it in the book collections of the Scots, (the Gael.) I have written, (this,) that is, (I,) Calvus Perennis (_Mael-Suthain_, Bald for Ever) in the sight (under the eyes) of Brian, emperor of the Scots; and what I have written he has determined for all the kings of Maceriae, (Cashel or Munster.)"

Compensations.

If there is extant a thorough believer in all the facts related by the bards, he had better refrain from questioning the editor on the subject of the beautiful and innocent maiden of the gold ring and snow-white wand. The chronicler coming to this point in the history thus expressed himself:

"After the banishment of the foreigners out of all Erinn, and after Erinn was reduced to a state of peace, a lone woman came from Torach in the North to Cliodhna [Footnote 289] (pr. Cleena) in the south of Erinn, carrying a ring of gold on a horse-rod, and she was neither robbed nor insulted. Whereupon the poet sang:

"From Torach to pleasant Cliodhna And carrying with her a ring of gold, In the time of Brian of the bright side, fearless, A lone woman made the circuit of Erinn."

[Footnote 289: Cleena was in the first rank of Munster fairies. Her visits were much disliked by the people. _Tonn Cliodhna_ (Cleena's Wave) in one of the Kerry bays was the dread of the native seamen.]

It cannot be denied that Brian was a usurper with respect to Leath Cuinn; but how much better was it for the people of the whole land to be under the undivided sway of one wise, noble-minded, and energetic prince, assured of peace, and opportunities of carrying on the ordinary business of life undisturbed, and improving their condition, than to be merely enduring life from day to day, not knowing the moment they should be called on to go on a marauding expedition or to defend their corn, their cattle, and their own lives from a marauding party. We quote a few of the peaceful exploits of the best and greatest of our ancient princes:

"By him were erected noble churches in Erinn and their sanctuaries. He sent professors and masters to teach wisdom and knowledge, and to buy books beyond the sea and the great ocean, because the writings and books in every church, etc., had been burned, and thrown into the water by the plunderers from the beginning. And Brian himself gave the price of books to every one separately who went on this service.... By him were erected the church of Cell Dálua, (Killaloe,) and the church of Inis Cealtra, (Scattery Island,) and the bell-tower of Tuam Greine, [Footnote 290] etc. etc. By him were made bridges and causeways and high roads. By him were strengthened the duns and fortresses and islands.... and royal forts of Mumhain. He built also the fortification of Caisel of the kings,.... and Cean Coradh, and Borumha in like manner. He continued in this way prosperously, peaceful, giving banquets, hospitable, just-judging; wealthily, venerated, chastely, and with devotion, and with law, and with rules among the clergy; with prowess and with valor, with renown among the laity, and fruitful, powerful, firm, secure for fifteen years in the chief sovereignty of Erinn, as Gilla Maduda (O'Cassidy, Abbot of Ardbreccan) said:

'Brian the flame over Banbha of the variegated flowers, Without gloom, without guile, without treachery, Fifteen years in full prosperity.'"

[Footnote 290: Fort of the Sun--Tomgreany in Clare--a copy of one of the Danaan round towers. There is at present not a trace of it.]

{779}

The Gathering of the Eagles.

Toward the festival of St. Patrick in the ensuing spring, all that had remained loyal to the reigning monarch were directing their course to the plain before Dublin. Sitric, and his mother Gormflaith, and Maelmordha busied themselves collecting allies from all quarters. Sigurd, Earl of Orkney, came to the aid of his countrymen on the condition of getting the privilege of being Gormflaith's fourth husband, the second and third still living, and one being near eighty years of age. Brodar, about whose name and the locality of whose earldom there is some uncertainty, was also a postulant for her hand, and Sitric made no scruple of promising it, expecting, as may be supposed, that one of the wooers, after doing good service in the battle, might be very indifferent on the subject at its close:

"Brodar, according to the Njal Saga, had been a Christian man and a mass-deacon by consecration, but he had thrown off his faith, and become 'God's dastard' and worshipped heathen fiends; and he was of all men most skilled in sorcery. He had that coat of mail on which no steel would bite. He was both tall and strong, and had such long locks that he tucked them under his belt. His hair was black."

This fierce-looking renegade commanded the foreign Danes and auxiliaries in the front of the battle, being supported by Earl Sigurd and other chiefs. A battalion of the Dublin Danes had their position in the rear of these, supported by the chieftains of ships. Maelmordha and his chiefs occupied the rear, commanding the North-Leinster men and the forces of Hy Ceansalach, [Footnote 291] (Wicklow and Wexford.)

[Footnote 291: The first chief who bore this name had killed a druid, accompanying the sacrilegious deed with a fiendish grin on his features. "That vile expression on your face," said the dying man, "shall give a name to your posterity while grass grows." _Ceann salach_ is literally _dirty head_. Other great families have not escaped nick-names. _Cameron_ is crooked nose; _Cromwell_, crooked eye. (_Hy Kinsala_ is Kinsella's country.)]

Directly opposed to Brodar's front battalions were the tried men of North-Munster, the Dalcassians under the command of the invincible Murchadh. The battalion behind this front array consisted of other Munster troops commanded by the Prince of the Waterford Decies. The nobles of Connacht, with their brave tribesmen, occupied the rear of the Irish war force.

The patriotic chronicler, having brought the combatants face to face on the field which was to be the crown of his work, felt all his poetic rage arise against the foreigners, whom he abuses as heartily as Goldsmith's bailiff did the French:

"These were the chiefs, and outlaws, and Dannars of all the west of Europe, having no reverence, veneration, respect, or mercy, for God or for man, for church or for sanctuary, at the head of cruel, villainous, ferocious, plundering, hard-hearted, wonderful Danmarkians, selling and hiring themselves for gold, and silver, and other treasures as well. And there was not one villain or robber of that two thousand, (the troops of Brodor and his brother Anlaf,) who had not polished, strong, triple-plated, glittering armor of refined iron, or of cool uncorroding brass, encasing their sides and bodies from head to foot."

In the description of the arms and armor of the combatants we suspect our authority of some inaccuracy. Avoiding the forest of epithets bristling all over the glowing description, we are told that the blue-green, hard-hearted pagans used crimsoned, murderous, poisoned arrows anointed and browned in the blood of dragons, and toads, and water-snakes, and otters, (the poor otter! he did not deserve this,) and scorpions. They had barbarous quivers, yellow-shining bows, green, sharp, rough, dark spears, polished, pliable, triple-plated corselets of refined iron and uncorroding brass. Their swords were heavy, hard-striking, strong, and powerful.

{780}

To the Gaelic warriors he allows glittering, _poisoned_, [Footnote 292] well-riveted spears, with beautiful handles of white hazel; darts furnished with silken strings, to be cast overhand; long, glossy, white shirts; comfortable (comfort in battle!) long vests; well-adjusted, many-colored tunics over these; variegated, brazen-embossed shields, with bronze chains; crested, golden helms, set with precious stones, on the heads of chiefs and princes; glaring, broad, well-set Lochlann axes, to hew plate and mail. Every sword had about thirty glorious qualities attached to it. [Footnote 293]

[Footnote 292: Venomous and poisonous in the bardic lays were mere epithets applied to weapons from their aptitude to inflict mortal wounds.]

[Footnote 293: It is somewhat strange that the chronicler has not afforded even the _luirech_ (the leathern jack with its iron or bronze scales) to his heroes. These loricas are frequently mentioned in the old lays.]

The inferiority of the Irish warriors in defensive arms gave little concern to their historian. Armed or unarmed, they were a match for the world. (This under certain conditions is our own belief.)

"Woe to those who attacked them if they could have avoided attacking them, for it was swimming against a stream, it was pummelling an oak with fists, it was a hedge against the swelling of a spring tide, it was a string upon sand or a sunbeam, it was the fist against a sunbeam to attempt to give them battle or combat."

Day at Clontarf.

The battle began with a single combat, there being a previous challenge in the case. Plait, the foreign warrior, came before his lines and shouted, "Faras (_where is?_ an attempt at Danish) Donall?" "Here, thou reptile!" said the Irish champion. The battle was sharp and short, the two warriors falling on the sod at the same moment, their left hands clutching each other's hair, and their hearts transfixed by their swords.

Heaven and earth are ransacked for sublime images to give an idea of the dread struggle that took place between the iron-covered and the defenceless warriors on each side:

"To nothing small (we quote our text) could be likened the firm, stern, sudden, thunder motion, and the stout, valiant, haughty, billow roll of these people on both sides. I could compare it only to the boundless, variegated wonderful firmament that has cast a heavy, sparkling shower of flaming stars over the surface of the earth, or to the startling, fire-darting roar of the clouds and the heavenly orbs, confounded and crashed by all the winds in their contention against each other."

It was a terrible spectacle without doubt--the din and clang of sword and axe on shields and helms, the cries of the combatants, and the lurid flashes from the polished surfaces of the arms, and the effect of all intensified by dying groans, and the sight of bodies writhing in agony as life was about to quit them. It is not so easy to understand, taking distance into account, how the following circumstance could occur:

"It was attested by the foreigners and foreign women who were watching from the battlements of Ath Cliath, that they used to see flashes of fire from them in the air on all sides."

Malachy's forces remained inactive during the main part of the fight at least. Dr. Todd acquits him, however, of treachery to the national cause. We quote some passages of a description of the fight imputed to him:

"There was a field and a ditch between us and them, and the sharp wind of the spring coming over them toward us. And it was not a longer time than a cow could be milked that we continued there, when not one person of the two hosts could recognize another.... We were covered, as well our heads as our faces, and our clothes, with the drops of the gory blood, carried by the force of the sharp, cold wind which passed over them to us.... Our spears over our heads had become clogged and bound with long locks of hair, which the wind forced upon us when cut away by well-aimed swords and gleaming axes, so that it was half occupation to us to endeavor to disentangle and cast them off."

Were we a powerful, well-armed warrior standing by the side of Maelseachlin (Malachy) on that day, we would certainly have endeavored to find a better occupation for his hands. Hear this bit of Pecksniffism uttered by him:

"It is one of the problems of Erinn whether the valor of those who sustained that crushing assault was greater than ours who bore the sight of it without running distracted before the winds, or fainting."

{781}

Conaing, Brian's nephew, and Maelmordha, fell that day by each other's swords. The Connacht forces and the Danes of Dublin assailed each other so furiously that only about a hundred of the Irish survived, while the Danes scarcely left a score. Murchadh's exploits, could we trust the chronicler and Malachy, could be rivalled only by those of Achilles of old. He went forward and backward through the enemies' ranks, mowing them down even as a person might level rows of upright weeds. He got his mortal wound at last from the knife of a Dane whom he had struck to the earth. He survived, however, till he had received the consolations of religion.

About sunset the foreigners, notwithstanding their superiority in armor, were utterly defeated. Striving to escape by their ships, they were prevented by the presence of the full tide, and those who flew toward the city were either intercepted by the same tide or by Maelseachluin's [Footnote 294] men. Dr. Todd inclines to this last theory. The heroic youth Torloch, son of Murchadh, pursuing the fugitive Danes into the sea, met his death at a weir.

[Footnote 294: This name implies the Tonsured, that is, devoted disciple of Saint Sechnal, contemporary with St. Patrick, and patron of Dunshaughlin.]

The aged monarch, while engaged at his prayers for the blessing of Heaven on the arms of his people, was murdered just at the moment of victory by the chief Brodar, who in a few minutes afterward was torn to pieces by the infuriated soldiers crowding to the spot.

The power of the foreigners was certainly crushed in this great and memorable combat, but disorder seized on the general weal of the island again. South-Munster renewed its contentions with North-Munster, and even its own chiefs with each other. Donnchad, Brian's remaining son, though a brave prince, had not the abilities of his father or elder brother. Malachy quietly resumed the sovereignty of the island, but found that the annoyances from turbulent petty kings and the still remaining foreigners were not at an end.

We join our regret to that of the editor that one of the unromantic books of Annals--that of Tiernach, or Loch Cé, or that of Ulster, has not inaugurated the publication of our ancient chronicles. Dr. Todd has done all that could be done by the most profound and enlightened scholar to disentangle the true from the false through the narrative by shrewd guesses, by sound judgment in weighing the merits and probabilities of conflicting accounts, by comparing the romantic statements with those set forth in the genuine annals and the foreign authorities, whether Icelandic or Anglo-Saxon. Many events in our old archives, pronounced by shallow and supercilious critics to have had no foundation, are found to possess the stamp of truth by the care taken by Dr. Todd and his fellow-archaeologists in comparing our own annals and those of the European nations with whom we had formerly either friendly or hostile relations.

Besides the anxious care bestowed on the comparison of the different MSS. and the translation, and the very useful commentary, the editor has furnished in the appendix the fragment (with translation) in the Book of Leinster, the Chronology and Genealogy of the Kings of Ireland and of Munster during the Danish period, Maelseachluin's account of the fight of Clontarf, in full from the Brussels MS., and the genealogy of the various Scandinavian chiefs who were mixed with our concerns for two centuries. The accounts given in detail of the fortunes of Sitric and others of these chiefs are highly interesting. The present volume will be more generally read than any of the mere chronicles, into whose composition entered more conscience and judgment--on account of the many poetic and romantic passages scattered through it. Let us hope that it is not the last on which the labors of the eminent scholar, its editor, will be employed, for we cannot conceive any literary task more ably and satisfactorily executed than the production of the Wars of the Gaedhil and the Gaill.

{782}

The Fatal Sisters, translated by Gray from the Norse, refer to the day at Clontarf. We quote three of the verses:

"Ere the ruddy sun be set Pikes must shiver, javelins sing, Blade with clattering buckler meet, Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.

......

"Low the dauntless earl [Footnote 295] is laid, Gored with many a gaping wound; Fate demands a nobler head, Soon a king [Footnote 296] shall bite the ground.

[Footnote 295: Earl Sigurd.]

[Footnote 296: Brian.]

"Long his loss shall Erinn weep, Ne'er again his likeness see; Long her strains in sorrow steep, Strains of immortality!"

The appendix added by Dr. Todd to the work is exceedingly interesting and valuable, containing among other matters a carefully arranged genealogical list of the Irish princes and the foreign chiefs during the Danish wars, and an abstract of the fortunes of several of these kings. The accounts of the battle of Clontarf differed so much in form in the two MSS., that is, the Dublin and Brussels copies, that, instead of pointing out the various readings in notes to the body of the narrative, the editor has removed the account in the Brussels MSS., purported to have been given by Malachy, to the end of the book. Passages are worth preservation as literary curiosities. If Malachy felt any ill to Brian for wresting his independent sovereignty from him, there is not a trace of it discoverable in his narrative. Thus he speaks of the noble heir-apparent, Murchadh, who disdained to wear even a shield.

Malachy's Account of the Battle.

"The royal warrior had with him two swords, that is, a sword in each hand, for he was the last man in Erinn who was equally expert in the use of the right hand and of the left... He would not retreat one foot before the race of all mankind for any reason in the world, except this reason alone, that he could not help dying of his wounds. He was the last man in Erinn who was a match for a hundred. He was the last man who killed a hundred in one day in Erinn. His step was the last step which true valor took. Seven like Murchadh were equal to Mac Samhain," etc.

Then the writer indulged in a heroic series in geometrical progression, each hero being worth seven such as the man who preceded him, and the greatest of all being Hector of Troy. All native bards, school-masters, and school boys, who have flourished since first the siege of Troy was heard of in Ireland, have fixed on Hector as the matchless model of heroism, chivalric faith, courtesy, and tenderness; most of them have borne a cordial hatred to the son of Peleus. Has the feeling originated from the pseudo-work of Dares the Phrygian priest having arrived in the country before Homer's "Tale of Troy Divine"? The theory in the text would make Hector many times superior to Hercules, the heroic terms in the sevenfold progression being Murchadh, Mac Samhain, Lugha Lagha, Conall Cearnach, Lugha Lamhfada, (_Long Hand_,) Hector! After the list comes this rather startling assertion: "These were the degrees of championship since the beginning of the world, and before Hector there was no illustrious championship."

"Murchadh was the Hector of Erinn in valor, in championship, in generosity, in munificence. He was the pleasant, intelligent, affable, accomplished Samson of the Hebrews in his own career and in his time. He was the second powerful Hercules, who destroyed and exterminated the serpents and monsters of Erinn.... He was the gate of battle and the sheltering tree, the crushing sledge-hammer of the enemies of his fatherland and of his race during his career.

"When this very valiant, very great, royal champion, and plundering, brave, powerful hero saw the crushing and the repulse that the Danars and pirates gave to the Dal Cais, it operated upon him like death or a permanent blemish; and he was seized with boiling, terrible anger, and his bird of valor and championship arose, and he made a brave, vigorous, sudden rush at a battalion of the pirates, like a violent, impetuous, furious ox that, is about being caught, or like a fierce, tearing, swift, all-powerful lioness deprived of her cubs, or like the roll of a deluging torrent, that shatters and smashes everything that resists it; and he made a hero's breach and a soldier's field through the battalions of the pirates. And the historians of the foreigners testified after him that there fell fifty by his right, and fifty by his left hand in that onset. Nor did he administer more than one blow to any of them; and neither shield, nor corselet, nor helmet, resisted any of these blows, which clave bodies and skulls alike. Thus three times he forced his way backward through the battalions in that manner."

{783}

Sitric, the Danish prince, married as before mentioned to a daughter of Brian, is described as looking at the fight from his Dublin watch-tower, with his wife at his side. Seeing the mass of plumages and hair shorn off by the gleaming weapons, and flying over the heads in the wind, he exclaimed, "Well do the foreigners reap the field, for many is the sheaf whirled aloft over them." But in the evening he was obliged to endure the sight of his foreign friends and allies fleeing into the sea "like a herd of cows in heat from sultry weather, or from gnats, or from flies. And they were pursued quickly and lightly into the sea, where they were with great violence drowned, so that they lay in heaps and in hundreds and in battalions." Sitric's wife had not yet learned to feel strong sympathy with her husband's politics; and, if he had insisted on her presence in order to be a spectator of the defeat of her countrymen, he was sadly disappointed:

"Then it was that Brian's daughter, the wife of Amhlaibh's son, said: 'It appears to me,' said she, 'that the foreigners have gained their inheritance.' [Footnote 297] 'What is that, O girl?' said Amhlaibh's son. 'The foreigners are only going into the sea as is hereditary to them.' 'I know not whether it is on them, but nevertheless they tarry not to be milked.'

[Footnote 297: Sitric had used that expression at an early hour of the fight, when he imagined the Danes were gaining on their enemy.]

"The son of Amhlaibh was angered with her, and he gave her a blow which knocked a tooth out of her head."

Murcadh's death after a fatiguing day of fight has been already related. While the fierce struggle was going on, thus was the brave and devout old monarch employed:

"When the combatants met, his cushion was spread under him, and he opened his psalter, and he began to recite his psalms and his prayers behind the battle, and there was no one with him but Laideen, his own horseboy. Brian said to his attendant, 'Watch thou the battle and the combatants while I recite my psalms.' Brian then said fifty psalms, fifty prayers, and fifty paters, and he asked the attendant how the battalions were circumstanced. The attendant answered, 'I see them, and closely confounded are they, and each of them has come within grasp of the other. And not more loud to me would be the blows in Tomar's wood if seven battalions were cutting it down, than are the resounding blows on the heads, and bones, and skulls of them.' Brian asked how was the banner of Murchadh. 'It stands,' said the attendant, 'and the banners of the Dal Cais round it.'... His cushion was readjusted under Brian, and he said fifty psalms, fifty prayers, and fifty paters, and he asked the attendant how the battalions were. The attendant said, 'There lives not a man who could distinguish one of them from the other, for the greater part of the hosts on either side are fallen, and those that are alive are so covered--their heads, and legs, and garments, and drops of crimson blood--that the father could not recognize his own son there.' And again he asked how was the banner of Murchadh. The attendant answered, 'It is far from Murchadh, and has gone through the hosts westward, and it is stooping and inclining. Brian said, 'Erinn declines on that account. Nevertheless so long as the men of Erinn shall see that banner, its valor and its courage shall be upon every man of them.' Brian's cushion was readjusted, and he said fifty psalms, fifty prayers, and fifty paters, and the fighting continued during all that time. Brian then cried out to the attendant, how was the banner of Murchad, and how were the battalions. The attendant answered, 'It appears to me like as if Tomar's wood was being cut down, and set on fire, its underwood and its young trees, and as if the seven battalions had been unceasingly destroying it for a month, and its immense trees and its great oaks left standing.'"

Later Exploits of Sitric of the Silky Beard.

A year after the battle, Malachy assaulted Dublin, and burned all the buildings outside the fortress, within which Sitric lay secure. In 1018, Sitric blinded Bran or Braoin, his own first cousin, son of Maelmordha, thus incapacitating him to rule. The poor prince subsequently went abroad and died in a monastery at Cologne. This Bran was ancestor of the _Ua Brain_ or O'Byrn of Wicklow. {784} Next year he went on enlarging his bad ways by plundering Kells, slaying many people in the very church, and carrying away spoils and prisoners. In 1021, his Danes and himself got a signal defeat at Derne Mogorog, (Delgany,) by the son of Dunlaing, King of Leinster. In 1022, he was again defeated by King Malachy in a land battle, and at sea by Niall, son of Eochaidh, (_pr._ Achy or Uchy,) king of Hy Conaill. In 1027, he made an unsuccessful raid into Meath, and next year went on a pilgrimage to Rome. Two years later he attended the funeral of his mother Gormflaith. His pilgrimage had not quenched his thirst for forays, for in 1031 he plundered Ardbraccan, and carried off much cattle. Next year he was victorious at the mouth of the Boyne over the men of Meath, Louth, and Monaghan. In 1035, twenty-one years after the great fight, he abdicated in favor of his nephew Eachmarcach, (Rich in Horses,) and went abroad, (where is not said.) His death as well as that of his daughter Fineen, a nun, is recorded in 1042, the last seven years of life having probably been spent in religious retirement.

Irish historians and archaeologists will find valuable assistance in the appendix, whenever they are occupied with the genealogies of the Irish or foreign kings and chiefs who flourished during the two centuries preceding the day at Clontarf.

From The Month.

Rhoda.

A Devonshire Eclogue.

"I am declined Into the vale of years; yet that's not much."_--Othello_.

It was the deep midsummer; the calm lake Lay shining in the sun; the glittering ripples, That scarce bare record of the wind's light wings, Reached not the shore, where, shadowed by huge oaks, The clear still water blended with the land In undistinguished union. All was still, Save where at little distance a bright spring Leapt out from a fern-coroneted rock, And ran with cheerful prattle its short course (Making the silence deeper for its noise) To quiet slumber in the quiet lake.

Down to the margin of the water, slow Pacing along the shadow-dappled grass Into the trees' green twilight, steadfastly The while his eyes bent down upon the ground, Sir Richard Conway came. No longer young; A statesman of repute; in council wise; Of bitter speech, but not unkindly heart; Of stately presence still. He in his youth Had wooed and wedded a fair girl; so fair, So gentle, and so good that when she died His heart and love died too, and in her grave Lay down, and he came forth a stricken man.

{785}

But this was long ago: his children grew; He watched them, but they never saw his heart; They dreamed not of the proud man's tenderness, But went into the highway of the world, And left him to his utter loneliness. Years passed: sometimes his solitary heart Sent out a cry of agony for love; But no one heard--he sternly stifled it: Treading his path with dignity, he lived In pride and honor, and he lived alone.

He prayed for love, and in his autumn days Love came upon him; but in such a sort As, if a man had told him it would come, He would have laughed in scorn. But so it is; God gives us our desire, and sends withal Sharp chastening as his wisdom sees most fit.

Rhoda, the fairest of a sisterhood Who were all fair, lived hard by the great house, Near to the lake; the daughter of a pair Not rich, yet blessed with slender competence. And sometimes in the park, or in the house, Whereto chance errands brought her, she would meet Sir Richard, who to such as her showed ever A gracious kindness, and would give to her A friendly greeting, sometimes with a word Of question of her needs or her desires, Followed by such slight interchange of talk As might befit such meetings--nothing more. Indeed he could not fail, as time wore on, To note that with each year she lovelier grew: A pale and delicate fairy, exquisite As some rare picture, with pathetic eyes Veiled underneath long lashes; their shy glance Seemed to reveal a soul whose tender depths Were unprofaned by any earthly thought. Nor was it seeming only: she was good; And fenced her beauty with simplicity, Meek sense, and modest wisdom.

{786}

This he saw-- He could not choose but see it; and he felt, When she was near, as if some soothing strain Breathed round him; and his secret soul was swayed With unseen power, as sways the billowy corn Swept by the warm caresses of the wind. He knew what this portended. All in vain The proud man struggled with his heart: he loved, And knew that he loved, Rhoda; all in vain He strove to turn away from her fair face; He only gazed more tenderly: in vain Strove to speak coldly when he met her; still His deep voice trembled, as his heart beat fast, And from his eyes looked out his yearning soul. Of all this conflict Rhoda saw but little; The less, belike, for conflict of her own: Mysterious longings kindled by his voice; Shy pleasure in his presence; constant thought (Half reverence, half compassion, tender always) Of this grave, courteous, noble, lonely man, Who looked so great, so sorrowful, but still With many a mute yet clearly speaking sign Sued for her love with sad humility. These things she never uttered to her heart; And if her thoughts half spoke, unwaveringly She put them by, and simply went her way. But he could fight no longer; and to-day He waited by the water, for he knew Rhoda would pass that way, and he resolved To tell her all his secret, and to learn His future from her lips, whether they spoke Hope or despair.

He had not waited long, When through the park, along the trembling lake, Into the oaks' soft shadows, Rhoda came; So bright, so fresh, so beautiful, she seemed To bring a golden light into the gloom. Sir Richard trembled, and his breath came quick, His pulse throbbed wildly, and his eyes grew dim; Yet, mastered by his iron will, his words Came calmly forth to greet her: at the sound, Surprised to find him here, she started back, Then murmuring something hurriedly, went on. He gently staid her, saying in tenderest tones: "One moment, Rhoda--one--could you but know--" She looked into his face with wondering eyes, Then bashfully withdrew them; for she knew At once his secret from his pleading voice And his dark eyes' ineffable tenderness. "I did not mean to startle you," he said; "Nay, do not tremble; could you see my soul, The tempest there would make your own show calm. Oh! stay--forgive me when the heart beats fast. The tongue is slow--I love you! Fewest words Are best for such confession. Can you love?"

{787}

But Rhoda could not answer. Naught was heard Except the gurgling of the silver spring, When thus in saddest accents he resumed: "Rhoda, you see in me a man sore smitten, Whose youth and spring were buried long ago-- One who has had no summer in his heart, Whose autumn days are lonely, and who prayed (Till you relumed the sunshine of his life) For the swift-closing winter of the grave. Long have I kept my secret to myself-- From no mean shame, my girl; for well I know, Were you my wife, mine were the gain, not yours; But silver hairs blend ill with waving gold, Nor would I bring a blight upon your life. Why have I spoken? 'Twas a selfish thought To share with you the burden of my gloom, O'ershadowing your young years--an idle dream That one so old and desolate as I Could stir the heart of blessed youthfulness. There--you have heard my secret. Pity me: I know you will not mock me. So, farewell! Go, Rhoda, with my blessing on your head! I to my loveless life return alone, Forlorn, but uncomplaining."

He turned to go, But Rhoda, who had heard him to this word, Could now endure no more; she caught his arm, She gazed at him with fond eyes full of tears. "Oh! not alone!" she said "we go together; If a poor girl like me--" She said no more, But turned and hid her face upon his heart. He clasped her, looking thankfully to heaven, Then stooped and kissed her: "Rhoda, my own wife, Bear with me for my love!" The trees stood still, Yielding no faintest whispering. They came forth Out of the solemn grove into the sun; The soft blue sky had not one film of cloud; And as they walked in silence, they could hear Far off the happy stockdove's brooding note.

And so Sir Richard won his lovely wife. Once more the old house brightened; stately rooms Rang with the unaccustomed sound of mirth: And still as years went on, Sir Richard wore Always an air of serious cheerfulness; While baby voices gladdened all the place, And Rhoda's lovely face was never sad. Let the grim rock give forth a living stream, And still boon nature crowns its ruggedness With flowers and fairy grasses.

{788}

Near the park Towers up a tract of granite; the huge hills Bear on their broad flanks right into the mists Vast sweeps of purple heath and yellow furze. It is the home of rivers, and the haunt Of great cloud-armies, borne on ocean blasts Far-stretching squadrons, with colossal stride Marching from peak to peak, or lying down Upon the granite beds that crown the heights. Yet for the dwellers near them these bleak moors Have some strange fascination; and I own That, like a strong man's sweetness, to myself Pent in the smoky city, worn with toil, When the sun rends the veil, or flames unveiled Over those wide waste uplands, or when mists Fill the great vales like lakes, then break and roll Slow lingering up the hills as living things, Then do they stir and lift the soul; and then Their colors, and their rainbows, and their clouds, And their fierce winds, and desolate liberty, Seem endless beauty and untold delight.

So was it with Sir Richard: from the park And from the cares of state he often went With Rhoda, to enjoy some happy hours There face to face with nature--far away From all the din and fume of human life, From paltry cares and interests, that corrupt Or keep the soul in chains. They may be seen On a great hill, on cloudless summer days, Or when the sun in autumn melts the clouds, Gazing on that magnificent region, spread In majesty below them: teeming plains And wood-clothed gorges of the hills in front; Behind them sea-like ridges of bare moor, Some in brown shade, some white with blazing light; Above, enormous rocks piled up in play By giants; all around, authentic relics Of those drear ages, when half-naked men Roamed these dim regions, waging doubtful war With wolves and bears; and on the horizon's verge The pale blue waste of ocean. There they sit, Sir Richard and his Rhoda, side by side Their hearts aglow with love, their souls bowed down In thankful adoration, scarce recalled From musings deep and tender, by the shouts Of two fair children playing at their feet.

October, 1866.

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Original.

Protestant Attacks Upon The Bible. [Footnote 298]

[Footnote 298: Liber Librorum: Its Structure, Limitations, and Purpose. A Friendly Communication to a Reluctant Sceptic. New-York: C. Scribner & Co. 1867.]

The work, the title of which we subjoin, though pretending on the surface to be an appeal, in favor of the Bible, is, in truth, one of the most serious attacks made upon it that has come under our notice; and would be, for a Protestant, one of the most dangerous books he could read. With a Catholic its arguments would have no force whatever, being based upon the unphilosophical principle of private judgment on revealed truth. We should say that, take it as a whole, it is a very clever attempt to found a purely subjective religion, which might call itself Christianity with equal consistency as do many so-called Christian denominations of our day, and which would consequently ignore all dogmatic authority and make use of the Holy Scriptures only as a means of edification.

We cannot see how a Protestant can escape the conclusions drawn by the author, unless he abandons his Protestantism for Catholic authority or for the most irresponsible individuality; and, if the author has really been sincere in his professed desire to reassure the troubled mind of his reluctant sceptic, and inspire him with respect for the Bible as the revealed word of God, we cannot but think he counts upon his sceptic's possessing very limited reasoning powers. His entire argument throughout is based upon postulates which we are sure no sceptic and certainly no Catholic is prepared to grant. For it is assumed both that we are, or ought to be, Christians as a matter of course, independent of authoritative teaching, and that the inspiration of the Bible is to be taken for granted without extrinsic proof. Moreover, that each individual is possessed of a verifying faculty which enables him to appropriate of its contents just so much and in so far as God wishes it to be true to him.

To assert that a man can be or has become a Christian without having been so taught is simply absurd. That Christianity is, of all religious systems, the most perfectly conformable to the reason and spiritual needs of mankind, fulfilling, perfecting, and completing human nature, is indisputable; but a man is not born a Christian any more than he is born a Mohammedan or a Buddhist. What the author of this work seems contented to take as Christianity will be found broad enough to suit any one who has a fancy to dignify the mutilated traditions to which he yet clings by that title; but we think very few will consent to accept their own convictions as sufficient proof of the divine truth of what they believe, or bow to the Holy Scriptures as the inspired word of God upon no other authority than a sense of its harmony in doctrine and morals with what they individually hold. The stream is not the cause of the fountain. That the stream of Christian truth, nay, that the stagnant puddles which are the result of an erratic overflow of its waters, are the cause of its fountain-head of credibility is what this unphilosophical writer takes for granted on every page of his book. Of course it is both foolish and arrogant presumption in the church to claim infallibility, but the most reasonable thing in the world for each and every human being to claim this prerogative as a natural-born characteristic. However, we do not wonder at this; it is but the logical consequence, ridiculously absurd as is the conclusion, of the rejection of the principle of divine authority. {790} It is the conclusion forced upon its adherents by Protestantism, and shows its fruits in the present wide-spread scepticism and infidelity in the countries where it has been the dominant religion. Never did any system prepare more surely the weapon of its own destruction than that which promulgated to the world the principle of private judgment. The cry of revolt is raised in the Protestant camp, and alarming its teachers--Rome or Reason--by which is too plainly meant, "Either a divinely constituted authority, or the divine authority of the individual soul." A choice that leaves all the sects which have sprung from the Reformation out in the cold.

Upon the unphilosophical basis for Christian faith which we have noted above our author proceeds to establish the sufficient authenticity and inspiration of the Bible. We say, _sufficient_, because, as far as we are able to gather, he rates the entire credibility and value of the Scriptures as the revealed word of God to man according to the intellectual and spiritual assent of the individual, assuming, as he does, that every man possesses a "verifying faculty" and a "spiritual insight," through which his own belief and the Scriptures confirm one another and make him wise unto salvation.

He holds that the Bible is inspired only in what concerns doctrine and morals, but is forced to make his reader the judge of what is doctrine and the censor of morality, for his highest evidence either of inspiration or of the canonicity of the sacred books is, as he tells us on p. 136, "the interior witness of the Spirit to the truths embodied in the accepted books." And as he says on p. 85, "It is 'the wise' only who 'understand.' The peasant is, in this respect, often far above the philosopher. Everything depends on the moral condition of the recipient." We think it sufficient to add his own damaging conclusion: "That this way of looking at the matter makes the evidence for the truth of the Bible mainly subjective cannot be disputed; but nothing else in the present day appears to have much hold on men. It may, indeed, be seriously doubted whether it is now possible to bring forward any evidence, in favor of miracles, for instance, which could reasonably be expected to satisfy an unconcerned spectator, and still less an opponent." (P. 86.)

For himself, therefore, the author rejects all miracles which he thinks were needless and unworthy of the apparent end for which they were performed, and advises his reluctant sceptic to follow his example. Moreover, as he does not find that his interior witness convicts him of the truth of the Trinity or the divinity of Jesus Christ, or, as we suppose, from the tenor of his language, anything else that is a mystery, of course the Scripture does not teach these doctrines either. No man can be blind to the inevitable consequence of such a principle. The Bible could not have the slightest extrinsic authority in either doctrine or morals, and is a proof that, without the divine authority, which both authenticates and interprets it, it is practically worthless in teaching the one or enforcing the other.

The following passage contains a most admirable refutation of the writer's own principle, which, however, he does not appear to see: "Looked at in this way"--as discerned by spiritual insight--"it is of no moment that either the uninstructed or the instructed man should be able to say regarding each separate passage of Scripture, _this_ is inspired, _this_ is not. How can he indeed? The revelation is not a thing _apart_ from daily life, but _through_ its various relations: how, then, can any man undertake to separate in each particular the supernatural element from the natural which it irradiates and explains? To regard anything of the kind as necessary either to confidence or edification is absurd; as absurd, in fact, as it is to maintain that we 'require an exercise of judgment upon the written document before we can allow men to believe in their King and Saviour.' {791} Every one knows that this is not the fact; that in all time the multitude never have nor ever can enter upon any such inquiries; that the masses must either believe in Christ directly as an actual person related to them, and recognized by them in their inmost souls, or they will not believe at all. They listen to the announcement that Christ is their Redeemer, and they believe the good news _just in so far as it finds a response in their own spiritual necessities and consciousness_. Into evidences about documents they cannot enter." (Pp. 81, 82.)

This is the most delightful instance of begging the question we have ever met with. Pray, _who_ announces to the multitude, who cannot enter into evidence about documents nor even read them, that Christ is their Redeemer? and who has any _right_ to announce that fact? Truly, "whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved;" but, "how shall they call on him in whom they have not believed? Or how shall they believe him of whom they have not heard? And how shall they hear without a preacher? And how shall they preach _unless they be sent?_" That it is the end of preaching, and that saving faith is the belief of the "good news just in so far as it finds a response in one's own spiritual necessities and self-consciousness," is mere twaddle, since our spiritual needs however keenly appreciated, or self-consciousness, however exalted, can never supply the objective truths of faith or rise above their own capacity to the ability of verifying, without the aid of extrinsic authority, the truths when proposed. Christianity, in so far as it is anything more than mere natural religion, is not of us, but to us. For if it were of us, what need is there of a revelation? That the good news that Christ is my Redeemer can be in any manner affirmed to me by my own self-consciousness is impossible. It is an historical fact, it is true, that such a person as Christ lived, but it is not an historical fact, by any means, that he is my Redeemer. That is a divine fact, which the most minute history of humanity never could demonstrate, for it is altogether out of the natural order, and wholly supernatural, and hence requiring a divine teaching authority both to promulgate it and enforce my belief. What this author, with many other modern writers of the same class, needs is a good course of philosophy as taught in our Catholic schools. It would save us a good deal of time and paper in exposing their illogical reasonings.

We do not deny that the holy writings find a response in the heart and mind of the Christian which no other book that was ever penned could awaken. We know that it is full of strength and consolation, of instruction and righteousness, and of help in the perfecting of his character; but this is the case precisely because he is a Christian by virtue of the same authority which declares the inspiration of its contents. That authority for every one who can rationally call himself a Christian is the authority of the Catholic Church. From this there is no escape. All Protestants inasmuch as they are Christian are so in obedience to the voice of whatever Catholic tradition is yet left to influence them. It announces that Christianity is true and that the Bible is inspired. This tradition of theirs finds its sanction in the Catholic Church, and would be utterly worthless if she had no existence.

Again, it is impossible to controvert the fact that the Bible, as a Christian revelation, depends for its authenticity and canonicity upon the sanction of the church. To say that it does not is to claim inspiration for every individual in order to decide upon what is and what is not inspired. If I reject the authority of the church, how shall I be content with the Bible as it is, as she has compiled it? Perhaps I might differ with her as to her decision about the non-inspiration of the rejected gospels and epistles; and if to my thinking some of the books which it now contains are not inspired, nay more, if I reject the whole of them as such, what power on earth is there to call me to account? {792} No wonder Luther had the presumption to call the epistle of St. James an "epistle of straw," or that Dr. Colenso has no respect for the Pentateuch. We are constrained to believe that the principles assumed by this writer are far more pernicious, and would do more to undermine the traditional authority which the Bible has among Protestants and reluctant sceptics, than the weak and flippant arguments of the notorious apostle of the Zulus.

We read the chapter on the Interpretation of Scripture with no little curiosity, knowing that this would present a test question to the author's system of inspiration. Suppose that two men, two Christians if you will, not only differed about the inspiration of a certain passage, but also about the interpretation of it. Can the conclusion of both, contradictory as they are, be the "witness of the Spirit"? As we expected, this chapter is the weakest in the book. Let us give the author's argument: "But while divine revelation can have but one true meaning, nothing can be more certain than that, being a message from the Heavenly Father to his erring and sinful creatures, it must have a power of adaptation to each and all of them in particular which, from the very nature of the case, forbids any exhaustive or authoritative interpretation of its contents." We confess we are not able to put this in plain English. Let us analyze it, however, and see what propositions it contains: 1st. Any given inspired revelation can have but one true meaning. 2d. This inspired revelation is given as a message of truth to the human race by the God of truth. 3d. This inspired revelation is necessarily of such a character that it can be made to mean anything according to the power of discernment in the individual; and hence, 4th. No one can even be sure which interpretation is the true one. If these absurd propositions are not contained in the quotation we have given, we humbly acknowledge that we have learned the English language in vain. We knew that the author must break down on this subject, and he has most thoroughly. How one can escape the necessity of an authoritative power of interpretation of the Scripture it is impossible for us to divine. How _can_ two contradictory interpretations be true? How _can_ any man in his senses believe that the Spirit of God witnesses to two propositions, one of which gives the lie to the other? But, deny an authoritative power of interpretation to which all men must bow, how can I ever know that my interpretation is true and that my brother's is false? To attempt a compromise, such as the author suggests, that each interpretation is true for each man, is too absurd to demand a moment's consideration. Truth is truth not because I see it, but as it is, whether I see it or not, and the man who rejects it when it is presented to his intelligence is either a knave or a fool. Two and two are four whether I agree to it or not, and no possible interpretation of the process of addition can change its truth; nor is there any loophole except that of insanity which would ever allow me to be excused for asserting that the product of twice two was five and not four.

It is certainly amusing to see this author refuting himself, as he frequently does. To confide the right interpretation of Scripture to an organized authority is to vest the final decision as to what the book says in man. So he argues. Yet he tells us in the same breath that each individual man is his own lawful interpreter. Does the author think that we are simple enough to believe, with all the jarring, clashing sects which have sprung out of this individual interpretation of the Bible before our eyes a principle, too, which furnishes the sceptic with the means of wresting its words to his own destruction--that, if each man interpret it for himself, the final decision in each particular case is any less human than the unanimous decision which a body, such as the Catholic Church is, gives without variation for nineteen centuries? {793} This gratuitous assumption about the "interior witness of the Spirit" is cant, not argument; for where does the individual find any assurance that each and every man will be so assisted? Experience proves directly the contrary. But, says our author, all these quarrels about the truths taught by the Bible are not due to the Bible itself, but to the sectarian divisions of Christianity, who each and all impose their own interpretation on their members. This will not do. As long as the principle of authoritative interpretation was upheld, as it is alone in the Catholic Church, there was no quarrelling about the doctrines or morals inculcated by the Holy Scriptures. The interpretation was but one. It was only when the author's pet principle came into vogue, which was the apple of discord borne by the tree of the Reformation, that men began to quarrel and dispute about what the Bible taught. The wily sceptic with the Bible placed in his hands, accompanied by a pious assurance that he will be guided in its interpretation by the interior witness of the Spirit, will only laugh in his sleeve at your simplicity. He will find in it just what pleases him, and who has the right to accuse him of not following the witness of the Spirit? Who finds insuperable difficulties in the sacred record? Who has discovered, as they imagine, contradictory passages in it? Who come to the conclusion that there is one God of the patriarchs, another God of the Jews, and a third of the Christian? Not the Catholic Church or her doctors, but the Protestant sects with their Colensos, their Essayists and Reviewers, and flippant commentators. The Catholic Church finds no difficulties or contradictions in the text of Scripture in any portion that relates to doctrine or morals. Her interpretation is uniform and harmonious from the first page of Genesis to the last words of the Apocalypse. Difficulties there are, but they are only historical and of minor moment, which affect in no way the unity of the sacred writings as the revealed word of God. All attempts which have been made of late by Protestants to discredit the inspiration of the Bible on the ground that these historical difficulties are of such a nature as to render the record untrustworthy, have signally failed. The most that has been proved, even by the most captious critics, is, that in the recital of certain events the text is obscure, and leaves many things untold and unexplained.

The tone of the writer when speaking of the Catholic Church is, on the whole, pretty fair, but it seems impossible for a Protestant to write on religious subjects without either committing some egregious blunder when we are concerned, or inserting some piece of calumny or of wilful misrepresentation. We note an instance of this in the letter which forms an introduction to the body of the work. Referring to the hope expressed by the reluctant sceptic that "one day we shall have forms of public devotion sufficiently aesthetic to gratify the religious sentiment, without involving dogmas that lead only to dispute," he adds: "You will perhaps be surprised if I tell you that I think this very possible. But, believe me, it will only be when Christendom, so long apostate, has, in retribution for her abominations, became absolutely atheistic. That a tendency of this kind manifests itself, from time to time, in Rome, especially among the Jesuits, has been noticed by devout Catholics, and is regarded by them with grief and anxiety." (P. 45.)

This is the style of lying (for what he says of the Jesuits is, we hardly need say, wholly untrue) that disgraces the religious writings of our opponents almost without exception. What does it mean? Simply this: "I fear, my dear, reluctant sceptic, that you are hungering after ritualism, which the Catholic Church possesses in beautiful harmony with all her dogmas. {794} But don't look that way, or examine her claims upon your mind or religious sentiment, for the Catholic Church herself is becoming atheistic, as is shown by the atheistical tendencies of the Jesuits in Rome, and (_aside_--to make the lie more plausible I will say) this tendency has been noticed by devout Catholics, and is regarded by them with grief and anxiety." We can do nothing but cry shame upon such wretched and base subterfuges to withdraw the attention of sincere minds from an honest examination of the Catholic faith.

We blush for their unscrupulous and persistent system of misrepresentation, which quietly ignores alike our indignant denials and appeals to be heard; but we do not fear for the final result. All blows aimed at the Rock of Truth will only recoil with deadly force upon the aggressor. Her beauty will come out untarnished after every attempt at defilement; her purity and sanctity no defamation can long obscure; her divine truth is proof against the machinations and deceit of the father of lies and his children. Not in vain has the inspired prophet said of her: "No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper, and every tongue that resisteth thee in judgment thou shall condemn." She is the divinely appointed exponent of God's word to man, whether written or not. "He that heareth you, heareth me," and her exposition has been uniform, harmonious, and consistent throughout; while the sects, left to their own fanciful interpretation of the only word which they have acknowledged as authoritative, present a lamentable picture of dissension and disbelief--"As children tossed to and fro, and carried about by every wind of doctrine."

From the French of Augustin Chevalier.

Decimated.

I.

It was seven in the evening when we arose from the table, where the conversation had for an hour or more run on the civil war which had just desolated Germany. General Bourdelaine, a tall, wiry specimen of the _ancien officier_, whom no one would imagine to be verging upon his eighty-fourth year, and who very probably will in the year one thousand eight hundred and eighty-eight celebrate the eighty-second anniversary of his leaving the military school in 1806, invited us for coffee into the study where ordinarily none but his most intimate friends are admitted; for the general, although on the retired list since 1845, has not yet begun to seek the repose of inactivity, and I have seen in that study of his an entire series of strategical plans (afterward published by the minister of war) of the principal battles of Napoleon in Champagne against the allied forces.

The study is large, although it seems small, so filled is every piece of furniture, shelf, and hook with coins, arms, plans, papers, portraits, busts, statuettes in marble and in bronze, books, globes, and drawing instruments, and all these not in absolute disorder, but in an apparent confusion which the general finds very convenient, inasmuch as everything is within reach.

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It was not the first time I had been there. For the first time, however, on this particular evening, my eyes fell upon a plain boxwood frame hung on the wall opposite the chimney-piece, in a recess formed by two large book-cases. A brilliant point in the centre, which reflected the light of the lamp, attracted my attention. It was the enamel of a cross of the Legion of Honor, to which was attached, under the glass, a large band of crape which stretched to the four corners of the frame. On the left of the frame, on the outside, hung a huge silver watch, and on the right the golden acorn of a sword-knot.

The daughter of the general entered at this moment, followed by a servant bearing coffee and all the accessories upon a tray. There were now five of us in the room: the general, his daughter and his son-in law, a government clerk, and myself. Each one began in silence to discuss the smoking coffee; when the general, whose glance had unconsciously taken the same direction as mine, suddenly exclaimed:

"What a horrible thing war is! I did not enter the service until the time had come when men no longer went forth to meet the enemy through patriotism, but moved merely by the desire of winning rank or fortune, or by the love of glory and honor. I was present at some frightful butcheries and routs still more frightful; I have seen nearly all the miracles of the emperor's genius, and I bore my part in the reverses fickle fortune inflicted upon him. Well, after all, what did it amount to? The fortune of war is one of the chances of the trade. You conquer or are conquered, kill or are killed. The ranks close up, and then--room for the bravest or most favored, the most skilful or the luckiest! But to be forced to fire upon your own men; to be compelled to decimate pitilessly your own brave companions; to kill in cold blood excellent soldiers, whose only crime was a single day's mutiny, but whose example might risk the discipline and safety of the entire army; to kill, I say, men whom the very intoxication of victory led to believe that their fault would go unpunished; men we sorely needed; this, this is most fearful and saddest of all; this it is that still makes my old heart bleed more than fifty years after it happened; and when my thoughts revert to it, even though conscience remain tranquil, something very like remorse pursues me."

"It seems, then, general," I said, "that yonder cross and crape recall cruel memories."

He put down his cup without replying, filled a small glass with cognac and swallowed it at one gulp.

"Have you finished the notes I wished you to make from Jomini and Vandoncourt?"

"Yes, _mon général_."

"Very good; give them me. And now service for service. I will confide to you an episode in my military life of which you may make what use you think proper. I authorize you to do so."

And General Bourdelaine thereupon related what follows.

II.

My rank in the service dates from October, 1805. Jena and Austerlitz won me my epaulettes of _sous-lieutenant_. In 1807 I made the Polish campaign, and in 1808 the Spanish. The following year I was recalled to Germany, and saw Ratisbon and Wagram. Napoleon after the battle halted in front of my regiment to learn the names of those who had distinguished themselves.

"All did," cried the colonel; "but, if your majesty will permit me, I would especially recommend the Lieutenant Bourdelaine to your favor."

The emperor looked at me.

"You come from Saint-Cyr?"

"Yes, sire."

"How many campaigns?"

"Three."

"And still a lieutenant."

"I have had no chance to rise before this."

"Which do you prefer, the cross or promotion?"

"Promotion, sire."

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My reply was not that of a courtier. But he loved the young men of his schools, and those, above all, who, like me, had not awaited the end of their course before becoming officers.

"Ah! you prefer promotion."

"Sire, they say that things are not going well in Spain since your majesty left there. Send me thither; give me a company, and I will win death or the cross."

"Very well."

I received the company I sought, not, however, in a French, but in an Italian regiment. I was ordered to Arragon in November, 1810, and made part of the army commanded by Suchet. My colonel, San-Polo, received me warmly.

"You will find more than one of your countrymen in my regiment," said he; "and you had better have them give an account of your men. I warn you that they are very devils. You must be vigilant and firm; just but inflexible; if not, you will find yourself exposed to strange surprises, and I be put to the necessity of punishing you."

The colonel was no false prophet. Those Italians are terrible soldiers. Rash, useful principally for an assault or _coup-de main_, never flinching under fire, but, once out of it, quarrelsome, intractable and given to pillaging, ours, I confess, more than once seemed to sack and destroy for the mere pleasure of doing so. I can yet see the comical though moving scene which took place in Burgos, where my battalion, in 1808, boiled their pots with all the mandolines and guitars they could find in the city, notwithstanding the despair of the inhabitants, who hastened to bring them coals and wood. But the soup, seasoned with jokes and bursts of laughter, seemed to them the better for it.

Before I return to my story, a few words on the situation of the army of Arragon.

General Suchet had taken one after another the towns of Mequinenza; on the southern confines of the province of Huesca; Lareda, in Lower Catalonia, to the north-west of Mequinenza; and Tortosa, south of Lerida, at the extremity of the province of Tarragona. He thus commanded part of the rivers Ebro, the Segre, and the Cinca; and, moreover, the capture of those cities had enabled him to collect a complete park of siege artillery at Tortosa. Unfortunately, the commandant of Figuera having allowed himself to be surprised in Upper Catalonia, our forces there were compelled to fall back toward Girona, and the Spanish General Campoverde, beaten before Figueras by Baraguay d'Hilliers, had profited by our mishap, not only to rally his troops, but also to annoy our magazines and communications. Therefore, although he had received orders from the emperor, on the 10th of March, to invest Tarragona, whose capture, completing our occupation of the principality of Catalonia, would have opened the road to Valentia to us, General Suchet did not yet dare attempt an enterprise of such importance. The task of keeping the two districts of Mora and Alcuniz in subjection-- the first in Lower Catalonia, to the north of Tortosa, and the second in Arragon to the north-west of Mequinenza, and in the province of Ternel-- paralyzed his forces. His artillery, too, had been retarded. In short, instead of an effective force of over forty thousand men, which the junction of the army of Arragon with that of Catalonia should have formed, he had not more than thirty battalions at his service.

You are not a soldier, and you do not understand how even the lowest officer racks his head over the probabilities of some approaching expedition, and with what feverish impatience the men in the ranks await the signal of departure. Headquarters were established at Lareda, and magazines already were placed at Reus, Monblanch, and Alcobar, to the north and west of Tarragona; but it was reported that an English fleet under Admiral Adams was preparing to re-provision the last-named city, and to interrupt our communications by transporting to our rear the troops of Campoverde and Sarsfield by the mouths of the Ebro. Our park of siege artillery remained motionless at Tortosa, and as yet Suchet had not begun to move.

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I was at Mora, where my battalion was to remain, if the jokers about camp were to be believed; an absurd rumor, for wherever a vigorous blow was to be struck the Italians never failed to come in for their share. I had formed a close friendship with Lieutenant Polidoro, a reckless individual, but one of the best-hearted fellows in the service. He was from Milan, and had commenced life as a choir-boy. A _reverendissimo_, almost unknown to him, was in the habit of sending him from time to time fifty _scudi_ by way of pocket-money. The day he received this little remittance was a gala-day for the whole battalion. Wine flowed through the camp. Not a man was forgotten. The next day he was without a _sou_, but he had had his fun, and drunk many times to the health of Monsignor Capellini, as he called his friend.

His father was unknown to him, and often would he cry, twirling his shako on his sword, when asked why he did not assume the paternal cognomen:

"Why should I recognize an old fellow who shows so little pride in having a grenadier of my height for a son?"

The gayety of Polidoro, the friendship of his comrades for him, the attachment of his men, whose enthusiasm was excited by his bravery and liberality, inspired me, at last, with the most unlimited confidence in him; and, well satisfied with never having to inflict the slightest punishment, thanks to the excellent reports he always brought me of the company, I placed matters of mere discipline entirely in his hands.

Suddenly, one fine morning, at roll-call, not one of my men, with the exception of the Sous-Lieutenant Brocard--a Frenchman like myself--appeared on the parade-ground. He, sad and crest-fallen, informed me that our company had filed away during the night toward Batea, to the north of Casserras, on the Arragon frontier. At the same time he handed me a letter addressed to me by Polidoro. Judge of my astonishment when I cast my eye upon its contents:

"Captain: It is certainly an ill proceeding on my part to leave Mora, with your whole company, without first informing you of our intention. Life in Mora is not very lively, and our men were growing shockingly tired of it. I am responsible for their health, and found myself forced to adopt violent measures to preserve it. We are going a league from here to Batea, where they say good wine abounds. It is even reported that there is a guerilla roving through the mountains, and that he has been joined by some disbanded soldiers of Sarsfield and Campoverde. What a chance for fun! We will thus be enabled to indulge in a little diversion while waiting for the march on Tarragona. I do not ask you to put yourself at the head of our expedition. I suppose, even, that, if you were ordered to bring us back, your honor would only permit you to speak to us through the throats of muskets. Be good enough, however, to advise our brave colonel of our departure, and tell him that, whatever may happen, we are all devoted to him, for life and for death, and that each one of us (I was always remarkable for foresight) has ten rounds of cartridge at his service. If we are let alone, be assured that the entire company, including your humble servant, will be en route for Lareda at the first roll of the drum. "Your faithful friend, "The Lieutenant Polidoro."

This letter filled me with consternation. I felt that I had been guilty of weakness and negligence. I was not only puzzled; I suspected perfidy, treason. I did not yet understand the singular forms which insubordination often takes among Italian troops. The Russian soldier is little more than a savage; the German, when he quarrels with his officers in the field, becomes gross and brutal; the Frenchman pushes familiarity to insolence; the Spaniard heroically disbands, placing every reverse to the account of the ignorance or cowardice of his officers, and then sets about making head individually against the enemy in some defile of his mountains; the Englishman shows himself, in war as in everything else, a close calculator, weighing the _pros_ and _cons_ long together, and, above all others, complains of the insufficiency or bad quality of his provisions, as witness the mutiny of the fleet in the reign of George III., when it became necessary to hang an admiral, and which was only suppressed by the coolness of Pitt. {798} But, when the Italian mutinies, he does it with incredible niceness, and, unless he has some vengeance to execute, (which he will carry out with uncommon ferocity,) he remains an artist to the last.

"_Corbleu!_" cried I to Brocard. "We are in a pretty box; exposed, too, to the ridicule of our comrades. And I thought this Polidoro my friend!"

"And he is your friend, captain; doubt it not," replied Brocard; "only you have not yet formed a true idea of the audacious recklessness and impulsiveness of these Italians. All this would be but a pleasantry, without evil results, if the necessity of maintaining discipline at the outset of a new campaign did not give the affair importance; and what makes it worse is, that they say the colonel since his return an hour ago has been making preparations to repel an attack from Campoverde. He is furious against you, and wishes to have a private interview with you."

Shame and anger almost choked me. I was beside myself with rage, and, if at that moment a man had but given me a look of ridicule, I would have run him through the body.

"I come to receive your orders, colonel," said I, as I entered San-Polo's quarters. "I confess that I deserve no consideration. You told me what I had to expect. Punish me. I ask of you but one favor--that you would permit me to go alone to those mutineers and bring them back."

"What I hear is then true, sir," replied San-Polo, whose appearance of concentrated anger boded me no good. But, having given me this thrust, he added, softening a little:

"Listen to me, Bourdelaine, notwithstanding your fault in allowing Polidoro to gain such a hold upon the company, you are nevertheless an officer whom I esteem both for head and heart, and I heard a very flattering account of you before you joined the regiment. I am sincerely sorry for you, and that rogue of a Polidoro has so bewitched the men that after all you are not so inexcusable."

"Thanks, my colonel."

"But," continued San-Polo, "we must lay aside such considerations in camp. You had the want of tact to prefer a grade, when the emperor offered you with his own hand the Cross of the Legion. That was in his eyes a fault which, be assured, he will not soon forget, and I am sure that you would have received both if you had chosen the cross."

I bowed my head, but did not reply.

"Your conduct after that, if you wished to rise, should have been irreproachable, so that your mistake, which seemed to the emperor a piece of youthful stupidity, might have changed its guise and shone forth as the generous impulse of a soul born to command.

"I speak not now, captain, as your superior officer, but as your friend. Speak privately to Lieutenant Brocard. Present yourself to these mutineers, and let a bloody example recall them to duty. I have full power from the commanding general to manage my Italians as I think proper. You will decimate your company."

I started, horror-stricken.

"You have your orders, sir. Now, no delay or pity. Remember that prompt and vigorous action is necessary not only to reestablish your reputation, but to replace upon those men the yoke of discipline, so rashly broken. Under our present _régime_ little is said and less written about army affairs, and the news of the insubordination of a handful of Italians in an obscure corner of the peninsula will scarcely reach the emperor's ears. I will see that it is kept out of the bulletins. It is too small a matter for headquarters to be troubled about, and in ten days all will be the same as if nothing of the kind ever happened. Well! you have heard me; what more do you desire?" asked San-Polo, astonished at my immobility and silence.

{799}

"Pardon, _mon colonel!_" I replied, with many misgivings. "How can we decimate men of whom we have such immediate need before the enemy?" And I showed him Polidoro's letter.

He read it through rapidly, and shrugged his shoulders; but, when he came to the part where the lieutenant, while protesting his own devotion and that of his men for their colonel, boasted nevertheless of his foresight in furnishing each man with ten rounds of ammunition, San-Polo cried out, a passing smile lighting up his face for a moment:

"Poor fellow! it is a pity, for he has the stuff soldiers are made of in him. Unshrinking under fire, fascinating and raising the spirits of all around him by his good humor, always ready, full of resources, yet ridiculing glory and fortune. God grant that this trick do not cost him too dear. What is the effective force of the company?"

"Ninety-nine men in all, with the officers and drummer."

"Very well; then it is reduced to ninety-six, since you and Brocard are not in the affair, and the drummer, who is but a boy, does not count. This letter will not modify my instructions. You will draw by lot four men and a corporal for the firing party, and one man to dig the grave; ninety will remain--nine to be shot; it is enough. As to Polidoro, if his stars should favor him, you will put him under arrest for two weeks. I will attend to him hereafter if necessary."

I turned with a heavy heart to leave the tent.

"Ah! one word more," said the colonel: "In case any chance should put you on the track of the guerilla who has been seen between Casserras and Batea, drag out the execution to the greatest possible length, without, however, letting it seem that you do so. I love those good-for-nothings after all, and would to God that a brush with the enemy may deliver them from their scrape, for they would fight as they always do, and we would have a good excuse for indulgence. Be easy, even if you find yourself surrounded by the Spaniards, and open fire on them boldly, for I have taken my measures, and help will be at hand. _Au revoir_, captain, and fortune favor you!"

Brocard and I immediately set out for Batea. It was yet early morning, and the road was almost deserted. We could not perceive in the direction of Casserras a single trace that might remind us of the recent passage of a body of armed men. It seemed scarcely probable that the guerillas would dare return toward Batea, which was at furthest a league to the north-west.

On the road I confided to my comrade the cruel mission with which we were charged, and as I had never seen a military execution, and had never expected to see so horrible a one as this, the slaying of every tenth man in my own company, the conversation ran on the best mode of conducting the business in which we were engaged so as to gain time, as the colonel had recommended.

"Oh!" said Brocard, "I was 'decimated' my self once. It was in Portugal, under Junot, for a trick our battalion played the commandant--a lion under fire, but an ill-natured dog. We gave him a free bath in the Tagus. I was then only a corporal. They commenced by surrounding and disarming the mutineers; then, if any officers were found in the number, their names were proclaimed aloud, or they were degraded. Then the ranks were broken, and we were aligned in single file, each man taking his place according to chance. A sergeant, drawn by lot and blindfolded, then approached the line, and, starting from the first man he chanced to touch, without including him, counted off ten, twenty, thirty, until he reached the end of the line, when he continued in the other direction, commencing again with the man he first touched, and if that poor fellow happened to be the tenth, or twentieth, or thirtieth, psit! his doom was clear."

"Great heavens!" thought I, "how terribly cool he takes it!"

{800}

"While the counting went on," continued my imperturbable _sous-officier_, "a roll of the drum accompanied each tenth man as he stepped out; he was led to the edge of the trench dug for his grave; a sufficient amount of lead lodged in his head or breast, and his affair was ended. You see that much time is not lost, and the business even becomes amusing sometimes; for every man's pride is up, and he chats, jokes, laughs, appoints a _rendezvous_ under ground a year, a month, or perhaps only a day off; and all the while the regimental band regales you with the merriest symphonies, the most alluring marches!"

"You would not make a mockery of death!" cried I, interrupting him.

"Mockery!" he returned. "Diable! we won't have much chance to do so here. We haven't yet even disarmed our friends, captain. San-Polo evidently honors us both with his particular esteem, to send us two alone to decimate more than eighty jokers, each of whom carries ten rounds of ammunition to answer our polite proposition with."

"Nevertheless, the enterprise amuses you a little, does it not?"

"Humph! whether a man leaves his skin here or elsewhere, what matters it? although it is disagreeable to be sent out of the world by your old comrades, your friends at the bivouac, fellows whose elbows you are accustomed to feel in the ranks. But, after all, those fellows haven't treated us right; that is a consolation."

"But the other proceeding the colonel mentioned," said I--"the drawing --you have not explained that."

"Ah! I can only teach you what I know myself; though I was something more than a mere amateur scholar. I have heard that they sometimes mix up the names in a helmet or shako, and shoot the man that owns every tenth name that comes out. But, _ma foi!_ that way is shorter than the other, but, if it suits you better, you may use it. H st!" [sic]

He stopped short in the middle of the road and brought the musket he had brought with him from Mora to his shoulder, as a bullet whistled by our ears, and a thread of white smoke rose from a ravine some little distance off; a moment after, a tall, wild-looking man, enveloped in a long cloak, and wearing a countryman's shoes and a red woollen cap, sprang toward the mountain side, where in the twinkling of an eye he disappeared.

"Don't fire!" I cried, as Brocard was about to pull trigger; "you will give those wretches the alarm. Wait until they attack us at Batea. That fellow will simplify our business, and the colonel will be delighted. Forward-- gallop! Remember the mission we have to fulfil."

Ten minutes later we were in Batea. The company had stacked their arms about a hundred paces from the mountain, and had spread themselves through the village. The drummer alone, a boy of fifteen, stood guard over the arms, under the protection of some old _grognards_, who, cooler-blooded than their comrades, walked leisurely about, smoking their pipes.

I rode straight to the drummer, and, without dismounting, said:

"Beat the recall, Zanetto, I am in haste."

The smokers at this order approached us, and stared at us with an abashed air. The most insolent of them gave the military salute, through force of habit, apparently. But they seemed thoughtful, twisted their mustaches without speaking, and continued to smoke.

Zanetto, uneasy as the others, rose, hooked on his drum, and replied by a prolonged roll, which did not cease until the whole company stood behind their stacks.

"What is all this noise about? Are you a fool, drummer?" cried Polidoro, coming up last of all, at a run, from the further end of the village, and carrying a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other.

{801}

The sight of two horsemen redoubled his speed, and when he reached us, he could scarcely gasp, in his astonishment and want of breath:

"You, Bourdelaine! You here! Glad to see you, _caro mio_. Welcome! We scarcely expected so agreeable a surprise. What can we do for you, captain? Will you try a glass of rum?"

I spurred my horse toward Polidoro, and, with a sudden blow breaking the glass and bottle he held, said briefly and sternly:

"Your sword, lieutenant!"

Polidoro turned pale, and, recoiling a couple of paces, said in a husky voice:

"My sword! Was it to demand my sword that you came from Mora, you and your countryman Brocard?"

"We come to decimate you. The colonel has ordered it."

And I dismounted, placing myself in their power, to prove to the mutineers the fixedness of my resolve to carry out my orders or die in the attempt.

The idea seemed, however, to excite their mirth.

"Decimate us!" cried one.

"Beautiful!" laughed another.

And cries of "Prodigious!" "What a farce!" "Whom will he do it with?" "He hasn't even a corporal's guard!" rang on every side. The men left the stack's of arms and began to gather round us with menacing looks and gestures. Brocard threw himself among the most furious, but his words availed nothing to restrain them. The situation was becoming critical.

Suddenly a thought struck me. I signed to Zanetto to beat his drum, so that its continued roll might drown their voices, and the more desperate be thus prevented from urging on those who hesitated.

Anything which brings the habits of discipline to the minds of old soldiers acts with wonderful power. Before the roll of the drum ceased, every man had regained his place; the tumult was ended and quiet reigned.

"We are come to decimate you," I continued, coldly and sternly as before, "and we are alone. Do you ask why? Because the colonel wishes the execution to be secret; he would not have the company dishonored before their comrades--dishonored for having turned their backs when all was ready to march upon the enemy."

"But we did not do so!" cried one of the men.

"Silence! The captain is right," replied several.

"Then Polidoro deceived us; he told us the captain would protect us," said a young soldier.

Their tone had already changed. It was no longer hostile.

"I!" cried Polidoro. "Did I ever say aught to make you doubt the captain's honor?"

"No! no!" cried voice after voice. "It is our fault. Let us suffer the penalty! Decimate us, captain!" cried several, "and let us have it over as soon as may be. We are ready."

"Lieutenant," I continued, advancing to Polidoro, "I demand your sword."

He moved his hand to the buckle of his belt as if to take it off, but the struggle was too great for his proud heart; his youthful blood was in arms, and, carried away by passion, he shouted hoarsely:

"Then come and take it!"

And drawing it from its sheath, he threw himself on guard.

"Bravo, lieutenant! Let him come and take it!" cried a voice at his side.

"Who spoke then?" I asked, feigning ignorance of the man.

"I!" cried an old soldier; one of the _grognards_ of the company.

"Very well, Matteo; I will attend to you presently."

There was no time for consideration; I at once fell on guard myself. Polidoro awaited my attack with his blade low, after the manner of the Italians, but at my first lunge, breaking down his parade before we had even crossed swords, whether it was that remorse for his act prevented his exerting his usual skill or through unlucky mischance on his part, I disarmed him, catching his guard on the point of my sword and forcing his weapon from his hand.

{802}

"_Maleditto!_" he exclaimed angrily, blushing with shame and wrath, and turning to Zanetto, who could not forbear laughing at his mishap, with a blow of his heavy boot, he crushed the drum to pieces, and, tearing off his epaulettes, mingled with the ranks.

"Lieutenant, I have not degraded you," I said softly. "It is even possible that, if chance favors you, I may restore your sword."

This indulgence shown to Polidoro, whose guilt was aggravated by an attack on his superior officer, made a greater impression than severity could. The fascination he exercised over the men, their belief in him, his prestige were considerably lessened. I felt that I was master of the troop.

"As for you," I said to Matteo, "as a punishment for your insolence, you must dig the trench."

"I, my captain?"

"You."

"Shoot me first, captain, I implore you," sobbed Matteo, pale with shame and despair.

He was one of the oldest and best soldiers in the company; his mustache almost white, and his face seamed with scars. He thought himself degraded before his comrades, and did not see that my aim was to save him.

"Not so," I replied. "Go find a pickaxe and spade in the village and quickly!"

"You are very hard on me, captain."

"Obey: no more words!"

All this while the _sous-lieutenant_ Brocard, who guessed my purpose, was writing the names of the company upon slips of paper, which he threw into a shako.

"But that is not the way it is done." cried Polidoro, in a bantering tone. "Permit me to instruct you."

"Silence in the ranks!" I cried.

"But we will never get through at this rate, captain."

"I am not responsible to you, sir. It is the order of the colonel. Now, come hither," said I to the drummer, "and draw four names for the firing party."

"Am I not included, captain," returned Zanetto, drawing himself up proudly to his full height.

"Boy, you do not count," said Brocard.

"It seems to me that I counted before the enemy," replied the boy.

"Be still, child!" cried Polidoro. "The drummer's duty is to follow the company."

"That is true," said an old _grognard_. "Come, Zanetto, stick your hand into the bag, but don't draw my name."

But it was the old man's name that he drew.

"The grenadier Sampierri!"

"I never had any luck," growled Sampierri, stamping angrily upon the ground.

He took up his musket.

"The grenadiers Nicolo, Mordini, Ruspone!" continued Brocard.

Matteo, while this was going on, had returned from the village, and was silently digging a trench to our left, about two hundred paces from the mountain, where the earth was soft and offered but little resistance.

"Ha! Matteo! there are ninety of us," cried Corporal Campana; "nine men to mount guard underground today. Make it wide enough, my old friend."

"A corporal is wanted to command the firing party," said Brocard, "and I have mixed up all the names again in the shako."

"Well, let it be Campana," I replied.

"Me, _mon capitaine?_ What have I done more than my comrades? Why choose me?"

"What have you done? Have you not three chevrons? Are you not the oldest corporal? You should have set the example of subordination. Go!"

"So be it, then," said the corporal gloomily. "Come attention, firing party!"

He marched to the trench at the head of his four grenadiers.

{803}

"Attention!" cried I. "Draw the names; the tenth--"

"Enough!" said Zanetto; "let him beware. The business is becoming less amusing, captain."

He drew nine slips successively, which Brocard did not read, so that the suspense continued to the end. The tenth he held up.

"The Sergeant Gasparini!"

"Good! This is the day of the grognards," said Gasparini, making the military salute. "May I embrace Zanetto, _mon capitaine?_"

"Do as you will," I said; "I would rather be a hundred feet underground than here."

"Thanks, captain. We all see how this business grieves you. Thanks!"

He bent over the drummer, and the tears, spite of his proud endeavors to restrain them, dropped on his gray mustache.

"Here; take this for thy trouble, my boy," he said, giving the drummer his silver watch.

He dashed the tears from his eyes shamefacedly, and with a steady step marched to the edge of the trench.

"Ready!" cried Corporal Campana.

"Aim! Fire!" cried Gasparini.

A flash and report followed, and the old sergeant fell dead on his face in the trench, where Matteo pushed him with his foot to the place where he was to rest.

Zanetto continued, drawing from eleven to nineteen. Brocard, still without reading them, tore them up one after another. Twenty reached, he took the slip, lifted it above his head, and sobbed, rather than spoke, in his endeavors to conceal his emotion:

"The Sergeant-Major Gambetta!"

It was the best instructed under-officer perhaps in the regiment; calm, well knowing his duties, laborious--so useful, in fact, in the humble post he held that his superiors through pure selfishness had never proposed him for promotion. He was forty years of age at least, had received the cross as far back as 1805, and with the money of his pension relieved many a little want of his comrades.

"Ah! poor Gasparini!" he cried with a sort of mournful merriment; "if today is the day of the old growlers, it is also the day of sergeants. What is the matter, _mon capitaine?_" said he as he passed me. "You seem to be in trouble."

He was not far wrong. I was in despair. My eyes were fixed upon the mountain as if they would pierce through it, and at every changing shadow, every breath of wind which sighed among the trees, my heart bounded painfully with the hope that the long wished for guerilla was about making his appearance on the heights.

"Adieu, Zanetto! take my cross, I have no watch. Show yourself some day worthy to wear it. May it be long ere we meet again, captain. God guard you!"

He crossed himself devoutly, and walked to the trench, his hands in his pockets, bent one knee to the earth, and gave the word "Fire!"

We heard a report; Gambetta, his head shattered by the bullets, rolled like a lump of lead into the trench.

"Will those beggarly Spaniards never appear?" said I to Brocard aside. "I have had more than enough of this."

"Hush!" replied Brocard. "You do not know them yet as well as I, who have been in the peninsula since 1807. I have just discovered the whole band in the declivity yonder before us. They are climbing along above, so as to attack us in front and on both flanks at once. I have counted three hundred muskets and carbines. We will have hot enough work in a few minutes."

"God grant it! Continue, but more slowly, so that we need not kill any more."

Slowly, however, as he proceeded to tear up the names drawn, slowly as the drawing went on, number thirty at length came forth. He lifted it up to read the name, but remained for an instant silent.

"Who? who?" resounded on all sides.

{804}

"To the devil with it! Let whom it concerns read it," cried Brocard, flinging it upon the ground.

"I will wager it is I," said Polidoro, springing forward to pick it up. "Yes, it is indeed. The Lieutenant Polidoro!"

"Did you not make a mistake, Zanetto?" asked I. "I think it is only twenty-nine."

"Yes, yes, captain, it is only twenty-nine," cried a soldier. "Don't, for heaven's sake, decimate an officer."

"_Corpo di Bacco_, do you take me for a fool?" shouted Polidoro. "I counted them, and it is thirty. Come, come! Every one in his turn. No joking! Your hand, Bourdelaine. You forgive me?"

He had scarcely spoken when a signal shot was heard on the mountain, and following upon it two fierce blazes of fire crashed on our right and left and concealed our assailants in their thick smoke.

It was indeed the guerilla band the colonel had spoken of, which, augmented by some of Campoverde's men, whom the English had disembarked at the mouth of the Ebro, had filed toward the mountain, going from Cacia, below Tortosa, as far as Casserras, intending from that point to surprise us at Mora. Learning that a company was at Batea, they halted on their way in the hope of capturing us.

At the crash of the discharge, Polidoro sprang forward like a lion. The smell of battle seemed to intoxicate him. His eyes flashed fire, and his face glowed with ardor. His was a true warrior-soul.

"Captain," said he, "it is through my fault that the company is brought into this danger; let it be mine to extricate it. Give me twenty men. I know the country round, and this morning I discovered a little by-path opening on a level space, from which we can turn the enemy's right. You attack him in front; let Brocard see to his left, and in less than a quarter of an hour all that rabble will be cut to pieces or dispersed. If I remain alive, I will return and place myself at your disposal."

"If you return alive," I replied, "the colonel will decide upon your case. San-Polo foresaw this attack and ordered me not to push the execution further. Here is your sword, Polidoro, but be not rash; the colonel will not deprive himself, for any whim, of an officer with such a future as yours before him."

"I have no future, Bourdelaine," he returned gloomily. "I do not deceive myself with false hopes. Preferment is closed against me. I will die at least with honor, and bear with me the regret of my chief."

Corporal Campana had returned with his four grenadiers during this colloquy, and Matteo walked slowly in the rear.

"Five men for the advance, and fifteen more for the lieutenant," I cried to Brocard.

"All right, captain! You hold the centre and I the right, deployed as skirmishers is that it?" asked Brocard.

"Right!"

"And I?" said Matteo, confounded as Polidoro, advancing at a run to the mountain, gained some distance up its declivity without being perceived by the enemy. "Am I good for nothing, captain, but to bury my comrades?"

"Thou old graybeard! March at the head of the column," I replied, "since instead of awaiting us in their stronghold those fools have been silly enough to come down to surround us. Thou seest I did not do ill to reserve you for a better chance."

"Much obliged!" he returned. "Then we are going to cool their hot blood, captain?"

The guerilla chief, not having perceived our movement, and there only being fifty men at most before him, pressed confidently forward, never doubting that he could easily compel us to lay down our arms. We waited until part of his men had reached the foot of the mountain, and then we fell upon them in a solid column, while Brocard, his men deployed as skirmishers, attacked and drove back their left, and Polidoro, having gained his position, forced their right to retreat, shooting down all who had not rejoined the main body. {805} Suddenly I heard the drums beat the charge behind me. It was a company, led by San-Polo himself, which had taken the Batea road, and so cut off the advance-guard of the guerillas thrown forward toward Mora.

The Spaniard is brave, obstinate, and sober; inured to privations and fatigues. He will fight long and well behind a rock or a wall, but in the open field he generally lacks steadiness, and is easily discouraged if he meets an unforeseen resistance in an attack. He will disband to meet his fellows at some other point and plan some new surprise--the only species of warfare which he conducts well. This, indeed, is the result of that provincial spirit of independence, of that character of individuality, which so deeply penetrates the masses and forms the distinguishing characteristic of the nation.

The panic soon became general, and the village was filled with wounded and dead.

Those who fled from the fire of one party of our men were received upon the bayonets of another, finding no outlet through which to make their escape; about a hundred of the guerillas, however, succeeding in forcing their way toward Casserras, scattering as they went, and giving us a few parting shots. All the rest were taken. San-Polo forced his way to us, pitilessly shooting down all who refused to yield. He soon joined us, and cast his eyes toward the open trench.

"Aha!" he cried, darting a look of intelligence to me; "you are cautious, captain. You would not have the enemy know the number of your killed. How many?" asked he in a low tone.

"Two, _mon colonel_; the lot unfortunately fell upon Sergeants Gasparini and Gambetta."

San-Polo could not restrain a gesture of vexation.

"And Polidoro?"

"_Ma foi_, my colonel; he escaped well; we were going to shoot him when the skirmish commenced. He is now upon the mountain, where I can vouch he gave us some famous help."

"He is here," said Brocard, "and in a sad condition. Here are his men bringing him upon their muskets."

When he reached us, Polidoro raised his head, not without great pain, and lifting his still bantering glance to the face of San-Polo, who stood grave and motionless, he cried with an attempt at his old gayety:

"Hit, colonel, hit! I am sorry, my colonel, that you can no longer break or even put me under arrest."

"I will have chance enough to do both yet," replied San-Polo, with an affected roughness which betrayed his anxiety to encourage the wounded soldier.

"O colonel! my account is closed this time," returned Polidoro. "Six bullets through the body, and two of them at least through my lungs. 'Tis enough for one, _mon colonel_."

Then some long-banished remembrances seemed to return, and a sad smile played over his features.

"_Sancta Maria, mater Dei_." he continued, in a tone still tinged with a sort of sorrowful gayety, "_ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen_."

San-Polo threw himself from his horse, and pressed a flask of brandy to the lips of the wounded lieutenant, holding him up in his arms for a moment to help him to swallow a few drops.

"How kind you are to me!" murmured the dying man, in a scarcely audible voice; "you seem to think that, in spite of my follies, I was not so bad an officer after all. Keep, I pray you, my colonel, my sword in remembrance of me; only unfasten the sword-knot and give it to Bourdelaine. Ah! I wish you would give Zanetto fifteen francs for--the drum--I broke."

A cough interrupted him, and a bloody froth appeared upon his lips. His features were pinched with pain; he gasped; his eyes grew glassy, and, after a few slight convulsions, all that remained of Polidoro fell back in the colonel's arms.

{806}

San-Polo took the lieutenant's sword, pulled the knot off, and hastily handed it to me; then springing into the saddle he rode off at full gallop, without speaking a word or even turning his head.

"Quick, Brocard! Mount and accompany the colonel," I said. "You know how dangerous those guerillas are even in a rout. I shall not need you until we return to Mora."

III.

"And now that I have ended," said the general after a pause, "let us talk, if you please, about the rain and the weather. It is strange," he continued, pressing his hand to his brow, "how all these memories return, at the time when, thank God, our days of joy and trouble are nearly past."

"Yours?" the government clerk hastened to reply. "You are good for twenty years yet."

There are some honest people who always speak thus to old men.

"Good! very good!" growled the general, bending over the table to pour out another wine-glass of cognac. "In twenty years I will be no more thought of than if I had never lived. To the devil with wars and those who make them."

While his daughter and son-in-law were lifting their voices in protest against such an idea, I discreetly took up the lamp, and approached the frame to examine it more closely.

"These, very probably," I said, half to myself, "are the watch of the grenadier Gasparini, the cross of the sergeant-major Gambetta, and sword-knot of Lieutenant Polidoro."

"Yes, yes," replied the general, without looking toward them; "I bought the watch and the cross from the drummer Zanetto. Poor child! The first bullet sent him to his account in the assault on Fort Olivo, the 29th of May, before Tarragona. For goodness' sake, let it alone."

I saw that my curiosity made him impatient, so I returned the lamp and took up my hat to retire.

"You are leaving us very soon, my friend," said the general.

"You know, general, that I must be home by half-past nine."

"Right. Duty before all. I hope you don't intend to put all I have said upon paper."

"You have authorized me to do so, general."

"So be it, then; but upon one condition."

"Name it."

"That you will add nothing of your own to it, as most of you men of letters do; and that you will not pervert my words."

"I will try not to do so."

{807}

From The Month.

Scenes From a Missionary Journey in South America.

I. Lisbon, St. Vincent, Pernambuco, Bahia.

Toward evening of the 12th of March we doubled Cape Finisterre, the north-western extremity of Spain, and saw in the misty offing a very large four masted iron screw steamer, homeward bound, and said to be from Australia. We had but once seen the Spanish coast looming through the fog several leagues off; but at sunrise on the 14th we forgot all the miseries of the previous four days, as the sea was quite smooth, the weather admirable, and a scene of unequalled beauty unrolled itself before our eager gaze. We were entering the Tagus: on our left, at the river's mouth, stood the castle of St. Julian, apparently not a very ancient or remarkable structure. We had passed in the night, also on the left, the far-famed wood-crowned hills and picturesque glens of Cintra, so beautifully sung by Lord Byron in Childe Harold. Further on jutted into the stream the yellow-walled old Moorish fortalice of Belem, so often depicted, and so worthy of it. Its many lights and shadows, as the sunlight plays on its richly sculptured front, give it a strangely quaint and old-world appearance. Its garrison, a mere company or so, appeared to enjoy a sinecure; for I beheld a single sentinel lazily pacing up and down a narrow landing-place. Others were fishing with a rod and line, and a few more washing in the stream their seemingly unique shirts, for they wore no other clothing that I could see, save a pair of white canvas trowsers. This scene I saw repeated a few weeks later in the Brazilian island of Sancta Catharina, where a squad of black soldiers were washing their shirts and trowsers in the waters of a small mountain stream. From the castle of Belem the view eastward up the river is one of the most beautiful that can be imagined, and seems at first fully to justify the pride of the Portuguese lines:

"Quem nâo tem visto Lisboa, Nâo tem visto cousa boa."

That is, he has not seen a beautiful sight who has not seen Lisbon. The river, considerably narrowed at its extreme mouth, widens here very much, and displays on its broad surface a forest of masts. On the left hand the city rises from the water's edge up an amphitheatre of seven hills, house upon house, church upon church, filling up an irregular semicircle of considerable extent, and having for a frame the surrounding green heights, whose tender spring verdure, here and there enlivened by the blooming Judas-tree, [Footnote 299] agreeably contrasts with the dazzling whiteness of most of the edifices. To the westward of the city sits the imposing mass of the modern and yet unfinished royal palace of Ajuda; and beneath it, near the waterside, an old convent and church, whose gray weather-beaten walls seem to bid defiance to the mushroom structure above. This palace of Ajuda will probably never be finished. The finances of that puny kingdom are not, I imagine, in the most prosperous condition; and it would appear that modern royalty is as little at ease in residences fashioned upon the grandeur and magnificence of ancient days, as a beggar would be if he suddenly became the owner and tenant of a nobleman's seat.

[Footnote 299: A tree with pendulous bunches of pink flowers. It is probably so called from its blooming about Passion-tide. Some say that it was on a tree of this species that Judas hanged himself.]

{808}

On the southern side of the Tagus are to be seen scattered here and there pleasantly enough among the green hills various white-walled _quintas_, or country farm-houses and villas. There is also, facing Lisbon, a small town of three or four thousand inhabitants. A little lower down toward the sea, on the same side, is the new Lazaretto, or building for quarantine--a certainly not very inviting abode, all white and yellow, without a particle of verdure or a square inch of shade about it. The harbor or bay, four or five miles wide, contains ships of almost every nation; but chiefly British, for Portugal is now little better than a colony or dependency of England. The Magdalena had no sooner cast anchor than two of the respected clergy of the English college--the college _dos Inglesinhos_, (of the dear English,) as the people call them--came on board to welcome me. I accompanied them ashore, and visited the college, situated on one of the highest spots of the city. On my way through the custom-house I saw a piece of impertinence committed by one of the underlings in the absence of his principal, which too well indicated the little respect which is now paid to the holy see in that once so Catholic kingdom. A secretary of the Brazilian nunciature, on his way to Rio, had landed with a small bag containing despatches sent by Cardinal Antonelli to the nuncio at Lisbon. Ambassadors' papers are privileged everywhere; nevertheless, in spite of the secretary's remonstrances and mine, the said underling broke open one of the sealed packets, and would doubtless have proceeded further had not Padre Pedro, of the English college, at that moment arrived, and threatened the insolent _douanier_ with the loss of his place. I don't know if the nuncio took any notice of the affair; but where could such a proceeding have taken place save in Lisbon, or perhaps in Florence?

Facing the harbor, in the Praça do Commercio, is a handsome bronze statue of one of the former kings of Portugal, whose proud and commanding attitude half recalled the times when Portugal was mistress of the seas, and her adventurous navigators pioneered the way through unknown oceans to discoveries of stupendous magnitude.

The English fathers, the Revs. ----, showed me more than ordinary politeness: one of them accompanied me to present sundry letters of introduction I had brought with me to some notable personages of the capital. I was very cordially received everywhere, and could have wished that all the Portuguese resembled these worthy representatives of former national greatness. The Marqueza de F----, among others, appeared to me the model of a hidalgo's wife, full of grace and dignity, yet of amenity and practical good sense. I was particularly struck with her fervid piety, worthy of better times. At the house of the Marquess de L----, brother to the Portuguese minister in London, I met the newly consecrated Bishop of Oporto, who, to an ardent zeal and piety, joined the precious experience of thirty years' apostolate in China as a Lazarist missionary. He has since made his voice heard to some purpose in the upper house of the Lisbon parliament, strenuously resisting and combating the antichristian measures of the Louié ministry.

Some of the churches, of course, I visited, as far at least as the shortness of time allowed. They bore for the most part traces of the magnificence and gorgeous piety of other days; but were generally ill kept, and but too empty of worshippers. The chapter mass was being chanted when I entered the Primatial church; there were very few people assisting; near the door stood some poor women with dead babes laid on benches; they did not seem to be noticed by any one.

If the exterior aspect of Lisbon is truly magnificent, a nearer view of that capital takes away all illusion. I afterward found this to be the case also with many of the Brazilian cities. {809} Nature has done wonders for most of these towns, but man seems to have made it his especial purpose to sully and disfigure everything. If we except some really very fine buildings and noble historic monuments, all in Lisbon is squalid, neglected, and ruinous. Most of the streets, rebuilt so lately as eighty years ago, after the great earthquake, are narrow, tortuous, ill-paved, and more than ordinarily dirty and fetid. The same may be said of the houses, even of palaces of great noblemen, in which, in spite of imposing architectural splendor, and traces of former sumptuousness, the olfactory sense is frequently annoyed by indescribable odors of stables or worse things. Sanitary commissions would assuredly be driven mad if at work in that city for any time. The noisy bustle of a great capital always gives, more or less, an appearance of energetic life to its indwellers; but after London, Paris, or even Madrid, Lisbon appears dead. It is the torpid metropolis of a degenerate people.

On the 21st at sunrise we cast anchor in the fine bay of St. Vincent, one of the Cape de Verde Islands, and a coaling station for steamers. It is a volcanic rock of frightful sterility, but possesses a wide, deep, and secure harbor of considerable resort for ships navigating on the African coast. Everything is brought thither from the neighboring island of Sant' Antonio--water, oranges, bananas, yams, sugar-canes, and other productions--for the place yields absolutely nothing, save a little brackish water in a couple of wells. Its sole inhabitants are a few score of starving-looking negroes, a few lean pigs, fowls, and goats. I saw, soaring high among the mountains, a kind of vulture with a large yellow beak, but wondered where that bird and its possible fellows would find anything to eat, unless it came across from the neighboring islands. For there is no sign whatever of vegetation or of wild animal life on this spot, where it is said never to rain. The soil is reddish, and perpetually calcined by the intolerable fierceness of an almost equatorial sun. He ought not to complain of heat in Europe who has once visited St. Vincent. One of my voyaging companions, the secretary of nunciature at Rio, the Rev. Monsignore ----, who had come directly from Rome, was sighing and groaning under the oppression of that fiery clime. The good man had, by some mischance, left his baggage behind, and had no other clothing to wear but a long black coat of a coarse and thick texture that would have done him fair service amidst the snows of Canada--but here in St. Vincent! He must have had a vivid anticipation of purgatory, I am sure; his distress was very comical, and he could not relieve it by lighter clothing until we reached Bahia. Far more at their ease were the dozen or two of little blacks, perfectly naked, who played on the smooth sandy shore, jumping and tumbling in and out of the waves, just like our own children in the new-mown hay at home in the summer-time.

There may be at St. Vincent four or five score of so-called houses of most wretched appearance, a set of stone-built barracks tenanted by a company or so of Portuguese soldiers, and a small fort on a hillock, overlooking and commanding the bay. Three or four sickly-looking palm-trees, brought from Portugal, endeavor to grow in front of the government house. A small church has recently been built, and is served by a black priest, who managed to raise the funds for its erection by begging on board every ship which came into the harbor. To the right on entering the harbor is a mountain of somewhat fantastic form. American imagination has found in its outline some resemblance to Washington's profile, and it has in consequence been called "Washington's Head." Right in the middle of the entrance of the bay, and darkly outlined against the frowning cliffs of Sant' Antonio, is a tall conical rock of remarkable appearance. It is a capital landmark, being seen seaward at a very great distance. {810} When we entered the harbor, we found at anchor, among other vessels, a large Federal steam-frigate, which had been there four months watching the arrival of the famous Alabama. Within the spacious bay disported two whales, mother and cub, which were pursued for several hours, but in vain, by the native fishermen.

We most gladly bade farewell to the desolate isle of St. Vincent, and fairly sailed away for the New World, yet distant from us six or seven hundred leagues. The heat now began to be terrific, especially at night in the narrow cabins; but it was moderated most days by a gentle breeze, which made lolling on deck in the evenings truly luxurious. About a day's sail from St. Vincent I first noticed shoals of flying-fish, though I believe they are to be found in a much more northerly latitude, and in another voyage I saw some off the isle of Palma. They rise from the sea, chiefly in the early morning and when the surface is freshly rippled, in flocks of ten to sixty or more, and fly close to the surface, often tipping the crest of the wavelets, and skim along with great velocity for the space of five or six hundred yards, when they plunge again into the deep, raising a speck of foam. These small fish, which are said to be of excellent flavor, are about the size of herrings, and of silvery-gray color. I once or twice saw some much larger and almost white on the coast of Brazil, between Bahia and Rio de Janeiro. They are said to be constantly pursued by the bonita, a large fish of the dolphin species, whose hungry maw they try to escape by rising out of the water. But although their flight is exceedingly rapid, their relentless enemy cuts its way through the subjacent waves with equal swiftness, and is ready for the tiny victims as they drop exhausted into the sea. There appear to be prodigious numbers of them all over the ocean; and nearer the coast of Africa the sea is sometimes covered for miles and miles with their spawn lying on the smooth surface like the duck-weed of our ponds. In this latitude, and for many days, I also noticed swimming along in the smooth transparent waters the gay-looking dorado, a large fish vividly reflecting the sun's rays from its scaly back, all over green and gold. Sharks I was anxious to see, but none appeared throughout the voyage; scared away, I should imagine, by the noise and turmoil of the paddle-wheels.

We had fallen into the region of the trade-winds, which blew steadily from the north-east, wafting us rapidly over the middle Atlantic; we were eight days reaching Pernambuco. I was surprised to meet with so few ships on the way, yet we must have crossed the high road of a great multitude of vessels outward or homeward bound. This apparent scarcity of ships gave me a vivid idea of the immensity of the ocean, on whose pathless surface so many sail wander, lost like imperceptible specks of dust on the plain. In this great solitude, life on board ship is monotonous enough, and by its wearisomeness almost justifies the snarling saying of Dr. Johnson: "Sir, I would rather be in jail than on board of a ship, where you have the confinement of a prison together with the chance of being drowned." Want of space, even in the largest vessels, the impossibility of applying one's self to serious occupation, to study, or to prayer, for want of quiet solitude, and also on account of the rolling of the ship, which greatly fatigues the head--all this makes one sigh for the end of the voyage, and find a lively interest in the most trifling occurrences--the passing of a distant sail, the flight of a bird, and so forth. It is especially in the evenings--and they are long ones in the tropics--that time appears heavy, unless one be inclined to enter into all the frivolous and noisy amusements set on foot to beguile weariness. The passengers dance, play games, improvise concerts, and especially eat and drink enormously, and almost all day long. How wearisome former sea-voyages must have been, which lasted many months, sometimes even several years! It is related, for example, in Captain Cook's voyages that some of his crew once lost their wits for joy on seeing the land they had not beheld for eighteen months.

{811}

A few degrees before we crossed the line, the sky became overcast with heavy dark clouds, which French sailors call "_le pot du noir_" and our English tars "the doldrums;" the barometer ceased to indicate any atmospheric changes. It was on the 26th, in the evening, we passed the equator, and for more than forty hours we had violent squalls and occasional tremendous downpourings, which made us all uncomfortable: for staying on deck was out of the question, and the heat below was very oppressive. Flocks of a species of large wild goose, which came flying round the ship, announced the proximity of the land; and on the 28th toward dusk we passed off the rocky and picturesque island of Fernando de Noroñha. It was at too great a distance to distinguish anything, but it is said to contain features of great natural beauty. This island is now used as a place of transportation for the convicts of Brazil. These were formerly detained in the southern island of Sancta Catharina; but that spot afforded the prisoners too many facilities of escape, being so near the mainland, and within easy reach of the foreign state of the Banda Oriental. I could collect but meagre notions concerning the number and the lot of the unhappy convicts, mostly all blacks, who have only exchanged one kind of slavery and labor for another. In most cases, when the crime committed has not been of the most heinous nature, the convict after a year or two's confinement is drafted into the army or navy. I have heard officers of both services bitterly complain of this system. The island of Noroñha is mountainous, and difficult of access.

At last, on Sunday, March the 29th, at sunrise, we touched the New World, and the Magdalena cast anchor in Pernambuco roads, about three miles from the land, for the harbor, whose entrance is narrow besides, is inaccessible to ships of large tonnage. The fishermen of this place boldly navigate in those roads, and sometimes many leagues into the offing, on strange-looking and perilous rafts made of a few crossed bamboo-sticks, somewhat resembling the catamarans used at Madras. It is inconceivable how those daring sailors are not devoured by the sharks off those flimsy machines, which the least wave upsets. It does not much concern them when this happens, for they all swim like fishes, and the tiny craft is soon put to rights again. There is, however, a tradition in the port that once upon a time a man was snatched off his dancing catamaran by a monstrous shark, which devoured him before the eyes of his affrighted companions. Pernambuco is a place of great trade, the third city in the Brazils for population and the importance of its productions: it is one of the great sugar-markets of the world. It possesses some good churches and public buildings, and a school of law, the first in the empire, where Pombalist and Jansenistic traditions have obtained much less adhesion than at Sao Paolo or Bahia. A thesis was maintained there with great applause a short time ago, which astonished all the lawyers of Brazil, namely, that the pope needed not a general council to decide infallibly any doctrine of faith; his _ipse dixit_ was sufficient; and all true Catholics ought at once to bow interiorly and exteriorly to it as to the word of Christ himself. This was probably the first time this had been so boldly proclaimed in South America since the banishment of the Society of Jesus.

The town is cut up by a number of lagoons, crossed over by bridges like at Venice; and its first aspect from the sea reminds one very much of Hamburg. There is, of course, the difference of a glowing sky and large tropical vegetation. The land lies low, and the presumption is that it must be unhealthy; but it is not so, I believe, owing to the regular sea-breezes, which greatly cool the air and dissipate the vapors. The heat cannot but be intense at times on a spot only six or seven degrees south of the line.

{812}

It is not always easy to land at Pernambuco, for the entrance of the harbor does not give more than fifteen or sixteen feet of water in the best tides; and there lies across it, and for hundreds of miles up and down and parallel with the coast, a dangerous low coral-reef, against which the mighty Atlantic waves dash with fury. This reef, which in many places barely rises above the surface, would prove an excellent defence against invasion; but it was not apparently thought sufficient in former times, for there stands on the beach to the north of the town a square bastioned fort, built by the Dutch under Maurice of Nassau when they occupied the country at the beginning of the seventeenth century. To the north of this again, on a bold rocky hill, is situated the ancient city of Olinda, so called from the exclamations of the first Portuguese discoverers when this enchanting land broke upon their sight: "O linda terra! lindos outeiros!" "O beautiful country, charming hills!" It was formerly a bishop's see and the capital of the country. It contains several churches and convents, as well as old residences of governors and magnates, of a rather massive and imposing architecture. The surrounding country is one vast forest of palm, cocoa-nut, and other trees of the torrid zone. There are many flourishing sugar and coffee plantations, surrounded by nopal and banana groves, and a multitude of superb creepers, amidst whose luxuriant growth and glowing flowers rise the white-walled houses of the owners. As we rode along, we purchased some pine-apples and mangoes of immense size and exquisite flavor. When we returned on board, numbers of Pernambuco boatmen surrounded the ship with loads of oranges and bananas for sale, as well as tame parrots and monkeys; but none of them, with the fear of the sharks before their eyes, would imitate the blacks, whom we had seen at St. Vincent diving into the sea, nine or ten fathom deep, to pick up small pieces of money which the passengers would throw in, to witness their astonishing power of swimming.

From Pernambuco to Bahia we had thirty-six hours' passage. We were not nearer the land than ten or twelve leagues, the Royal Mail Company forbidding their commanders of ships to hug the coast any closer. On the 30th of March, about noon, we met the fine steamer La Navarre, of the French Messageries Company, on its way to Bordeaux. It was crammed full of passengers, among whom I saw several Sisters of St. Vincent de Paul. These venerable religious women serve various hospitals in the Brazils--at Bahia, Rio de Janeiro, and other places. They are everywhere, I need not say, worthy of their holy founder and of their country. They have not escaped, however, in this New World the calumnies and persecutions which they have had to endure in some parts of Europe, and notably in Portugal and Piedmont. Almost the first Brazilian journal I saw contained an infamous diatribe against them; but they would very likely themselves prefer contumely to honor, as assimilating them more perfectly to their Divine Lord, the Man of Sorrows.

At a very early hour on the 31st we doubled the point which juts out on the right of the harbor of Bahia, and the ship fired a gun to announce our arrival. No description can convey a true idea of the beauty of this celebrated bay--Bahia de todos os Sanctos, that is, "All Saints' Bay." Covered to the water's edge with a glowing and gigantic vegetation, the hills which rise above the roadstead are dotted with pretty-looking villas, the residences of the city merchants. It was the commencement of what is here called winter; yet I saw everywhere a superabundance of flowers, especially of roses. Trees with strange forms, fruits yet more strange, a teeming population, two thirds of which at least was composed of negroes, the odd cries and barbarous howlings of these blacks as they hawked their wares or carried, to the number of ten or twelve together, huge burdens swung on the middle of long poles--everything was of a sort to interest a stranger. {813} Carriages there were none, or very few at least; for the city, being built on the steep slope of an abrupt cliff, has no level surface anywhere in its streets, most of which resemble very much the queer uphill lanes leading to Fourvières in the city of Lyons. The intense heat of the atmosphere made me give up the design I had entertained of visiting the town entirely on foot. I hired a kind of bath-chair, of which there are long stands about, and two stout negroes conveyed me successively to the various churches and the public garden of the city. These chairs are very ingeniously contrived to exclude the sun and admit the air, as well as to preserve absolute privacy within them. They swing on a long pole fore and aft, which the blacks carry on their shoulder; but this pole is shaped like an elongated S, to secure the sitter's equilibrium, which would be unpleasantly disturbed by the see-saw tread of the bearers. Notwithstanding the little exercise I took, an abundant perspiration ran from every pore. It was therefore with exquisite pleasure that I came to a house where for a few _vintems_ ( few pence) I could exchange my stewing state for the coolness of a shower-bath. I had previously been told to use the necessary precaution-- that is, to rub a small quantity of caixaça, or rum, over my body before coming in contact with the water.

The trade of Bahia appears considerable, and is entirely carried on in the lower town, which stretches along the water-side on the north for more than a league, nearly to the western-most point of the outer bay, crowned by a celebrated sanctuary dedicated to Nossa Señhora do Bom-Fim--Our Lady of the Happy Death. On the eastern promontory of the harbor, on the summit of a bold hill looking upon the Atlantic, is the oldest religious building, perhaps, in all South America. It is the now ruinous church built by an Indian princess, the first of her race who embraced the faith of Christ. The beach below was often hallowed by the footsteps of the venerable Father Anchieta, the apostle of Brazil, who would bare his breast to the sea-breeze to cool the ardor which consumed him for the salvation of souls, and write with a stick on the sand of the shore the beautiful Latin verses he daily composed in honor of the Blessed Mother of God. The blacks still cross themselves at the mention of Padre Anchieta's name, and the country still abounds with traces and monuments of his zeal and wonderful sanctity. The numerous churches of Bahia are generally very richly decorated, but not cleanly kept. I saw some large black rats running across the altar of one of them, most profusely adorned with gilt carving. It was a church dedicated to St. Benedict the Moor, a negro saint from Africa, a monk of the Franciscan order, who lived and died in Sicily, and it is exclusively used by the blacks. A negro priest was loitering about its precincts, and when I told him of the boldness of the aforesaid rats, "We cannot help it, Señor Padre-mestre." he answered; "their numbers are so great we cannot destroy them." The churches have no seats; the men stand round by the side walls, and the women _squat_ down on the middle wooden floor. Sometimes, and when the floor is of stone, the ladies are accompanied to church by a female slave carrying a small square carpet, which she lays down for her mistress to sit upon. I saw again here in the cathedral what I had already seen in Lisbon: on a wooden bench near the holy-water vessel close to the door lay several dead babies, shrouded up with the exception of the face, and covered with fresh flowers. The mothers were waiting hard by until a priest should come to recite the funeral prayers. I had at first mistaken these little corpses for waxen _exvotos_. Thus adorned, death had nothing sad or repulsive about it, especially when I thought that these, were the remains of little angels--_anjiñhos_ they call them in Brazil--who had flown to heaven with the purity of their baptismal innocence.

{814}

The negroes of Bahia are numerous, and the finest in the Brazils. I admire their robust frames, and the seeming indifference with which they carried almost Titanic loads beneath such a burning sun. The landing-place is a perfect Babel; these blacks are so loquacious, and they, moreover, seem to think it adds to their importance to shout as loud as their rough, powerful throats will let them. I have never heard a negro speak to another in a quiet, subdued way. Why should they, indeed? They never attain the sober sense of manhood; they are a mere set of noisy, overgrown children. We had had as a fellow-passenger by the Magdalena, as far as Bahia, a Mr. B----, a little, old Scotchman, long settled in the province of Minasgeraes, who took no small pride in exhibiting a snow-white beard almost a yard in length, and a plentiful crop of hair of the same venerable hue. A sprightly English youth, who was one of the first to land, spread the report among the blacks that we had on board the famous "Wandering Jew." Our ship was soon surrounded by a multitude of boats crammed full of woolly heads, and, when the luckless Scotchman landed, he was, to his dismay, escorted everywhere by a long procession of shouting and screaming blackies. We thought he paid rather dear for his eccentricity.

The market, which was near the landing-place, was abundantly supplied with eatables of every kind; poultry, kids, lambs, sucking-pigs, all alive, and bleating, squeaking, clucking their best; a great variety of fish and fruits; oranges of huge size, called there _seleitas_; water-melons, with the red, cool pulp; mangoes, bananas, jacas, a sort of large pumpkins which grow on tall trees, goiavas, and many more species whose mostly Indian names I cannot recollect. With the exception of oranges, limes, and pine-apples, which are superexcellent, the fruits of Brazil do not at first please a European palate. Those of Europe--owing, I suppose, to careful and scientific cultivation--attain a more delicate flavor, if they do not equal the fruits of America in size and color. The same may be said of the flowers, which, with greater size and magnificence of color and form, lack, for the most part, the exquisite perfume which our humblest flowers exhale.

Translated.

Sayings of the Fathers of the Desert.

Some brothers came to Abbot Antony, and said: "We wish to hear a maxim from you by which we may save ourselves."

The father said: "You hear the Scriptures, that is enough for you."

"But we wish to hear something from you, father."

"You hear," replied Abbot Antony, "Our Lord saying: 'If any man strike you on the left cheek, turn even the other to him.'"

Said they, "We are not able to do this."

"If you are not able to turn the other cheek, at least bear the one blow patiently."

"We cannot do that," said they.

"If you are not strong enough for that, then do not wish to strike more than you are struck."

"Oh!" said they, "we cannot even do that."

Then the father said to his novice: "Get ready some pap for these brothers, for they are very weak." Then, turning to them, he said: "If you are not able to do even this much, what can I do for you? All that you need is prayer."

{815}

The Two Lovers of Flavia Domitilla.

By Clonfert.