Chapter IX.

"A man may lose in a moment His glory, empire, and dazzling throne." --Victor Hugo.

Robert, after having lingered long on the shores of Lake Geneva, in the city and its environs, so rich in natural beauties, and having admired the grandeur of the Alps, and, above all, Mount Blanc, the Jura, and Mount Salère, arrived at Saint René, a small village at the foot of the Great St. Bernard. This was the 20th of May, 1824.

The young painter wished to pass the night at the convent with the monks, so he asked for a guide, but was told that they only started in the morning to take travellers to that high point, and the innkeeper advised him to wait until the next day; but he was not willing to take this advice, as time was so precious to him that a day passed in inaction was an irreparable loss. So be started out through the village to look for a guide, but the man had told him the truth--there was not a guide to be found. Robert expressed so much regret at his disappointment to a worthy old man that he replied:

"If it were any other day Joseph would conduct monsieur better than anyone else, for be was the oldest guide, but unfortunately he could not do it, for it was the 20th of May, and this day he always spends at church in praying for his benefactor. But if you will go to his house you can see him; it is down there," at the same time pointing to a pretty little cottage with a garden in front. "A famous history, monsieur, that of Joseph, and if he goes up with you, be will tell it you, and I must not take up more of your time."

"I am much obliged for your information, my good man, and will try and put it to profit." Then he took the road toward the house, and soon reached it, but imagine his disappointment to find it closed! As he was turning to leave, he met a man of about fifty years of age, with a woman, still fresh and beautiful, leaning on his arm, and they seemed to be absorbed in each other; and in looking at them Robert forgot for a moment the guide he was seeking. They stopped at the gate, and were about entering it when he asked, "Is this the man Joseph of whom I was told--the guide up the mountain?"

"At your service, sir," replied he. "I am the person; do you wish to be taken there?"

"I do, but they told me at the village that you could not be induced to go on the 20th of May, but I thought I would ask for myself, and I assure you I will be very grateful if you can make this sacrifice in my favor, for I have the greatest desire to pass the night with the good monks." His amiable and polite manner had won the favor of the guide, but still he was undecided. Robert, seeing his hesitation, begged him to give his consent.

"It seems a little late to start," said the guide, reflecting and looking as if he did not care to go.

"Oh, we can walk fast," said Robert gayly.

"Well, I find I must give up to you," said he, half sadly, half smiling. "Come in the house, sir, while I change my clothes, and you may flatter yourself with having gained a victory. It has been many years since I put my foot on the mountain on the anniversary of this great day. It has been twenty-four years since then."

Robert was looking at a picture while he spoke, representing Napoleon mounted on a mule, climbing up the Saint Bernard, escorted by a guide.

"Aye, aye," said Joseph with emphasis, "this is my history--that guide who walks by the side of the first consul is me, I had the honor of conducting him."

"Indeed," cried Robert, "oh! do tell me about it. If my poor Cyprien was only here, how delighted he would be to hear of the emperor he loves so much."

"Is this Cyprien one of his faithful soldiers, sir?"

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"Yes, and he is more than that; he is one of those soldier heroes who would give the last drop of their heart's blood for the emperor. I have had the happiness, with God's aid, to have saved from misery this noble wreck of imperial glory, for he was indeed miserable when he lost his emperor."

"Well, my good young man, that decides me at once, for, since you have saved one of the old soldiers of the emperor, I can refuse you nothing, for I loved him also, and had good reasons for so doing. We will start, and on the way I will tell you to whom I am indebted for this pretty little house, so good a wife, and children, that make all my joy. We must go rapidly, or we will run the risk of a storm, for we have only time to arrive before night, and in our mountains storms come up very suddenly." Then turning to his wife, he embraced her and said, "Don't be uneasy, Margaret, I will return to-morrow." They walked briskly, and soon left the village behind them, and the guide commenced his history.

"Twenty-four years ago, our valley was not so peaceful as it now is. It was invaded by French troops, whose tumult was rather a strange contrast to the usual noise of the mountains--the roar of the tempest and the moving of the avalanches. The guides all became worn out with fatigue, and one morning I was ordered out. I did not receive the order with much pleasure, but I was young, poor, and unfortunately in love with the most beautiful girl in the valley. The officer whom I was to guide wore a three-cornered hat, and enveloped in a sort of gray riding coat. He had with him two other gentlemen, but be rode first, and I was at his side. He was rather singular, and did not seem to know or care where he was, though we were above frightful precipices which gave the bravest a vertigo, but he was as tranquil as if on a lounge in his chamber. It seemed so strange to me that he had no fear and was so silent. But after awhile he spoke to me, questioned me about my life, my pleasures, my troubles. His manner was so winning that I told him everything, and when on the chapter of my loves told him I would die if I could not marry Margaret.

"Well," said he, smiling, "why not marry her then?"

"For a very simple reason," I replied. "I am poor and she is rich, and I cannot obtain the prize until I have a house and garden."

He listened eagerly, then questioned me a great deal, and at last fell into a a reverie, and remained silent and absorbed, until we arrived at the convent, where the good monks came out to receive us. I did not pay much attention to this, I was so chagrined. A little time after, the officer came to me with a letter, which he directed me to take to the headquarters of the army, on the other side of the mountain. I went and returned in the evening from Saint Pierre with the answer. Imagine my surprise and mortification when I found that the person with whom I had spoken so familiarly was none other than the first consul, and his companions were General Duroe and Secretary Bourrienne. I was terrified, thinking I should be thrown into prison for daring to speak so familiarly to my superior. What an end to my fears! The first consul gave me for my trouble a house, garden, and money, so that all my dreams were in an instant realized. I could now marry Margaret, and I was so completely overcome with joy that I thought it was a miracle. This great man did all for me, and you can now see why I love the emperor, and why all my happy remembrances are dated from the 20th of May.

This was only one of the many kind acts of Napoleon during his glorious life; and if we are electrified in reading of his high military deeds, how much more touching are those simple charities which show the beauty of his soul, and the goodness and generosity of his heart, that will ever render his memory immortal.

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Joseph had related with so much spirit and animation his astonishing adventure, and Robert had listened with such eagerness, that neither thought of hastening their steps. The guide had necessarily consumed more time in relating it than we take, and night was fast coming on. The sun had long gone down, and the guide listened uneasily to a kind of rolling noise that sounded like distant thunder.

"The deuce!" he cried, "it will not be long before it is upon us. It is the voice of the storm; don't you hear it? Oh! mercy! we have lost time, and I have been the cause of it. O holy Virgin, come to our help!"

Robert could not conceive the cause of his fright, but, stopping to listen, he felt the same terror. "O Lord my God, protect me!" was his simple prayer, which gave him strength to follow the guide, and the consciousness of danger gave them wings.

A violent wind filled the air with the snow that was loosened by the mildness of the atmosphere, and it was so thick that they could scarcely see. Then the tempest flapped its strongest wings, and moved huge masses of snow, which threatened at each moment to ingulf them. These frightful avalanches, these precipices, these abysses without bottom, these peaks almost lost to sight, these eternal glaciers, and the imminent peril which appeared on all sides, and presented, above all, the image of death; all these sublime horrors, which freeze with fear the heart of guilty man, Robert contemplated with joyous tranquillity. Before the awful majesty of this grand scene, he adored God, whose powerful hand can raise the anger of the elements or calm them at his pleasure. But the tempest increased so much in fury that he was obliged to concentrate all his faculties to preserve his equilibrium. The snow was blinding, and the guide, in terror of making false steps that might plunge them into some abyss, went along hesitatingly, lamenting and believing they were lost. More uneasy for the guide than himself, in their alarming position, Robert tried to raise his courage by speaking of his wife and children, when in an opening of the path a large sign appeared.

"Oh! we are saved:" said the guide in a faltering voice, and, with a hand made stronger by hope, rang a large bell, which had a clear, vibrating sound.

This was the signal of distress that told the good monks that travellers needed their help. But in the raging of the storm the sound of the bell is not heard at the convent, and, numbed with cold and fatigue, Joseph swoons on the snow. Robert tries to warm him and bring him back to consciousness, but without avail, and at last he is seized with vertigo and dreadful shiverings, and his numbed limbs refuse to take him further. But the strength of his soul is greater than his body, and he falls breathing a prayer to God. Not a sound but the noise of the elements is heard, and the sliding of the snow that covers their inanimate bodies, and threatens to leave no trace of them.

"O God! will you let the orphan, whom you have taken under the wings of your love, perish in this mountain solitude? Will not his pious invocation be carried to your throne by the angel of prayer?"

Listen! The liberators come; the snow is scratched away with precaution, and they are found by the noble dogs, gifted with almost sublime instincts which they consecrate to man, with a devotion and fidelity that puts to shame many of the human species. Yes; it was "Help" and "Saviour" who had found the spot where Robert and the guide lay, and breathed on their hands and faces to try to relieve them; but, being unable to do it, they made the mountain re-echo with their barks, which brought out the monks, whom they guided to the spot. The bodies were then carried to the convent, and after a few hours restored to consciousness; and the kind monks heartily gave thanks that they were permitted to rescue from certain death two of their fellow-beings. Could any mission be more noble than theirs; any devotion more self-sacrificing? {77} Impossible; and in all the known world they are honored for their sublime virtues, and acknowledged as noble martyrs of Christian charity.

Robert passed eight days at the convent, and on each one saw the touching piety and indefatigable solicitude of the monks. The last few days he made several excursions over the mountain, where perpetual winter reigns; and was dazzled by the lustre of the immense glaciers, and the glory of his lonely surroundings. He sometimes thought if he were not an artist he would consecrate the remainder of his life to the practice of charity, but his love of art was too strong, and sunny Italy held out such attractions that be was lured on, carrying with him the benediction and good wishes of those noble men who had brought him back to life.

From the Dublin Review

Lecky's History Of Rationalism.[Footnote 12]

[Footnote 12: History of the Rise and Influence of the Spirit of Rationalism in Europe. By W. E. Lecky, M.A., London: Longmans, Green & Co.]

It has been said by a very high authority that the study of history is destined to assume a new aspect, from the application to it of a higher order of minds and a more philosophical method of treatment. We are passing out of the age of speciality into the age of generalization. Innumerable observers have collected facts, and innumerable speculators have multiplied theories; and we now seem to have arrived at that period when it becomes the proper function of the thinker to co-ordinate the stores of knowledge which have been set apart for him by others; evolve laws from the multitude of instances; separate the truth from the falsehood of conflicting theories; conjoin effects with their causes, and trace the half-revealed and far-reaching relations between distant and apparently unconnected phenomena. The influence of such a spirit--long felt in the less complicated sciences--is now, even in England, beginning to act on those which are more intricate. For history the time is rapidly passing away during which a great but much erring thinker could say that it was the unfortunate peculiarity of the history of man that, although its separate parts had each been handled with considerable ability, hardly anyone had hitherto attempted to combine them into a whole, or to ascertain the way in which they are connected with each other. On the contrary, he said, a strange idea prevailed among historians that their business was merely to narrate events; so that, according to the notion of history in his day prevalent, any writer who, from indolence of thought or from natural incapacity, was unfit to deal with the highest branches of knowledge, had only to pass some years in reading a certain number of books, and then he was, _ipso facto_, qualified to be a historian. The time is fast coming when those dreary and monotonous narratives of court intrigues and party cabals will exist only to memorialize an age when the history of kings was substituted for the history of nations, and the consideration of the actions of a few individuals for the exposition of the life of the whole social organization. {78} History is growing to be less of a chronicle and more of a science; her office is no longer thought to be confined to the registration of a few superficially prominent facts; but the discovery, by a scientific induction, of historical laws, and the investigation of causes, is chiefly aimed at; and, as the circumstances which have to be taken into account in such a method of writing history are often dismissed by the older school of writers as almost unworthy of notice, and are, moreover, exceedingly numerous and of almost infinite complication, a far wider and more diversified range of learning and a far greater power of analysis than were formerly either required or expected are supposed in the historian.

It would be idle to imagine that the influence of this more philosophical way of writing history will not extend, or has not extended, to theology. One of its first results has been the unpremeditated vindication by non-Catholic writers of the mediaeval church. And that naturally; for the action of the church in the middle ages was founded on their social state, and it was therefore only when history descended into the bosom of society that she could receive a fuller meed of justice. The Catholic Church has been more philosophically treated, and her primary attribute, that she is a kingdom, more perfectly realized; while a flood of light has been thrown on the historical character of Protestantism, and to that farrago of heresies the conclusions arrived at have been almost uniformly unfavorable. Nor must we suppose that it will affect only the treatment of the external history of Christianity, and leave untouched the history of its dogmas. It has effected, and will hereafter, to a still greater extent effect, that both Catholic doctrines and heretical opinions will be studied not only, as heretofore, in their objective aspect--with respect to their evidence and connections one with another--but more and more in their subjective aspect, as to their influence on the minds of those who hold them. We have, to a great extent, yet to see the results of a profound and extensive study of dogmas in this light; but to study them in this light is undoubtedly the tendency of the present age. We have thus opened to us a field of investigation almost new, and in its nature very different from the beaten tracks in which controversialists have hitherto followed one another. Whatever be the results that may be thus finally arrived at, there cannot be a doubt but that they will be fraught with immense advantage to the cause of truth; and in the course of any researches that may be made into the subjective influence of individual dogmas a number of facts hitherto but little attended to--will be brought forward from the most various sources; so that it will exceedingly behove those who have to attend to the defence of Christianity to make sure that these are truly alleged and represented.

Mr. Lecky, as we have before noticed, endeavors to apply to religious the more advanced method or secular history. He attempts to trace the subjective influence of religious opinions, the manner in which they mutually affected each other, and in which they acted or were reacted on by the other influences of their time. He does not pay much attention to the question of _evidence_, or to the arguments by which they were supported, except in so far as the use of particular arguments or lines of argument affords him some indication of the temper of the times of which he writes. The very idea of his work--a history of religious opinions--compelled him to attend to this rather than to the alleged evidence of particular doctrines: the latter being the proper province of the theologian as the former is of the historian. But from this necessary one-sidedness of his work Mr. Lecky seems to have been led into a corresponding one-sidedness of mind. Every one will grant that education, disposition, the opinions, and, still more, the tone of those around us make it exceedingly difficult to treat religious questions on the sole ground of evidence; and Catholics are continually urging this against the Protestants who, by their denial of the infallibility of the church, multiply indefinitely the number of questions which have to be thus decided; but Mr. Lecky goes further, and says that there really is not sufficient evidence for us, situated as we are, to come to a reliable conclusion at all. {79} It is natural, therefore, that he should now and then take occasion to sift supposititious evidence and fallacious arguments; and in several places he states with great force the nature and logical value of the reasons given against some or other of the old doctrines now denied by Protestants. An instance of this may be interesting to our readers; the subjoined passage is taken from his second chapter On the Miracles of the Church:

"If we ask, what are the grounds on which the cessation the of miracles is commonly maintained; they may, I suppose, be summed up such as follows:

"Miracles, it is said, are the divine credentials of an inspired messenger announcing doctrines which could not otherwise be established. They prove that he is neither an imposter nor an enthusiast; that his teaching is neither the work of a designing intellect nor of an overheated imagination. From the nature of the case, this could not be proved in any other way. ... Miracles are, therefore, no more improbable than a revelation; for a revelation would be ineffectual without miracles. But, while this consideration destroys the common objection to the gospel miracles, it separates them clearly from those of the Church of Rome. The former were avowedly exceptional; they were designed to introduce a new religion, and to establish a supernatural message. The latter were simply means of edification; they were directed to no object that could not otherwise be attained, and they were represented as taking place in a dispensation that was intended to be not of sight but of faith. Besides this, miracles should be regarded as the most awful and impressive manifestations of divine power. To make them habitual and commonplace would be to degrade if not to destroy their character, which would be still further abased if we admitted those which appear trivial and puerile. The miracles of the New Testament were always characterized by dignity and solemnity; they always conveyed some spiritual lesson, and conferred some actual benefit, besides attesting the character or the worker. The mediaeval miracles, on the contrary, were often trivial, purposeless, and unimpressive; constantly verging on the grotesque, and not unfrequently passing the border.

"Such is, I think, a fair epitome of the common arguments in favor of the cessation of miracles; and they are undoubtedly very plausible and very cogent; but, after all, what do they prove? Not that miracles have ceased, but that, _supposing_ them to have ceased, there is nothing surprising or alarming in the fact. ... This is the full extent to which they can legitimately be carried. As an _à priori_ proof, they are far too weak to withstand the smallest amount of positive testimony. Miracles, it is said, are intended exclusively to accredit an inspired messenger. But, after all, what proof is there of this? It is simply an hypothesis, plausible and consistent it may be, but entirely unsupported by positive testimony. Indeed, we may go further, and say that it is distinctly opposed by your own facts. ... You must admit that the Old Testament relates many miracles which will not fall under your canon. ... But the ecclesiastical miracles, it is said, are often grotesque; and appear _primâ facie_ absurd, and excite an irresistible repugnance. A sufficiently dangerous test in an age when men find it more and more difficult to believe any miracles whatever. A sufficiently dangerous test for those who know the tone that has been long adopted, over an immense part of Europe, toward such narratives as the deluge or the exploits of Samson, the speaking ass or the possessed pigs! Besides this, a great proportion of the ecclesiastical miracles are simply reproductions of those which are recorded in the Bible; and if there are mingled with them some that appear manifest impostures, this may be a very good reason for treating these narratives with a more jealous scrutiny, but is certainly no reason for maintaining that they are all below contempt. The Bible neither asserts nor implies the revocation of supernatural gifts; and if the general promise that these gifts should be conferred may have been intended to apply only to the apostles, it is at least as susceptible of a different interpretation. If these miracles were actually continued, it is surely not difficult to discover the beneficial purpose which they would fulfil. They would stimulate a languid piety; they would prove invaluable auxiliaries to missionaries laboring among barbarous and unreasoning savages, who, from their circumstances and habits of mind, are utterly incapable of forming any just estimate of the evidences of the religion they are called upon to embrace. .... To say that these miracles are false because they are Roman Catholic is to assume the very question at issue."--Vol. i. pp. 173-177.

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There is nothing, indeed, that is particularly new in this reasoning; our readers must have frequently seen or heard it urged against Protestants; but it is valuable in Mr. Lecky's history, as showing the view taken of the ordinary Protestant arguments by the higher class of anti-Catholic writers. In a similar manner he disposes of the vulgar arguments against magic and sorcery in a passage which, however, is, we regret to say, too long for quotation (Vol. i. pp. 9-16). He there concludes by saying that the evidence on that subject is so vast and so varied, that it is impossible to disbelieve it without what, on any other subject, we should consider the most extraordinary rashness. The subject was examined in tens of thousands of cases, in almost every country in Europe, by tribunals which included the acutest lawyers and ecclesiastics of the age, on the scene and at the time when the alleged acts had taken place, and with the assistance of innumerable sworn witnesses. As condemnation would be followed by a fearful death, and the accused were, for the most part, miserable beings whose destruction can have been an object to no one, the judges can have had no sinister motives in convicting, and had, on the contrary, the most urgent reasons for exercising their power with the utmost caution and deliberation. The accusations were often of such a character that all must have known the truth or falsehood of what was alleged. _The evidence is essentially cumulative._ Some cases, it is added, may be explained by monomania, others by imposture, others by chance coincidences, and others by optical delusions; but, when we consider the multitudes of strange statements that were sworn to and registered in legal documents, he confesses that it is very difficult to frame a general rationalistic explanation which will not involve an extreme improbability.

And now, passing to another subject, even Catholics may find in the following passage something worthy of being dwelt on:

"The world is governed by its ideals, and seldom or never has there been one which has exercised a more profound and on the whole a more salutary influence than the mediaeval conception of the Virgin. For the first time woman was elevated to her rightful position, and the sanctity of weakness was recognized as well as the sanctity of sorrow. No longer the slave or toy of man, no longer associated only with ideas of degradation and of sensuality, woman rose, in the person of the Virgin Mother, into a new sphere, and became the object of a reverential homage of which antiquity had had no conception. Love was idealized. The moral charm and beauty of female excellence was for the first time felt. A new type of character was called into being; a new kind of admiration was fostered. Into a harsh and ignorant and benighted age this ideal type infused a type of gentleness and of purity unknown to the proudest civilizations of the past. In the pages of living tenderness which many a monkish writer has left in honor of his celestial patron; in the millions who, in many lands and in many ages, have sought with no barren desire to mould their character into her image; in those holy maidens who, for the love of Mary, have separated themselves from all the glories and pleasures of the world, to seek in fastings and vigils and humble charity to render themselves worthy of her benediction; in the new sense of honor, in the chivalrous respect, in the softening of manners, in the refinement of tastes displayed in all the walks of society; in these and in many other ways we detect its influence. All that was best in Europe clustered around it, and it is the origin of many of the purest elements of our civilization,"--Vol. i. pp. 234-235.

"But," he is pleased to add, "the price, and perhaps the necessary price, of this was the exaltation of the Virgin as an omnipresent deity of infinite power as well as of infinite condescension." Here we have an example of the extraordinary mistakes which are occasionally made by Mr. Lecky. We by no means accuse him of intentional misrepresentation; and in a work of nearly a thousand pages, of which there is scarcely a page without a note, and scarcely a note without six or seven references or quotations, it was impossible but that some inaccuracies should creep in. But he unfortunately often uses a looseness and generality of reference which makes his notes almost useless to anyone desirous of verifying them, and his inaccuracies, some of which bear with them an appearance of great carelessness, are incredibly frequent; while we desiderate in him that fulness of theological knowledge which a writer ought to possess who criticises dogmatic systems so dogmatically as he does. {81} In the present case he actually seems to think that the Blessed Virgin was regarded as an omnipresent deity because it was believed that she could hear prayers anywhere addressed to her. But the teaching of Catholic theologians makes a very great difference between the omnipresence of God and the manner in which the Blessed Virgin and the saints are cognizant of the prayers poured out to them on earth. The Scotists ordinarily teach that God reveals to the saints in glory whatever it is expedient that they should know; the Thomists that they see in the vision of God the prayers and the necessities of men; some have urged the elevation and expansion of even their natural faculties consequent on their entrance into the state of glory; but none have ever supposed them to be present, as God is, to the whole created universe. Mr. Lecky, proceeds to state that before the belief that a finite spirit could hear prayer wherever offered was firmly established, it was believed that at least they hovered round the places where their relics had been deposited, and there, at least, attended to the prayers of their suppliants. In support of this assertion he quotes the following words as from St. Jerome: "Ergo cineres suos amant animae martyrum, et circumvolant eos, semperque praesentes sunt; ne forte si aliquis precator advenerit absentes audire non possint," to which he gives the extraordinary reference, "Epistolae, 1. iii. c. 13." These words indeed occur in St. Jerome; but they occur as the sarcasm of an opponent which St. Jerome gives only in order to refute it. The passage is quoted from Vigilantius in St. Jerome's book against that heretic; but the saint himself calls it a "portent worthy of hell," and argues, in reply to the idea expressed in it, that we cannot set laws to God; that the martyrs follow the Lamb wheresoever he goeth; that the demons wander over the whole world; and are the martyrs to be shut up in a box? As to the Blessed Virgin being regarded as a deity of infinite power and infinite condescension, those Catholic writers who in their devotional writings have spoken the most strongly of her power, have merely said that God will never refuse her anything she asks, and that she will never ask anything inconsistent with his Providence. Mr. Lecky shows in many other places the grossest ignorance of Catholic theology. He quotes, in evidence of the present belief of the Roman Church in demoniacal possession, a ritual which, he says, "is used in the diocese of Tarbes." He need not have gone to an obscure provincial ritual for proof of his assertion; he will hardly find any Catholic theologian who denies it; and the most used, and best known of our modern theological writers has devoted a special chapter to the subject (Perrone, De Deo Creatore, Part I., c. v.) The doctrine of punishment by a material fire "still lingers," he tells us, "in the Roman Catholic manuals for the poor." If by this he meant that it does not remain also among theologians, this is not true; Perrone, one of the most moderate, calls it, "sententia communiter reccpta." (De Deo Creatore, Part III., c. vi. a. 3.)

In the latter part of his chapter "on the Developments of Rationalism," Mr. Lecky has put forward an opinion that the doctrine of the material character of the penal fire is closely connected with the ancient opinion, that the soul is in some sense material. The doctrine of a material fire became, he says, the foundation of all opinion that the soul is of a material nature; and he refers to Tertullian, citing De Anima, c. viii. This assertion is, however, utterly without foundation. It nowhere appears that this was the chief foundation on which this error was rested. Far from making this material conception of punishment the chief ground of his argument, Tertullian, in the passage quoted by Mr. Lecky, does not argue from the materiality of the fire at all. {82} What he does argue from is the corporeal manner in which Abraham, Dives, and Lazarus, are represented in the Gospel; from Abraham's bosom the tongue or Dives, and the finger of Lazarus; and he mentions the "ignis" merely in an incidental manner, and not to argue from its material nature, but to found his reasoning on the general proposition that whatever is susceptible of "fovela" or of "passio" must be corporeal. It is, of course, quite conceivable that a writer, who believed the soul to be of a material nature, might argue from the commonly received opinion of a material fire; but the origin of this opinion was in fact quite different. Some of those who held it even believed the "fire" of hell to be metaphorical. But before the advent of Christianity the minds of the people had been constantly and persistently directed to the sensible and the material; from the ranks of the people Christianity was recruited; and it is not wonderful if somewhat of their former habits of thought clung to those who were converted. It was only by degrees, and after a patient and silent opposition to prevailing habits of thought, that Christianity succeeded in spiritualizing religious conceptions; and the time which elapsed before this had been effected--a period of more than three hundred years--was one of no little confusion in this regard. But no one seems to have been led into the error of supposing the human soul to be material by the notion of a material fire. Some believed this to be the case because they could not see how it could possibly be otherwise; they were unable to rise to the idea of a spirit, properly so called; they could not conceive anything to be real, and not material. That this was the case, in particular, with Tertullian, cannot be doubted, whether we consider his way of speaking in the whole book _De Anienâ_, in the book _Adv. Praxeam_, c. xi., and in the _De Carne Christi_, c. xi., or the pre-eminently sensuous and realistic character of his mind. The Platonic philosophy was another foundation of this opinion respecting the human soul. Some writers who were especially attached to Platonism, as Origen, explained the Platonic doctrine of emanation as meaning that God alone is a pure Spirit, all beings proceeding from God having a trace of materiality greater or less as they are more or less removed from him. They therefore believed all created spirits to be in some sense material; and forms of expression which may seem properly to belong to this opinion remained, as is often the case, long after the opinion itself had vanished. But the source of the whole error was, as is evident, the materialized method of conception of pre-Christian times.

But Mr. Lecky goes much further than this. He tells us that this opinion of the materiality of the human soul--which, if we except at most two or three writers, had certainly died out in the sixth, if not in the fifth century--was the dominant opinion in the middle ages:

"Under the influence of mediaeval habits of thought, every spiritual conception was materialized, and what at an earlier and a later period was generally deemed the language of metaphor, was universally regarded as the language of fact. The realizations of the people were all derived from paintings, sculpture, or ceremonies that appealed to the senses, and all subjects were therefore reduced to palpable images. The angel in the last judgment was constantly represented weighing the souls in a literal balance, while devils clinging to the scales endeavored to disturb the equilibrium. Sometimes the soul was portrayed as a sexless child, rising out of the mouth of the corpse. But, above all, the doctrine of purgatory arrested and enchained the imagination. ... Men who believed in a physical soul readily believed in a physical punishment, men who materialized their view of the punishment, materialized their view of the sufferers.

"We find, however," he proceeds, "some time before the reformation, evident signs of an endeavor on the part of a few writers to rise to a purer conception of the soul." And he goes on to attribute this to "the pantheistic writings that flowed from the school of Averrhoes;" and to ascribe to the Cartesian philosophy "the final downfall of the materialistic hypothesis." Vol. i. pp. 373-378.

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It is not too much to say that the whole of this is entirely unsupported by evidence. Anyone who likes to glance over the Coimbricenses _De Animâ_, the beginning of the second book of the Sentences, the questions _De Animâ_ in the Summa of St. Thomas, the recapitulation of the scholastic theology on that subject in the third volume of Suarez, or the very earliest treatises _De Angelis_, will see that, far from there being merely "a few writers" who maintained the spirituality of the soul, the notion of immateriality was as well defined in the dominant scholastic philosophy as ever it was by Descartes; whose doctrine that the essence of the soul is thought, was clearly stated by the scholastics in the sense that intellection can only belong to the spiritual, and not to the material and the extended. [Footnote 13] The manner in which the Scholastics explained the punishment of a spiritual being by a material fire affords us a test-question on this subject. _Did_ their "intense realization" of this doctrine lead them to infer the materiality of the soul? Certainly not. On the contrary; _because_ all thoroughly realized the spirituality of the soul, all felt this difficulty regarding the manner of its punishment; but, although there was sufficient diversity among them as to its explanation, not one had recourse to the materialistic hypothesis.

[Footnote 13: See St. Thomas Contra Gentiles, 1.2, c. 49, 50, 51, 65, cf. 66, where an immense number of arguments, in great part, of course, drawn from the philosophy of the day, is heaped up to prove the spirituality of the soul.]

Nor is Mr. Lecky correct in stating that the Arabian philosophy had a spiritualizing influence on philosophy and theology. That philosophy eminently favored the "_multiplicatio entium sine necessitate_," than which nothing is more unspiritualizing. Some of those who held it expounded the doctrine of matter and form in a manner dangerous to the spirituality of the soul. [Footnote 14] They held the perilous doctrine of emanation, and it would be quite a mistake to suppose that the description of error which they taught had any conformity of spirit with the poetical and sentimental pantheistic theories of the present day.

[Footnote 14: See St. Thomas, Op. de Angelis, cap 5.]

It is chiefly from the character of the then religious art, which (of course) represented spiritual subjects by material symbols, that Mr. Lecky argues that the middle ages materialized all spiritual conceptions. Thus, in a note to p. 232, vol. 1., he speaks thus:

"The strong desire natural to the middle ages to give a palpable form to the mystery of the Incarnation, was shown curiously in the notion of a conception by the ear. In a hymn, ascribed to St. Thomas à Becket, occur the lines:--

"Ave Virgo, Mater Christi, Quae per aurem concepisti, Gabriele nuntio."

And in an old glass window, now I believe in one of the museums of Paris, the Holy Ghost is represented hovering over the Virgin in the form of a dove, while a ray of light passes from his beak to her ear, along which ray an infant Christ is descending."--Langlois, _Peinture sur Verre_, p. 157.

And our readers will remember remarks of a like bearing in the quotation last given. Such criticisms are, however, to us merely evidence of so many curious misapprehensions. They merely show that an acquaintance with the history of religious art is but a very inadequate preparation for writing the history of religious dogmas. It is perfectly impossible to represent spiritual things in painting and sculpture otherwise than by material images. Nothing is more common than so to represent them even among Protestants of the present day; nothing was more common in the Old Testament, the very stronghold of the ancient anthropomorphites. We feel no inclination to deny that it is exceedingly difficult for the poor and the ignorant to rise to the conception of a spirit, and almost all mankind represent to themselves even the very Deity under some refined material image; but when such representations occupied a prominent position in public worship, there was an opportunity, and that frequently made use of, of correcting an untruthful imagination.

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We have no hesitation in saying that there is far more unconscious anthropomorphism among the Protestant than among the Catholic poor. The doctrines of revelation make known a world akin to, yet not the same as, this; they tell of an order of things itself unseen, but possessing counterparts and shadows here. It is, therefore, not wonderful that there exists a constant tendency to forget that these are but imperfect types and symbols, and to remodel the truths of faith into conformity with what we see around us. To correct this tendency is one of the functions of the science of theology; and the conclusions of theology, infiltrating among the people, keep them from sinking into earthly and anthropomorphic views of religion, these conclusions being communicated by the ordinary resources in the hands of the church, which, certainly, are far more efficacious in the Catholic than in the Protestant system. Indeed, of all the reproaches which have been directed against the theology of the middle ages, that of being in its spirit gross and material is one of the most unfounded and the most unjust. With far greater truth might such a reproach be directed against the Protestant theology of the last three centuries. In the middle ages, theology had a code and a standard of her own; she was the queen of the sciences; she regulated and moulded the ideas of the time. Now, condemned to occupy a subordinate position, she is content to take her ideas from those current in the world, and to use her terms, not in their proper and theological signification, but in the meanings derived from the manner of their present use in physical science and in common life. An example of this occurs in the case of the word _person_, the loss of the theological meaning of which among Protestants has confused, if not obliterated, the doctrine of the Trinity. In Protestantism, the belief of the people lives chiefly by a tradition propagated through no recognized theological channel; a tradition which, consequently, daily grows more feeble and less definite; which is continually becoming more and more corrupted, more low, and earthly, and anthropomorphous. Look at the common Protestant idea of the happiness of the blessed. The great Catholic doctrine which places the essence of the beatitude of man, not in a prolongation and refinement of the pleasures of this world, not even in the sight of Christ's humanity, but in that vision of God as God which is emphatically called beatific, had almost faded out of sight. They look forward to an earthly millennium, which is little better than a glorification of commerce, material prosperity, and natural virtue, to be succeeded by a heaven of which the joys very much resemble those which some Catholic theologians with Suarez [Footnote 15] assign to infants who die without baptism. But against the reproach of lowness and materialism of conception being ever directed against the theologians of mediaeval times, the doctrine of the beatific vision, which they so fully and so beautifully evolved, stands a perpetual protest. For in what was this coarseness and lowness of thought more likely to appear, than in their conception of the greatest happiness of man? Or who were more likely to teach what is far removed from vulgar and worldly conceptions than men who placed the sum of all happiness in the vision and fruition of divine essence, which, according to them, could be seen by no corporal eye, [Footnote 16] and in which was, they said, that joy which eye had not seen nor ear heard, neither had it entered into the heart of man to conceive? The whole of the scholastic treatise _De Deo Uno_ is but another magnificent protest against such an accusation. {85} The heresy of Gilbert Porretanus [Footnote 17] would never be condemned by the Protestants of the present day; nor has ever the conception of the divine simplicity in perfection been so fully realized as it was by those much-abused theologians. The mediatorship of our blessed Lord is now commonly apprehended by Protestants in a manner which makes a real difference of character between the father and son; but no one who knows anything of the scholastic doctrine of the Trinity and the Incarnation can imagine that these theologians would have tolerated for a moment a notion so frightfully heretical. With respect to psychology, the scholastic age saw the death of Traducianism; and anyone who has attended to the earlier scholastic opinions respecting the manner in which spirits suffer in the penal fire, will have seen that they are of a more "spiritual" tendency than those of most Protestant theologians. [Footnote 18]

[Footnote 15: De Peccato Originall.]

[Footnote 16: St. Thomas, in ima & q.12, a. 3; and other older authors in Sent. i. 1, d.1, & l. 4, d.49]

[Footnote 17: Lombardus in Sent. i. 1, d.33, 34; and the commentators _ad loc_.]

[Footnote 18: Sensation and "sensitive imagination" appeared to the scholastic to be of sole material a character, that they would not admit that these and other sensitive affections can exist in a separate spirit; and, consequently, those theologians who explain the punishment of separate spirits by the analogy of the soul and body, were compelled to admit that the pain must be different in kind from the "passio conjuncti."]

Mr. Lecky's criticisms on the opinion that the penal fire is literal and material, and on the supposed general materialism of religious conception in the middle ages, have led us into somewhat of a digression. We have yet, however, one more remark to make. While he concedes that after the time of Averrhoes "a few writers" endeavored to rise to a more spiritual manner of conceiving the truths of faith, he asserts that in the preceding period, before his influence and that of such sects as the Beguins had begun to be felt, the state of things was infinitely worse. From the sixth to the twelfth century materialism in religion was absolutely dominant. That the period preceding the advent of the scholastic epoch was one of great depression of theological science, cannot be doubted; and the amount of what may in a general way be called anthropomorphism current at any period is to a great extent conditioned by the want of general cultivation. But it is very easy to overrate this depression. The episcopal and synodical letters, for instance, which were exchanged concerning the subject of adoptionism do not present to us theological science at, by any means, a low ebb. The same may be said respecting the controversy in the ninth century on the Eucharist; and the controversy on Predestination, if it do not reveal any large amount of historical learning, at least exhibits considerable activity of mind. Such of the writings of authors of that period as the present writer has looked into, show an amount of learning and acuteness which was certainly unexpected by him. That period was necessarily uncritical; but we regard the taste for allegorizing, then as formerly prevalent, to be an indication of something very different from a degraded and material habit of thought. The great teacher of the pre-scholastic age was St. Augustine, one of the most spiritual of the fathers; and the writer who was chosen to supplement him was St. Gregory the Great, who went farther than, and improved on, St. Augustine himself. And, as to the religious art of that period, Mr. Lecky has himself alluded to a peculiarity which, strangely enough, seems to have given him no disquietude as to his general conclusion. In that period, he says:

"We do not find the smallest tendency to represent God the Father. [Footnote 19] Scenes, indeed, in which he acted were frequently depicted, but the First Person of the Trinity was invariably superseded by the Second. Christ, in the dress and with the features appropriated to him in the representations of scenes from the New Testament, and often with the monogram underneath his figure, is represented creating man, condemning Adam and Eve to labor, ... or giving the law to Moses. With the exception of a hand sometimes extended from the cloud, and occasionally encircled with a nimbus, we find in this period no traces in art of the Creator. {86} At first we can easily imagine that a purely spiritual conception of the Deity, and also the hatred that was inspired by the type of Jupiter, would have discouraged artists from attempting such a subject, and Gnosticism, which exercised a very great influence over Christian art, and which emphatically denied the divinity of the God of the Old Testament, tended in the same direction; but it is very unlikely that these reasons can have had any weight between the sixth and the twelfth centuries. For the more those centuries are studied, the more evident it becomes that the universal and irresistible tendency was then to materialize every spiritual conception, to form a palpable image of everything that was reverenced, to reduce all subjects within the domain of the senses."--(Vol. i. pp. 224-5.)

[Footnote 19: We cannot ourselves, as Catholics, admit that there is necessarily the smallest impropriety or inexpediency in picture or sculptured representations of God the Father (See Denzinger, n. 1182 and 1482); yet we may fairly argue that the absence of such, at the period in question, disproves Mr. Lecky's assertion that the dominant tendency of that period was anthropomorphous.]

The most celebrated of the theologians of the middle ages is undoubtedly St. Thomas Aquinas. St. Thomas, however, comes in for an extra share of misrepresentation. At p. 72, vol. ii., we read of him, that he was one of the ablest writers of the fourteenth century--he died in the thirteenth-- and that "he assures us that diseases and tempests are the direct acts of the devil, that he can transport men at his pleasure through the air," and that "omnes angeli, boni, et mali, ex naturali virtute habent potestatem transmutandi corpora nostra." Now all this is precisely what St. Thomas denies. In the first place, anyone would imagine from the manner in which our author writes, that the great mediaeval theologian imagined that, in the ordinary course of things, diseases and tempests are produced by Satanic agency. St. Thomas never taught any such thing, but over and over again refers both the one and the other to natural causes. [Footnote 20]

[Footnote 20: V.g., Comm. in Ps. xvii., and in Arist. Meteor. i. 2, lect xvi.; cf. Summa, i. 2, q. 50, a. 2.]

Mr. Lecky ought to have written "may be;" but the meaning of the words would have been very different, and their point would have been taken away. Secondly, while St. Thomas teaches, in accordance with Holy Writ, that the demons can exercise power over material things, he also teaches that they cannot directly change the qualities of things, nor produce any preternatural change except local motion: nor that at their pleasure; for it is a principle with him that God does not permit them to do all that which they have _per se_ the power of doing. [Footnote 21]

[Footnote 21: Questiones de Malo, q. 16, art. 9, etc.; Questiones de Potentia Dei, q 6. art. 5.]

Thirdly, as to their natural power of transmuting our bodies. We have not been able to find the exact words quoted above, but many similar phrases occur in the _objections_ in the ninth article of the _Quaestio de Daemonibus_, which, it is sufficient to say, St. Thomas solves by saying:

But on the other hand, St. Augustine [Footnote 22] says "Non solum animam sed nec corpus quidem nulla ratione crediderim daemonom arte vel potestate in brutalia lineamenta poese converti." ... I reply that, as the apostle says, "all things made by God in order," whence, as St. Augustine says, "the excellence of the universe is the excellence of order. ... and therefore Satan always uses natural agents as his instruments in the production of physical effects, and can so produce effects which exceed the efficacy of the natural agents; [Footnote 23] but he cannot cause the form of the human body to be changed into that of an animal, because this would be contrary to the order established by God; and all such conversions are, therefore, as Augustine shows in the place quoted, according to phantastical appearance rather than truth.

[Footnote 22: De Civ. Dei. 1. 18, c. 88.]

[Footnote 23: I.e., which exceeds their ordinary effects, because he can use them more skillfully (cf. ad. 11).]

At p. 350 of vol. I., Mr. Lecky tells us that the mediaeval writers taught that God would make the contemplation of the sufferings of the lost an essential elements in the happiness of the blessed. He does not know of what he writes. It was taught that the essential element in their happiness --the _Essentia Beatitudinis_,--is the vision of God; all else accessory and subordinate. In a note to justify his assertion, he adds these words:--"St. Thomas Aquinas says, 'Beati in regno coelesti videbunt poenas damnatorum ut beatitudo illis magis complaceat.'" The quotation is not accurate. {87} After quoting Isaias, ult. 24, be says, "Respondeo dicendum ad primam questionem quòd a beatis nihil subtrahi debet quod _ad perfectionem beatitudinis_ eorum pertineat: _unumquodque autem ex comparatione contrarii magis cognoscitur_, quia contraria juxta se posita magis elucescunt; et ideò, ut beatitudo sanctorum eis magis complaceat, _et de eá uberiores gratias Deo agant_, datur eis ut poenam impiorum perfecte intueantur." [Footnote 24] The passage of St. Thomas, as given by Mr. Lecky, is just one of those which may very well bear either of two meanings. It might mean something very repulsive and very cruel. But the unmutilated passage can bear but one interpretation. St. Thomas does not say that they rejoice in the sufferings themselves; but that they are permitted to see them, in order that they may feel yet more intensely how precious is their own beatitude, and thank God the more heartily for their own escape.

[Footnote 24: supplementum ad tertiam partem Summa, q.94, a. 1.]

In a note to his chapter on the Industrial History of Rationalism, Mr. Lecky charges St. Thomas with what is nothing less than moral obliquity. The Duchess of Brabant, he says, had a scruple of conscience about tolerating the Jews. She therefore consulted St. Thomas; "who replied, among other things that the Jews were doomed to perpetual servitude, and that all their property being derived from usury might lawfully be taken from them." Mr. Lecky is inaccurate both as to the confiscation of their property and as to the perpetual servitude. St. Thomas does not say that all their property was derived from usury, and it would, indeed, have been rather a rash judgment in him to say so. But the Duchess of Brabant had apparently desired to impose new burdens on the Jews, and in writing to St. Thomas had stated that all their property seemed to be derived from usury; to which he replied, that _if this were so_, they might lawfully be compelled to make restitution. Nor does this by any means imply that all their property was to be taken away from them, as appears from St. Thomas's letter among his opuscula, [Footnote 25] and from his general doctrine respecting restitution. [Footnote 26] With respect to the perpetual servitude what St. Thomas does say is this: "_Although according to the laws_ the Jews be, or were, through their own fault doomed to perpetual servitude, and thus princes could appropriate their possessions as their own, yet this is to be understood leniently, so that the necessaries of life be by no means taken from them. _But since we ought, as the apostle declares, to walk honestly in the sight of those who are without, of Jews and Gentiles, and the Church of God, as the laws declare, compulsory service is not to be required of them, which they were not wont to perform in time past._" He goes on to say that if ill-gotten goods were taken from the Jews, it would be unlawful for her to retain them, but they would have to be restored to those from whom they had been unjustly taken; and even under these conditions he declines to sanction any proceeding against them, but only "si nihil aliud obsistat." Mr. Lecky also quotes, he says, the Histriones of St. Thomas. What the Histriones of St. Thomas are, we have not, we confess, the most remote idea.

[Footnote 25: Opusc. xxii, in calce Opusculi de Regimine Principum.]

[Footnote 26: Summa, 2, 2, q. 61-62, etc.]

Mr. Lecky professes to give the analyses of various theological beliefs and tones of thought which have prevailed in other times. Of these, however, he has had but little or no practical experience. He consequently puts before us only certain restricted points of view, which have strongly impressed themselves on his mind in the course of his studies and meditations. We are hurried along by his words as by a flood; but while the effects which some particular doctrine possibly _might_ produce if it were held alone are vividly set before us, he totally loses sight of those other doctrines, which were organically connected with it, and modified and regulated its action. To evade one difficulty be falls into another: he concentrates his gaze on a point that he may see more clearly; but, confining it there, loses sight of those harmonies and contrasts, which make up the beauty of the whole. In one direction this defect has had very great influence. {88} "Veritas" is, it is said, "in medio;" the present age has gone wrong all on one side; and Mr. Lecky, who is an advanced disciple of the present age, consequently considers that preceding ages have gone wrong all on the other. He sees that there is a very great difficulty in adequately realizing phases of thought so very different from those which now prevail. And, because of this, he expends his strength on the points of difference, neglecting for their sake things nearer to his apprehension; and the very natural consequence is that he gives us a distorted and exaggerated picture in which the common elements are not sufficiently brought out.

An instance of this occurs in his treatment of the subject of eternal punishment. The general organization and want of order which pervades his work is quite insufficient to account for the pertinacity with which he again and again recurs to the subject. Like the whole anti-Christian party, and very naturally, he detests the doctrine with his whole spirit; and he allows this detestation to color his whole views of the middle ages. He attributes to its influence whatever he finds, or imagines himself to have found, of a hard, cruel, and repulsive character in their theory and practice. He begins by misrepresenting the character of the doctrine itself. He separates it from the conditioning doctrines which were taught along with it, and which regulated and directed its influence. He dwells almost entirely on the terrible side of the then existing Christianity, and almost altogether neglects the operation of the concurring principle of love, the opposite pole of the Christian motives. And then he concludes that to its influence was due the severity of punishments in the middle ages. A universal terrorism was produced. The sense of the divine mercy was destroyed. The sufferings of the lost were at first regarded with horror; but as men became more used to the thing, the horror was changed to indifference, and the indifference to a barbarous delight in the contemplation and even the infliction of pain. It will not require many arguments to show that such a method of treatment is monstrous. Mr. Lecky ought to have noticed that the causes which in the middle ages led to peculiar stress being laid on the doctrine of eternal punishment, were causes external to, and mostly in direct opposition, to the church; and that their tendency was met by a corresponding realization of an opposite pole of Christian feeling.

We cannot better introduce what we have to say on the severity of punishments, and the alleged callousness of disposition in mediaeval times, and, indeed, on Mr. Lecky's whole criticism of the subject of eternal punishment, than by a passage from a most able writer:

"One of the effects of civilization (not to say one of the ingredients in it) is, that the spectacle, and even the very idea, of pain, is kept more and more out of sight of those classes who enjoy in their full the benefits of civilization. The state of perpetual personal conflict, rendered necessary by the circumstances of former times, and from which it was hardly possible for any person, in whatever rank of society, to be exempt, necessarily habituated everyone to the spectacle of harshness, rudeness, and violence, to the struggle of one indomitable will against another, and to the alternate suffering and infliction of pain. These things, consequently, were not as revolting even to the best and most actively benevolent men of former days, as they are to our own; and we find the recorded conduct of those men frequently such as would be universally considered very unfeeling in a person of our own day. They, however, thought less of the infliction of pain, because they thought less of pain altogether. When we read of actions of the Greeks and Romans, or of our own ancestors, denoting callousness to human suffering, we must not think that those who committed these actions were as cruel as we must become before we could do the like. The pain which they inflicted, they were in the habit of voluntarily undergoing from slight causes; it did not appear to them as great an evil as it appears, and as it really is, to us, nor did it in any way degrade their minds." [Footnote 27]

[Footnote 27: J.S. Mill, Dissertations and Discussions; Art Civilization.]

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The scale, in fact, according to which degrees of pain were computed, was much less minute then than now. This arose from the imperfect subdivision of labor in society, and the consequently more frequently recurring necessity of personally putting forth powers of endurance and of action; from the continual wars and commotions; from the imperfection of the mechanical appliances which now alleviate suffering; from a sterner and rougher manner of living, necessitated by the undeveloped state of the social arts; from the intimate intermingling of the civil and the military life, arising out of the feudal system; and from a multitude of other causes. To these, however, we must add another of far more potent influence. The inchoate mediaeval nations were only emerging from a state of barbarism; and the associations of that barbarism still tenaciously clung to them in the gloomy superstitions common among northern nations, in cruel ordeals, in internecine warfare, in the whole texture of their social and national traditions. The causes referred to by Mr. Mill were in operation almost as much in the civilization of Greece and Rome as in the middle ages; but this circumstance, which is one on which we need not dilate, increased, and must have increased, to an enormous extent the activity of the tendencies on which be remarks. If indeed, there were two nations exactly alike in every particular, except that the one believed eternal punishment and set small store by pain, so as severely and even barbarously to punish offenses, while the other did neither of these things--we should in that case plausibly assert a direct causal connexion between holding the eternity of future punishment and a hardness and callousness of temper. But we cannot argue in this free and easy manner, where the instances from which we have to make our induction are so multifariously different as are the social condition of the present day and the social condition of mediaeval times. We must not thus arbitrarily single one from out of a multitude of causes. Reasoning from the known principles of human nature, we can say with all confidence that the causes just enumerated must have operated, and operated very powerfully, to produce many and severe punishments, the carelessness for and of suffering, the trials by ordeal and by torture, which existed at the period of which we write. And thus we also see that those representations of the torments of the lost, on which Mr. Lecky expends such a vast amount of rhetoric, must have produced these effects immeasurably less than they would now produce; far more powerful means had to be resorted to then to produce an amount of feeling for which gentler methods now suffice.

Nor has Mr. Lecky fairly represented the doctrine of eternal punishment in itself. To contemplate the infliction of pain naturally produces, he says, a callousness and hardness of feeling. This statement embodies only a half truth, and the reasoning founded on it is in the highest degree fallacious. When the Catholics of ancient times contemplated the anguish of the lost, the habits which they endeavoured to form were habits of horror for the sin which entailed that anguish. There is a great difference between thus actively contemplating suffering, and beholding it merely in a passive manner, and with a view to some other end. The surgical operator, the public executioner, the soldier, who look at it in this latter light, may and do in time become hardened and indifferent. But it is far otherwise in the former case; and there is a great difference between reflecting on the pains of others, and reflecting on the pains which may one day be our own. It is reasonable and natural to suppose, and is found to be in reality the case, that one who contemplates the sufferings of others merely and purely as of others, and habitually avoids referring them in any way to himself, will in the end become hard and cruel. {90} But the very essence of sympathy consists in an unconscious association of ourselves with others in their sufferings. The Calvinist, therefore, the believer in "assurance," who fancies himself to be one of the elect, and from his security safely thinks of all the torments of the reprobate as things in which it would be sinful for him even for a moment to imagine that he can have part, may but grow callous at the thought of hell--may even delight to think of it, and revel in the representation of the anguish there. But such a spirit is altogether opposed to the whole bent of Catholic meditation on that subject. The Catholic, when he meditates on these torments, thinks of them as of others, only that the thought may more vividly come home to himself; he thinks of them as of what he may one day have to endure. And again, the thought of our own personal suffering can make us hard and firm only when we consider it as a thing not to be avoided, but to be braved. It is almost a truism to say, that those men are of all the most soft and timid, who are continually representing to themselves means of escape from vividly imagined dangers. And no Catholic would meditate on these torments that he might nerve himself to brave them, but that he might seek means to avoid them. Catholics, of course, accept, on the ground of God's Word, that awful doctrine of our faith which we are now contemplating. So far as they argue for it from reason at all, they say that this doctrine is the necessary sanction of the moral law; and the force of that argument will be felt by none more strongly than by Catholics themselves, who, from holding the existence both of a future temporal and of a future eternal punishment for sin, are better able to judge what effects would be likely to be produced, if hell were, in the common teaching, resolved into a kind of purgatory. But it must never be forgotten that in the Catholic religion the doctrine of eternal punishment, is taught under certain accompanying conditions, which intimately affect its practical bearing. The first of these conditions is the doctrine of purgatory, of which M. Comte thus speaks:

Il serait facile de reconnaître que l'institution, si amèrement critiquée, du purgatoire fut, au contraire, très-heureusement introduite, dans la pratique sociale du Catholicisme, à titre d'indispensable correctif fondamental de l'eternité des peines futures; oar, autrement, cette éternité, sans laquelle les prescriptions religieuses ne pouvaient être efficaces, eût évidemment déterminé souvent ou un relâchement funeste, ou un effroyable désespoir, égalemeut dangereux l'un et l'autre pour l'individu et pour la société, et entre lesquels le génie Catholique est parvenu à organiser cette ingénieuse issue, qui permettait de graduer immédiatement, avec une scrupuleuse précision, l'application effective du procédé religieux aux convenances de chaque cas réel. [Footnote 28]

[Footnote 28: Philosophie Positive, vol. v. p. 269 (Ed. 1864).]

In reading this quotation, it must be remembered that M. Comte was not a Catholic, and regarded the Catholic Church as merely a human institution. But, the truths to which that unhappy thinker here draws attention, are so evident, that they hardly require proof. If the sole future punishment of sin be believed to be an eternal punishment, such as is that of hell, it is not difficult to perceive what effects will follow. The timid, and those who are naturally religiously minded, will form a gloomy and austere notion of religion, which will produce some of the effects noted by Mr. Lecky, and in the end, by provoking a necessary reaction, work the destruction of all religion whatever. Those, on the contrary, who are irreligiously inclined, will be still further moved to give up all ideas of religion as impracticable, and will be disgusted by its tone and spirit; while the doctrine of eternal punishment will lose its force by being applied to light and trivial offences.

But we must also notice another condition of the realization of this doctrine; which is provided in the Catholic system; and which, like that of purgatory, has been rather neglected by Protestantism. {91} It has been noticed by some writers that the sacramental system of the church provides an admirable safeguard, and one in an especial manner necessary in the middle ages, against outbreaks of fanaticism. According to the teaching of the Catholic Church, the sacraments are the great means, channels, and conditions of grace. And this produces a system and an order, a definite method of procedure in the spiritual life, which, assisted by the ascetical and mystical theology so minutely cultivated, abundantly directs enthusiasm and represses fanaticism. And we do not doubt that if Protestantism, with its doctrine of private judgment and private direction, had been the form of Christianity existing in the middle ages, Christianity would have sunk into a condition of which paganism and the Gnostic heresies alone afford a parallel. But this sacramental system has also another, though a co-ordinate effect. Grace is insensible and unfelt, to confound it with the natural religious feelings and emotions is to make religion no longer a discipline and a duty, but a sentiment. And because it is unfelt, it is necessary that it should ordinarily be given through some external and sensible rite, in order to ward off undue and pernicious doubt and anxiety. Now, according to Catholic teaching, while, on the one hand, it is impossible for any one to know with absolute certainty what is his spiritual state before God; on the other hand, the doctrine of confession and absolution supplies all with a means of knowing, with a greater of less amount of probability, what their real condition is. On the morally beneficial tendency of the first part of this teaching it is unnecessary to dilate, and any scrupulosity or vain terror which, if it stood alone, it might excite, is amply provided against by the second. And thus, through the correlative doctrines of purgatory, of the consequent distinction between mortal and venial sins, of confession and absolution, and by means of its moral theology, Catholicism provides that the doctrine of eternal punishment shall press with greater or less force, exactly as its influence is more or less required. It does not leave the believer to the diseased imaginations of his own mind, but provides an external code to which he must submit, and an external direction by which he will be guided. It provides a means by which he may know whether he is or is not in a state of sin, and a definite remedy whereby he may extricate himself from it; while it holds out a hope of salvation to all, and teaches that no man ever existed whose case was so desperate that he could not, if he co-operated with grace, as he has the power of co-operating, look for pardon. With the heretical sects the case is widely different. The very name of Calvinism calls up associations on which it would be painful to dwell. The conjunction of the doctrines of eternal punishment and necessitarianism must always, even where these doctrines are but to a very inadequate extent realized, produce a type of religious thought and feeling as repulsive as it is degrading. Of this it would be superfluous to speak. But Protestantism repudiates the practice of confession and the doctrine of absolution. Then, indeed, wherever the eternity of punishment was realized, it produced a diseased and unhealthy state of mind. Anxiety, doubt, terror, were necessarily the predominating feelings in the minds of men; an anxiety which could be calmed no longer now that there was no confessional, and a doubt which admitted of no direction now that each man had to be almost entirely his own counsellor, while all were faltering and divided as to the "direction of the ways of life." The "doctrine of final assurance" was, indeed, put forward to remedy the evil. But that doctrine only served to aggravate it. For to one class of minds it only supplied a new cause of terror; and to another it gave a very fruitful occasion of cultivating a disposition perhaps the most detestably proud, callous, and selfish, which has ever appeared among mankind.

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We must not, however, be supposed to deny that, through causes the character of which may partially be gathered from the preceding remarks, the doctrine of eternal punishment was very prominent in the middle ages. And how, it will be asked, did the church of those ages meet this extraordinary prominence? To have met it by merely insisting on the blessedness of heaven, would obviously have been most inadequate. Our natural constitution, and the circumstances of our life here, are such that our ideas of happiness, and especially of permanent happiness, are, as it has often been urged, far less definite and far less acute than our ideas of pain; and for this reason it has been wisely brought about that what has been made known to us of the blessedness of heaven is far less definite and complete, than is what we know of the punishment of the wicked. But for this very reason, the prominence of the doctrine of their eternal punishment could not be efficaciously met by insisting on this blessedness. But there is another set of ideas and feelings directly opposed to the despair and unmitigated fear which would be produced by the sole contemplation of the torments of the lost; and it is a set of ideas and feelings which nowhere find so natural a home as in Catholicism. From the manner in which the doctrine of the Incarnation is dwelt on in the Catholic system, and from the consequently almost human character which is given to the love of God and to the contemplation of the divine perfections as set forth in Christ, there results an ardor, an intensity, an active continuity of that love, which is simply incomprehensible to those who are external to the machinery of the Catholic Church. If it be asked, then, how did the church of those times meet the extraordinary, development of the doctrine we have been considering, the answer is patent to the most superficial reader of the mediaeval saints and theologians. They met it by an, at least, equal development of the doctrine of divine love. St. Bernard, Hugo of St. Victor, St. Anselm, all especially breathe in their works this sweet and devout spirit. The writings of St. Bernard, and those passages of such exquisitely tender devotion which occur in the writings of St. Augustine, became, in particular, the texts on which succeeding writers expanded and dilated. A spirit of meekness and tenderness of devotion, an intense and fervid love of God, are the themes on which they peculiarly delight to dwell, and the virtues on which they peculiarly love to insist. It was this age that produced the Imitation; toward the close of it appeared the Paradisus Animae: and whoever was the actual author of the former work, it possesses remarkable affinity with the spirit and even the style of Gerson. Nor was this temper of mind confined to purely mystical writers. The writings of St. Francis of Assisi, of St. Bridget, St. Catherine of Sienna, and others, attest, indeed, that the type of sanctity was, in some sense, changing under its influence; but it passed on to the great theological teachers of the age. St. Thomas of Aquino, the best and greatest of them all, lived and struggled in the very midst of the conflict with infidelity which was then agitating the church, and yet even he found time to write a number of short spiritual treatises which display the most tender and the most delicate devotion. This is especially seen in his book De Beatitudine. Richard of St. Victor wrote a work De Gradibus Violentae Charitatis, "On the degrees of violent charity." St. Bonaventure received the name of "The Seraphic Doctor" from the ardor of his piety; the titles of a few of his works--De Septem Itineribus AEternitatis, Stimulus Amoris, Amatorium, Itinerarium Mentis ad Deum--will be sufficient to show its character. The tender and loving spirit which those great doctors manifested in their devotion, broke out also in their correspondence with their friends, as may be perceived even from the extracts from the letters and sermons of certain of them which the Count de Montalembert has inserted in his Monks of the West. {93} Other momenta of a more general nature show the operation of the same tendency. For the first time detailed lives of our blessed Lord came into general circulation. Devotion to the passion assumed a far more prominent position than before; of the spirit which animated it we have a most touching example in the little book attributed to St. Juliana of Norwich. The Canticle of Canticles suddenly took a place in the affections of the pious, which even in the primitive church it had never known. St. Bernard composed on it his celebrated Sermones super Cantica, St. Bonaventure and Richard of St. Victor both wrote commentaries on it; St. Thomas has left us two, and it was while dictating the second of these that he passed out of this world, celebrating the blessedness of divine love. Nor can we altogether omit to notice three devotions, two of which certainly exercised a very considerable influence. In an age in which the spirit of love and devotion to our blessed Lord had assumed such large proportions, in which the doctrine of the Incarnation was for the first time completely treated in a scientific manner, and in which the subject of original sin was more profoundly investigated, and the questions concerning the Immaculate Conception consequently began to be cleared up and to assume a definite form and coherence, it was natural that a great devotion should manifest itself to our Blessed Lady. And of the tendency and the effects of this devotion Mr. Lecky has himself spoken. The character of the devotion to St. Joseph, also, is sufficiently well known, and it was first, we believe, treated at length by Albertus Magnus. Devotion to the Blessed Sacrament was to an indefinite extent stimulated by the institution of the Feast of Corpus Christi; and it, of a truth, is a devotion which of all others breathes a spirit of tenderness and of love.

We can now only make a few concluding remarks. We have already given a general estimate of the work, on a few points of which we have here touched; for we considered it better to speak of two or three connected subjects more fully, than to distract ourselves and our readers by flying comments on the many and very diverse subjects there treated. We have only explicitly to add what we have before implied, that we consider it a very dangerous book. It is all the more dangerous, because Mr. Lecky is not a furious fanatic; because of his spurious candor; because of his partial admissions; because of his engaging style. And in an age like the present, when the dogmatic principle is so bitterly attacked by those without, and sits so lightly on the necks even of believers, it is exceedingly dangerous. For, as was to be expected, it sets the dogmatic principle utterly at defiance, and from beginning to end is a continued protest against it. Mr. Lecky's idea of education, and his theory of the manner of formation of religious opinions, are alike thoroughly opposed to it. In education he would have the bare principles of morality only, as far as possible, inculcated; dogma, as far as possible, excluded; and if any amount of dogmatic teaching is unavoidably admitted, it is to be taught only so as to rest as lightly as possible on the mind, and with the proviso that the opinions then taught will have to be reconsidered in after life. With respect to the formation of religious opinions, his book teaches a kind of Hegelianism. Society is continually changing, and the best thing we can do is to follow the most advanced minds in society. There is an everlasting process, in which we can never be sure that we have definitely attained to the truth. The end of this, of course, is to make all opinions uncertain. We may know what we like best, or what the tendencies of society incline it and us to believe; but we can never, as to religious opinions, know what is objectively true.

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It is not very difficult to discover what is the nature of this process which is called rationalism. In former times the religious spirit predominated over the secular; but from a variety of causes, and in particular on account of the immense development of secular science since the time of Bacon and Descartes, the secular scientific spirit has since predominated over the religious. And rationalism is merely one of the results of this predominance; a consequence of the application to religious subjects of secular habits of thought. This may manifest itself, now in one way, now in another; in the denial now of transubstantiation, now of the doctrine of the Trinity; but its root and origin is the same: it tends (and this quite takes the romance out of it) to the elimination of the religious ideas, and it is strengthened by whatever strengthens what we have called the secular scientific, or weakens the religious, spirit. Hence that dislike of authority and that over-clouding of the moral character of religious truth; hence that distaste for the miraculous and the mysterious, and that tendency to put into the background, and even to deny, the doctrine of grace; and if the internal wants of those who have just "escaped from the wilderness of Christianity, and still have some of the thorns and brambles sticking to their clothes," make it necessary that something should be substituted for that which is being taken away--a baseless and often unreal sentimentalism is substituted for honest religious duty and earnest devotion. It is only too much to be feared that the world will educate itself out of this also; and that, in the case of those who refuse submission to the Catholic Church, the secular spirit will more and more grow toward its full ascendancy, and therefore toward a total extinction of the already weakened religious ideas.

Original.

A DREAM.

A procession passed by in my fitful dreams, So strange that it now like a nightmare seems. I beheld a long line of wifeless men Whom their living wives might claim again. And widows and orphans who never gave Husband or parent up to the grave. In the hands of each of this motley train Was a broken heart and a broken chain: And a veil hung down over every face Hiding the shame of a deep disgrace. A figure they bore on a funeral bier, Of a form that belonged to another sphere. Not a line of humanity could I trace In its ghastly, shadowy, hideous face. From its jaws came a noisome, poisonous breath, That hung o'er the bier like the mist of death; Then spread like a pestilence through the air, And husbands and wives standing here and there

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Its magical circle of mischief within-- Opened their mouths and sucked it in. Then, straightway, like beasts, grovelled prone in the dust, Burning with jealousy, anger, and lust. I marvelled to see as I looked again All these were now widows and wifeless men. In their hands, like those in the funeral train, Was the broken heart and the broken chain. And as the strange throng passed hurriedly by, They chanted this dirge with a savage cry:

Dig its grave deep. Hide it well out of sight, Lest it come to the light, And our hearths and homes smite With a curse and a blight. Dig its grave deep.

Dig its grave deep. Lest its treacherous smile May our reason beguile; Lest its rottenness vile May the nation defile. Dig its grave deep.

Dig its grave deep. For lust and for gold It has bartered and sold All that dearest we hold; Let its death-knell be tolled. Dig its grave deep,

Dig its grave deep. The land has been rife With its bloodshed and strife Between husband and wife. Crush, crush out its life. Dig its grave deep.

Dig its grave deep. It has stood by the side. Of bridegroom and bride Whom it meant to divide, And their troth falsified. Dig its grave deep.

Dig its grave deep. It feedeth on lies. It breaketh all ties; And all innocence dies 'Neath the glance of its eyes. Dig its grave deep.

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Dig its grave deep. 'Tis an offspring of shame Deserving no name; From the devil it came, To return to the same. Dig its grave deep.

Dig its grave deep. 'Tis a curse and a bane: Its touch is profane; And brings sorrow and pain In its murderous train. Dig its grave deep.

Dig its grave deep. 'Tis a damning disgrace To a people or race, Who there nature abase To give this thing place. Dig its grave deep.

Dig its grave deep. Pile earth, rocks, and stones On its festering bones: Naught for it atones: Hell its parentage owns. Dig its grave deep.

As I looked once again on what funeral bier, My limbs became rigid through horror and fear; For the hideous form breathed its breath in my face, And spreading its arms to invite an embrace, Beckoned me on with an ominous nod; I cried, Fiend, avaunt! in the name of God! And awoke.--On that bier I had seen the foul corse Of the scourge of our country, THE LAW OF DIVORCE.

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Original.

A Talk About Paris. By An Old Bachelor.

So much has been said, written, thought, and exaggerated about Paris, that little remains to be said, written, thought, or exaggerated about it. Still, keeping clear of the broad road reserved to guide-books and travellers, I flatter myself that a comfortable, easy chat about it and its inhabitants, may not be unwelcome to my friends across the broad Atlantic.

If you hope some day to visit this great city--and what American does not cherish that hope?--pray that that day may not be made a dark one by the unceasing rain, and slippery, sloshy mud, which often usher in the winter. No place so wretched as Paris in the rainy season; elsewhere one may make up one's mind philosophically to india rubbers, umbrellas, and the blues, but here it seems a sort of personal insult when the sun does not shine, and brighten the long rows of while houses. Was not Paris made for enjoyment, light-heartedness, and sunshine? At this season, it is not unfrequent to hear visitors, with a grave shake of the head, declare that they are really quite disappointed; that it is not at all what they had expected, and that other places are much more interesting. They quarrel with the emperor for his great work of regenerating and beautifying the Paris of crooked, narrow, but picturesque memory. The changes he has wrought are indeed marvellous; and though he may well grumble at the wholesale destruction of old places, and also at the discomfort attendant on constant pulling down and building up, yet the unprejudiced traveller cannot but stand amazed at all that has been done during one man's reign, and also feel a certain degree of gratitude for the comfort of wide, well-paved streets, and well-built modern houses.

My first visit to Paris was some twenty years ago, when I was sent on my travels, before settling down to a hum-drum law office. I remember well many quaint nooks and corners, which I look for in vain now. Among other places, I see in my mind's eye a certain queer old tavern restaurant, famed for its English dishes, its gray-haired waiters, and its cheapness; it stood in Rue St. Lazarre, at the head of the Chaussée d'Antin, a wide and populace thoroughfare. Here, escaping from my establishment "de garçon" hard by, I used to find myself at about six o'clock waiting for my slice of "Ros bif." Well I remember the old room, with its comfortable half light, and white-covered tables; well, too, do I remember the old gentleman who invariably took the cosiest nook, and secured the paper over which he invariably dozed; and the student of medicine who carved his chicken with a skill that made my blood run cold. But more vividly than all do I remember a young countryman of mine, an artist, with his English wife, a young girlish creature, who particularly interested me; they seemed so happy, made so light of that hard struggle with poverty--which so often turns the strength of young men to despair, and the love of young wives to sourness-- that I made an effort, notwithstanding my shyness, to become acquainted with them. We have been friends ever since, and as I write, the young artist, having conquered in the battle of life, is both known and respected in his native country; as to his wife, though she certainly is no longer girlish, she is as merry as ever, surrounded by her bevy of grown and growing daughters.

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Remembering all these things, one of my first excursions was to this place, hoping to live these memories over again, and thereby perhaps to feel young once more. But I looked in vain; on the very spot where the humble restaurant stood, towers at this moment a beautiful new church, with wealth of statues and ornaments; it is called "La Ste. Trinité," and is the pride of the neighborhood. But I looked at its highly decorated white façade with a feeling of disappointment. I should so have liked another slice of that famed "Ros Bif!" Everybody has heard about the boulevards of Paris, encircling the city, and intersecting it in every direction, giving it fresh air and beauty. Every one, too, has heard of the straight new avenues, radiating from the Arc de Triomphe like rays from a sun, and of the manifold new streets which have swallowed up so many old ones; and, above all, of the wonderful opera house, which stands just opposite Rue de la Paix, and which is to be one of the wonders of the world. I have heard and read that it is almost finished, therefore conclude that it is my own want of perceptive powers which makes it still appear to me like a huge, uniform mass; lately, however, through the breaks in the scaffolding I have perceived parts nearly finished, with ornaments of color and white marble, and from these glimpses I conclude that when the time comes, I shall be able to indulge in the ecstasies of admiration expected from all beholders of this mammoth enterprise.

But all this is not Paris, Paris of olden times, of history; it is beautiful, but it is terribly new, and the old fogies of the Faubourg St. Germain, emerging from their narrow streets, shake their heads at the broad new avenues, with their unmitigated straightness and meaningless uniformity.

The other night I went to hear a play now much in vogue, called La Maison Neuve, a capital satire on this "Nouveau Paris," and full of local hits. But why should I attempt to tell you anything about it? Americans know everything about everything, and probably while you are reading this, The New House is figuring in large letters on the play bills at Wallack's, and managers "out West" are conning over the possibilities of adapting this nice little tid-bit of novelty to their stage. All the French shading, all the palpable hits, will, alas! be made limpingly to apply to New-York, Chicago, St. Louis, etc. We are a great people, there is no doubt; but do we not, sometimes, in our great hurry to be ahead of everybody else, make little mistakes? In a recent conversation with some French friends, I mentioned that La Famille Benoiton was figuring East and West. "Mais comment! how can they understand it? even Frenchmen, if not Parisians, would have difficulty! mais c'est impayable." I quietly replied that we were a great nation, which is a convenient answer on many occasions; but between ourselves, is it not a pity that we do not aim at a little originality? that we must ape Paris quite so much?

But, to return to La Maison Neuve. It was hissed at first, its satire was perhaps a little too piquant; but some of the thorns being removed, it blooms in glory, and Frenchman clap furiously at the merciless cutting up of Boulevard Malesherbes, and the upstart fashions of young France. From what I have seen and observed, I fancy the play is an exaggerated, but on the whole a tolerably faithful picture of modern French life, with its want of depth, its tinsel, its sham, and its immorality. But let us leave the theatre--though the charming, light, natural acting, which we heavier Americans cannot imitate, make it wonderfully attractive--in turn once more to Paris streets.

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After all, life is not in the houses, or rather slices of houses, which people call apartments, but in the streets. At this season, one does not feel astonished at it; every body, even the rheumatic old bachelor, feels tempted to leave the smoky chimney--why do French chimneys always smoke?--and wander up and down peering into all the shop windows, with their wealth of beautiful things, tempting one to buy a Christmas or New Year's gift for every body under the sun. We must acknowledge that our cousins of France have a most wonderful art of displaying their merchandise to the best advantage. Did anyone ever imagine anything more seductive than a French confectioner's? It is really dangerous to pass the establishments of Boissier and others on the Boulevard, with their beautiful display of boxes, caskets, vases, and quaintly dressed figures of grand ladies, etc., all filled with delicious bonbons. As to the toys, there is positive genius displayed in these pleasures of a moment; indeed, these shop-keepers are not only artists, they are satirists. Approach, dear ladies, look at these dolls, and sigh for fashion, if you can; these unimaginable gew-gaws, these extraordinarily long robes, which give the dear creatures the appearance of being half on the floor, and half above it, these--these ... but I lack the milliner vocabulary, or I would stun you with the etceteras; then the turn of the head, the stare through the miniature eye-glass, and the little curly dog led by a ribbon! Messieurs the shop-keepers! I bow to you, you are greater satirists even than those sharp-penned writers of a certain New York literary review.

The other day, having reached the upper part of the Boulevard, near the Porte St. Dennis, I could not but stop and gaze down that long stream of human life which lay before me; not a particle of the pavement was to be seen, nothing but a living mass of bustling, pushing, quarreling humanity. All classes, all ages, almost all countries, were there. Men in blouses. and men in broad-cloth; beggars and nobles; innocent children, and men with the inevitable marks of an ill-spent life on care-worn faces; silk attired dames, and white-capped _bonnes_; loud-voiced ladies with unimaginable boots, and the shortest possible walking dresses; anxious mothers trying in vain to keep their excited little ones from running against portly gentlemen, or loaded _commissionaires_. Fancy all this, with a Babel of German, Italian, Spanish, and much more frequent English, with the noise of street organists and Italian harpists, the screaming of itinerant merchants, the dashing of carriages, the swearing of drivers, and you will have some idea of the scene. As I stood in a sheltered nook observing, I could not but think of Kribble Krabble, Hans Andersen's philosopher, who showed his friend what seemed to be a city full of fighting, devouring monsters, in a drop of water. I wonder if from those quiet stars, so calm and pure, this busy scene does not also appear like that drop of ditch water; whether some beings gifted with a penetrating vision denied to us, do not see into the true natures of this elbowing host, and weep over the monsters of cruelty, of cunning, of hypocrisy, of degradation disclosed--inevitable adjuncts of a large city. Let us look again; we, less gifted, see only beings one much like the other, all seemingly busy in enjoying the gay scene around them, eagerly prying into the glittering shops, or passing quickly by the thousand booths that during Christmas week transform the street into a real Vanity Fair. They laugh, chat, seem happy, and surely to be happy one must be innocent! Let us believe them so; let us pass on, brushing by yon gaudily dressed woman, yon sinister-eyed man, and thank heaven that we are not cursed with the magical glass of Kribble Krabble. After all, do not those slashing satirists do more harm than good, in bringing so vividly to the light of day things that might as well be kept in the background? Is it not better philosophy to shut one's eyes to much that passes around one, at this season especially, for it is Christmas time, when there should be peace on earth?

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Speaking of Christmas, reminds me to speak of the churches, which I have as yet neglected. Paintings, engravings, and photographs have already made the outside of these churches familiar to you, therefore I will not dwell on that branch of the subject. Notre Dame, grand old Gothic Notre Dame, is on an island in the Seine. It seems to look down, in its grandeur, on both old and new Paris. On one side it seems sadly to recall the bloody memories of years gone by; the rise and downfall of dynasties; the rise and downfall of families still sheltered in the old streets of the old St. Germain quarter; the death of the old _régime_, the breaking of hearts. On the other hand, it seems to frown on gorgeous new Paris; on the beautiful panorama of buildings along the bank of the river, the Tuileries, the Louvre, the Hotel de Ville, etc., and beyond these, scores of new white buildings, and the ruins of others, comparatively new, which are to give place to still finer ones. The old church, with its quaintly carved monsters and old towers, seems to stand as a warning of the time that is to come, when all these great works of man shall be but vanity, and as chaff. This is a solemn church, as it should be, and gloom seems to dwell in its lofty arches.

It is the Madeleine, the beautiful, bright Madeleine, which seems to be the favorite church of the Parisians. It was here that, with great difficulty, I found a seat on Christmas morning. As I entered the services had begun, and a beautifully clear boy's voice was holding a high note, while a full orchestral band was playing the accompaniment. The church was crowded, and I noticed that a great many Protestants, both English and American, were present. I have heard much and read much of the impropriety and want of respect evinced by these in sacred places, but, except for a little more staring, and perhaps some little more whispering, their conduct, as far as I could observe, did not differ essentially from that of their Catholic neighbors. In these large churches there is always an amount of bustle, and a want of reverence, which, to an American Catholic, is, I confess, very shocking. The constant coming in and going out is occasioned, in some degree, by the fact that often, during high mass, several low masses are going on at the side altars; but still the want of reverence evinced by numbers and numbers of these French Catholics, is a fact too apparent to be denied. I do not mean to say that I have not observed many who seemed to realize what was going on before them, but most of these had "old _régime_" written on their faces. With young France it is the fashion to doubt, to scoff, or to be utterly indifferent, and who dares to disobey fashion? But let us return to the ceremony.

The altar of this famed church has often been described. The marble group above it is singularly beautiful, it represents Mary Magdalen, supported by angels; the figures are of heroic size, and of the purest white marble. At this altar ministered a large number of golden-robed priests, surrounded by a bevy of boys in scarlet and white. Had I, too, been a Protestant, ignorant of the deep and holy meaning hidden under these symbols, and seeing in them but the glitter of gold and rich colors, I dare say I should, like them, have pronounced it but a gorgeous show, a theatrical display; as it was, my thoughts flew eagerly back to a certain well remembered chapel across the Atlantic, where I had often assisted at the same ceremony performed with a simplicity and devotion which contrasted pleasingly with this grand high mass at the Madeleine. Persecution and poverty are wonderful safeguards to the virtue of man; they are, perhaps, also necessary to the perfection of churches. Religion--faith--must always remain pure, but the professors thereof may easily be influenced by the accidents of wealth and splendor. {101} While making these reflections, and indoctrinating myself with charity toward our Protestant brethren, the mass went on, and the really beautiful music filled the lofty church. But there was something discordant to my ears in the harmony of the violins and brass instruments; to my mind the organ alone, that most holy of instruments, is worthy of ministering to the service of God. Still, the music was beautiful, and after all true music is always sacred; and when at the elevation the loud instruments held their breath, and a rich barytone voice alone was heard, I had to confess that, whatever its surroundings, religion and religious spirit are always to be found by him who really seeks them.

Remember, also, that I have been talking of the Madeleine, which is essentially the worldly church of Paris. At St. Roch, situated in Rue St. Honoré, and from whose steps the blood-thirsty crowd jeered at Marie Antoinette as she was being led to the Place de la Concorde, where stood the awful guillotine; at Notre Dame de Lorette, and many others, there is less glitter, less parade, and apparently more devotion. At St. Roch, the beautifully trained choir of boys, and the good music given, attract many Protestants; still the feeling of the church is more Catholic than that of the Madeleine. Here, as elsewhere, I was struck by the vast number of priests in the sanctuary. I thought of our own overworked, faithful priests, and could not help wondering whether a little of their hard work would not be good for those before me.

As I look over what I have written I find that there is no small amount of grumbling and fault-finding in the foregoing pages; I smile to myself as I discover that I have fallen into the little peculiarity which I have so often noticed in my countrymen and countrywomen in Paris: that of finding fault. No American, or Englishman either, whom you may question, will utter ten words on the subject, without abusing the French. "There's no trust to be put in them; they are a lying, mean set," are among the mildest accusations poured forth; and there certainly is some truth in the charges. Americans, with the people at large, are a flock of rich fools, sent over by their lucky stars, on purpose to be fleeced; consequently all the tradespeople you employ, your servants and their ally the _concierge_, invariably ask you about double as much as they would ask a Frenchman, and laugh at you while pocketing your gold. The art of cheapening things, so well understood by the people here, is a new experience to you. You do not like to walk into a handsome shop and offer half the price asked for an article, you are not accustomed to it, feel awkward; all of which the wily shopman sees well enough, and, of course, you end by giving the price required. But that French lady next to you, so handsomely dressed, does not hesitate an instant; you think she at least would have disdained that art of the _bourgeoisie_; not a bit of it; she insists, the clerk, bowing much more respectfully than he did to you, wraps up the article, and the lady sails out in triumph.

But for all this, Americans seem to find wondrous charms in this city, and prolong their stay for one month to two, then to six, and not unfrequently rush back to New York, settle up their affairs, and return to live here permanently, despising the French more and more every year, of course! At this present moment, if all our countrymen and countrywomen, now residing here, were suddenly transplanted to the western prairies, they would form quite a respectable sized city, which would, according to the invariable western custom, begin to defy its sister cities to show a bigger figure when the census came to be taken. But I fancy very few of these Americans, if the question were put to them, would be willing thus to be transported for the good of their country. We are undoubtedly a very patriotic people; but we believe, most devoutly, that charity begins at home. {102} Among these same countrymen of ours I notice the names of a number of well-known artists, who, I understand are well thought of in the artistic world. It is pleasant to hear them praised by our cousins of France, but I cannot help thinking that America, still so young in art, can ill spare her gifted children.

Talking of artists, let me tell you of a sad little incident that came under my own observation. We are all dimly conscious that poverty, sometimes in its direst aspect, harasses the beginning or nearly all artist lives. We have heard that N., whose beautiful picture drew crowds at the last exhibition, and who cannot fulfil all the commissions that pour in upon him--that the same man, not many years ago, might have starved but for the aid of his fellow students; we know this, but, surrounded by comforts and luxuries, it is the hardest thing in the world to realize poverty. We walk the streets, brush by numbers of ragged women, throw a copper to a bare-footed little beggar, but how often do we in our thoughts follow those poor creatures to the hovels or garrets or cellars which serve them as homes? how little we can imagine the cold and damp which chill their bones, or the hunger which gnaws them! Still less do we realize, I think, that beings with the education and feelings of gentlemen, should have to endure these same horrors. I have before my mind, as I write, the face of a young man, an enthusiast in his art, who, while engaged on a long dreamt-of, cherished work, found that in consequence of the war in America, the supplies on which he had calculated gave out. What to do? abandon his work, his career perhaps? return beggared to his native western town, without the promised work which was to show that his time had not been wasted? Never, better starve! and starve he actually would have done, but for the help of a student friend, almost as poor as himself, who shared his daily loaf with him; and so the young man finished his picture, took it over to America, where artists who saw it, seeing that it showed more than ordinary talent, bestirred themselves, and making up a sufficient sum, sent the young man back to his studies, feeling sure that the world would hear of him some day. But I am wondering, let us return to Paris, and to the incident which I was about to relate.

Some few weeks ago I was invited to dinner by some friends settled here for the winter. The meeting was a pleasant one, and I left the brilliantly lighted, handsome rooms with a pleasing glow over me, a reflection perhaps from the good cheer which both mind and body had enjoyed. As I was passing the inevitable _concierge_ lodge, the Cerberus kennel of every French house, I was stopped by the sound of plaintive voice, and looking around I saw a little girl, a child of some ten years, pleading evidently for some great favor with the gruff _concierge_ himself, who, notwithstanding all his decided negative shakes of the head, seemed to be struggling with a certain degree of pity. The child was wretchedly dressed, and her little hands were blue with cold, but in her upturned, pitifully old child's face, there was a certain look of refinement that struck me. I approached and asked what the matter was.

"Ah, pardon, monsieur! it is not of my fault; orders you see must be obeyed, and the landlord ..."

Then he told me the story. It seemed that a month or two before he had been a witness to the turning out from a miserable hole of a poor family; the father called himself an artist, poor devil! his wife had a baby in her arms, and there was a little girl. Seeing their utter distress, and remembering a couple of miserable rooms dignified by the name of "Appartements de garçon," but which did not let easily as they were dark and uncomfortable, he had asked the landlord to allow them to occupy them temporarily. {103} Shortly afterward the poor wife, a delicate, consumptive creature, died; the baby did not survive her many hours, and the two were buried at the expense of the parish, "But now it is impossible that they stay longer, the rooms are let, and they must leave. What will you? monsieur perceives that it is not of my fault." Monsieur feels a pang cut to his very heart. In that same house, where such a short time since he was feasting and laughing, a weary heart, perhaps, was breaking, and a young child struggling with sorrow that made it old.

I asked the man if I might be allowed to see this unfortunate artist, and I saw the child's face brighten as she slipped from his side to mine. I took her hand and we went up, not the broad, handsome staircase which led to my friends' apartments, but a dingy flight of stairs at the back of the court. I was quite out of breath when we at last reached the door of this "appartement de garçon." The child ran in, crying out: "Papa, papa I voici an monsieur qui vient te voir."

A man dressed in miserable, ragged clothes, with a pitiful remnant of gentility about him, was sitting at a rickety white wood table, his face buried in his poor, thin hands, which I noticed were white and finely shaped. At the sound of his child's voice be hastily got up, and seeing me, bowed and offered me the only chair in the room, with a grace worthy of a drawing room. I felt the tears well up to my eyes as I looked at this poor wreck, and thought to myself how many dead hopes and dead aspirations lay buried on that heart. I did not accept the chair, but held out my hand. Something in the simple action, or in my face, perhaps, expressed the sympathy I felt; it was too much for the poor man; be threw himself on the bed sobbing convulsively; you see he was weakened by hunger and cold and sickness. I put some money in the _concierge's_ hand, and he left us, bowing respectfully.

When I turned I saw that the child had thrown herself by the side of her father; he was moaning, but the sobs had already ceased. I felt his forehead and hands, and found that he was in a raging fever. I looked around, the place was miserable enough, and utterly unfit to be a sick room. The _concierge_ shall be gratified, thought I, they shall leave to-night; and sending the little girl out for a carriage, I was left alone with my patient.

His face was much flushed, his eyes wild, and all my efforts to keep him quiet were vain; I was obliged to let him talk. I soon gathered his whole history from his incoherent words. There was nothing very new in it, it was the old story of a respectable father, with a prejudice against the fine arts; of a weary struggle first for fame, and then, forsooth, for bread; of a foolish marriage with a girl as poor as himself, of children born to want and misery, of unappreciated talent, etc. There was an unfinished picture on the easel, and several others about the room; the poor man's eager eye followed my movement as I looked at them, and he sank back comforted as I praised his works. Heaven forgive, the charitable falsehoods! for that glance sufficed to show me that I was comforting one of those wretched beings who had just talent enough to conceive great things, without the power of executing them, which is about the saddest of sad states.

The child soon returned, and I caused my poor invalid to be transported to the Hotel Dieu, until I could make some other arrangement for him; his little girl I put under the care of an honest woman who lived hard by, where she slept; the days she spent by her poor father's bed. That bed he never left, the hard struggle had been too much for him; the death of his wife and child had been too severe a blow to the weak, loving, unfortunate man. Brain fever soon declared itself and one dark, sad December day, his little daughter and I followed his poor coffin to the nearest cemetery. The child was very quiet, but her tearless eyes were unutterably sad.

{104}

I interested my friends in the sad story, and no happy mother, as she drew her own dear ones to her heart, refused to help this bereaved one. So, we made up a purse for her, and the other day I took her to a good school where she is to remain until she is old enough to support herself, poor little orphan! As I was about to leave her, she turned and said in her quiet, undemonstrative way, a few words which I shall not put down here, but which caused me to turn toward the door rather quickly, and to pretend that I had a bad cold in my head.

This is no mere fancy sketch; I only wish it were a solitary instance. Alas! for the poor in this great, rich, bustling, worldly city! But we must bid adieu to it, with its delights, its wonderful sights, its wild merriment, and its dumb misery. Adieu to it, and to you, my readers, a happy, happy New-Year!

Original.

Dr. Bacon On Conversions To The Catholic Church. [Footnote 29]

[Footnote 29: A Roman Philosopher. A Review of an Article on Conversion in The Catholic World. By Rev. Dr. Bacon of Yale College. "New Englander." January, 1867.]

We embrace the opportunity of saying a few words on the topics of controversy which have been started between the author of the article which appeared in our columns on the "Philosophy of Conversion" and his distinguished opponent; not with the view of following up the line of attack opened by our able corresponded; but rather, in order to express our own independent judgment, as a reviewer, on the question discussed, in some of its important bearings.

Minor questions and side issues we leave to the opinions of those who have read both sides, and we do not intend to meddle with them ourselves. The gentleman attacked by Dr. Bacon has presented his view of what Protestantism is, reduced to its logical elements and constitutive principles. His opponent says: "I do not recognize that which you describe as genuine Protestantism." This is all very fair. But he proceeds to infer that the "Roman philosopher," as he designates the author of the essay in question, either does not know what Protestantism is, or wilfully misrepresents it. The doctor also, in turn, attempts to make a statement of Catholic doctrine, as it appears to his mind, when reduced to its logical elements. We, on our part, do not recognize this as a true representation. We might, therefore, with just as much reason recriminate upon Dr. Bacon his own accusations. We shall not do this, however; if for no other reason, because these mutual recriminations in controversy are useless. Those who love the truth can have no motive for misrepresenting the belief and opinions of any class of men. Sincere Catholics and sincere Protestants must alike desire that the principles and grounds of both Catholicity and Protestantism should be placed in the clearest light possible and discussed upon their naked merits, with as little mixture as may be of questions concerning the intellectual or moral qualifications of individuals.

The original and genuine religion of New-England was the Calvinistic Congregationalism of the Puritans, which still survives, with more or less of modifications among the Orthodox Congregationalists, and has its principal seat at New-Haven. The temper and tone of mind prevailing among the clergy and members of this denomination place them at an extremely remote distance from the Catholic mind, and make any interchange of thought between the two very difficult. {105} With the exception of a slight movement started, without much effect that we have ever heard of, by the learned and accomplished Dr. Woods, at Bowdoin College, there has been no tendency in this body of the clergy to return to any higher church principles than those of the Protestant Episcopal denomination. It is this latter body which is the medium of contact between the Catholic Church and the remoter Protestant bodies. It has therefore first felt the effect of the increased inter-communication of thought and influence between the two great divisions of Western Christendom which is characteristic of our time. It is the hierarchical principle, distinguishing this body from other Protestant communions, upon which the influence of the Catholic church has been felt, and most of the controversy has taken this principle as its starting-point. Of course, therefore, it is in a great measure irrelevant to the question as it stands between us and the non-episcopal communions, whether these are what is called evangelical, or liberal, in their theology. We are disposed, therefore, in addressing members of these communions to give the _transeat_ to the whole Oxford controversy, and to allow them to think what they please of the causes which have produced the current setting from Anglicanism toward Rome. The controversy as between us has to be commenced _de novo_, and to be carried on upon an entirely different basis. Circumstances over which neither of us have any control, make this controversy inevitable. We will confine ourselves, for the present, in order to simplify the question, to the relations existing between Catholics and Congregationalists in the State of Connecticut. We say, then, that these relations make a controversy between us inevitable, just as much as other circumstances and relations have made it inevitable between Anglicans and Catholics in England and the United States. The reason of this necessity is, that we have so many things in common, and so many points of difference, that we cannot remain quiescent toward each other, except from isolation in distinct communities, or from mutual apathy to the interests of Christianity. Forty years ago, when Dr. Bacon was commencing his long and distinguished career as a pastor in New-Haven, the question of Catholicity had but little living and present interest for a Connecticut theologian. It was a question of by-gone ages and distant countries. There was not a Catholic in New-Haven, and there were few, if any, in the state, excepting a small handful at Hartford, where the first feeble parish was collected in a small frame church, purchased by Bishop Fenwick from Bishop Brownell and dragged on rollers to a new site. We believe there were no Catholics at that time in Rhode-Island; there were none in Vermont, Maine or New-Hampshire. There were a few thousands in Massachusetts, mostly congregated in Boston. The Bishop of Boston, whose diocese included all New-England, had hardly half a dozen churches besides his very modest cathedral, or more than a dozen priests. When the saintly Cheverus went to Boston, his only cathedral was an old barn. As a matter of course, then, the Catholic religion was looked upon merely as the religion of a few poor immigrants, a bit of wreck from the institutions of the middle ages cast on the New-England shore by the caprice of the waves. This habit of looking at the matter has remained to a great extent unchanged, on account of the almost complete social segregation of the rapidly increasing Catholic community. That it cannot remain unchanged, however, is evident to everyone. There are now fifty priests, one hundred congregations, four religious orders, and a population of 75,000, belonging to the Catholic Church in Connecticut. Although, therefore, isolation has rendered the professors of the traditional religion of the State in a great measure indifferent to the religion of this new element in the population, thus far, it cannot continue; and this is apparent from Dr. Bacon's own statements and views, as expressed in his article. {106} Apathy is also out of the question, especially as regards the clergy. It is evident that the religious and moral doctrines and teachings of the pastors of one fifth of the people of the State cannot be a matter of apathetic indifference to anyone who takes an interest in the religious and moral welfare of his fellow citizens. It follows then, necessarily, that the leading clergy and theologians of the Congregational body in Connecticut must engage with great application and industry in the study of the Catholic system of doctrine and polity, not in second-hand works, but at the original and authentic sources. They must pay attention also to the cotemporary Catholic literature, both in the English and in foreign languages. Studying and thinking on these topics, they will necessarily write, speak, and converse upon them, and thus the same topics will engage the attention of of all their brethren in the clerical profession, and of the intelligent laity. We, on our part, cannot be indifferent to anything written or spoken by men of learning and high position on the great topics of religion. Consequently, we say, there must be controversy between us. In point of fact, a little preliminary controversy has already commenced between ourselves and the organ of the New-Haven literati.

We will not indulge in any premature gratulations over victories we may hope to gain for the Catholic cause in controversy with the Congregationalists, or conversions which may be looked for from among their ranks. We shall on both sides agree that the truth is likely to prevail in the end, and that whatever conquests truth may make redound more to the honor and advantage of the vanquished than of the victors. In expressing our satisfaction that this controversy is inevitable, we do not intend to indicate a desire for a _polemical_ controversy in the rigorous sense of the word. We do not wish to see the Catholic and Protestant pulpits waging a theological artillery duel against each other; or a violent strife for mastery, with all the bitter, hostile feelings which it engenders, inaugurated between the Catholic and Protestant portions of the population. On the contrary, we have particularly in view in what we are writing at present, to bring forward certain considerations tending in an entirely opposite direction. We desire, so far as our humble influence extends, to forestall controversy of the sort alluded to, and to point out what we conceive to be the true spirit and manner in which both sides should approach the subject of the differences which unhappily divide us.

There are two ways in which we may carry on controversy. One way is, for each side to place its own exclusive truth and right in the strongest light, to affirm its doctrines in its own peculiar phraseology in the most positive and dogmatic manner, and to take a position as far remote from that of the other side, and as unintelligible to its opponents as possible; moreover, to take the worst and most unfavorable view possible of the doctrines and positions of the other side, and to impute to them all the most extreme consequences of their principles which seem to ourselves to follow logically from them.

Another way, is to conduct controversy, not from the two opposite extremes of doctrine where the differences is widest and most palpable, but from those middle terms in which both parties agree, and in relation to which they are intelligible to each other. From these middle terms we may proceed to the extremes, and thus endeavor to settle the points in which we differ, by the aid of those in which we agree. The points of difference also, may be perhaps reduced by mutual explanations, and a substantial agreement be proved to exist in some doctrines where there is an apparent contradiction in the terms used to express them.

{107}

In point of fact, these terms of agreement are numerous, and include the most fundamental articles of the Catholic faith. The trinity, the incarnation, the redemption, original sin, the regenerating, sanctifying grace of the Holy Spirit, the resurrection and eternal life; the necessity of repentance for sin, and of good works, the canonicity of the principal books of the Old Testament, and of all those of the New Testament, their divine inspiration, the obligation of believing all the truths revealed by God, even if they arc super-intelligible mysteries, on the motive of the divine veracity; these are all doctrines and principles in which there is a substantial agreement. Moreover, the New-Haven school has brought the Calvinistic doctrines in those respect in which it has modified them, into a nearer approximation to the Catholic doctrines, than they were before. In regard to the cardinal point of justification, the difference is really less than it would appear. Although, in the New-Haven theology, faith is made to include what Catholics call the theological virtue of hope, yet it includes also that which we call faith, and which the Council of Trent defines to be the "root of all justification;" that is, a firm, explicit belief in those revealed truths which are necessary _ex necessitate medii_, and a belief at least implicit in all other revealed truths. As Dr. Bacon says, it is held that faith, in order to justify, must be accompanied by charity, or the love of God. It is our opinion, therefore, that the New-Haven divines really hold that it is _fides formata_, or faith informed and vivified by love which justifies, and that this doctrine is practically preached by the Congregational clergy generally. This is identically the Catholic doctrine. In this case and in others, the sayings of the learned Döllinger is verified, that "Protestants and Catholics have theologically come nearer to each other."

Perhaps we may now be able to explain to Dr. Bacon our notion of conversion, in a way which will make it appear not quite so repugnant to his reason and feelings, as it is at present. In order to do this, we will resort to an illustration, which will make our meaning plain.

We suppose Dr. Bacon will admit that the Jews before the time of our Lord did not generally have an explicit belief in the trinity or in the divinity of the Messiah; and that probably the apostles, when they were first called did not have this explicit belief; although these doctrines, especially the latter, are really contained in the Old Testament. Nevertheless, all who were Israelites indeed were in the state of grace, and the children of God. Let us suppose now, the case of a pious Jew, after the ascension of our Lord, who neither believed in Jesus as the true Messiah, nor had culpably and wilfully rejected his claims when sufficiently proposed to him. We suppose Dr. Bacon will admit that this good man had already saving faith, justification, the sanctifying grace of the Holy Spirit, was spiritually united to the universal church of which Christ is the head, and was united therefore in faith and love with St. Peter, and all the members of the apostolic communion. St. Peter preaches to him Jesus Christ, and he believes his word, submits to his authority as the apostle of the Lord, is baptized, joins himself to the Christian community, and partakes of the communion. Let us suppose, for the sake of illustration, that this was the case with Stephen, who became the first martyr.

Let us now take the case of Saul of Tarsus. Without deciding positively whether Saul was morally culpable or not, for his opposition to Christianity, we will suppose that he was so. At the time of his going to Damascus, he was therefore without saving faith, unjustified, destitute of sanctifying grace, and therefore not spiritually united with the church of Christ, and with St. Peter and his brethren. By the grace of God Saul believes in Jesus Christ, is baptized, and openly joins the Christian communion governed and taught by the apostles.

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Now, in those two cases, we have instances of an interior change of the intellect and will followed by an exterior change of ecclesiastical relations, which is properly called a conversion to Christianity. Stephen and Saul are treated by the apostles and elders of the church in precisely the same manner, when they apply for baptism. Yet, in the former case, the interior change is not a conversion of the mind from unbelief to divine faith, or of the will from sin to the love of God. It is a conversion of the mind from an inchoate, imperfect apprehension of the revealed object of faith to a complete and perfect apprehension of the same object more clearly revealed. It is a conversion of the will from an implicit determination to submit to the rightful authority of the Messiah, to an explicit, actual obedience to the Lord Jesus as the Son of God, the Prophet, Priest and King of the Jews and of the Gentiles.

In the other case, conversion included in itself the renunciation of a proud, intellectual self-reliance which excluded the spirit of submission to the authority of God over the mind, and the substitution of the humble, docile habit of faith; together with a change of the will or heart from a selfish, cruel devotion to the purely national glory of Judea to a disinterested and divine love of God and all mankind.

In general terms, however, we speak of conversion from Judaism to Christianity in reference to all, who have been born and brought up Jews, and from conviction profess their belief in Jesus Christ, without discriminating among different persons, in regard to their subjective state. If we should undertake to give the philosophy of this conversion, we should probably suppose our subject to represent subjectively what we consider to be objective Judaism, whose logical basis is a denial of the Christ foretold in the Old Testament, and personally made known in the new, as Jesus of Nazareth. We should correctly describe this conversion as a surrender of the mind and will to the authority of Jesus Christ; and should correctly say that no person was thoroughly converted into a Christian, who merely approved of such doctrines, and practiced such precepts of Jesus Christ as he might choose, or select, by his own personal judgment and will; but, who did not submit his mind to all the truth which Christ has taught, on the motive of his divine infallibility, and his will to all he has commanded, on the motive of his divine authority.

It is plain that Stephen must have acknowledged St. Peter as the accredited representative of Jesus Christ, through whom he received the doctrine he was to believe, and the precepts he was to obey, as a Christian. The New Testament was yet unwritten, and the divine word could only be learned from the lips or the apostles. Stephen could not, therefore, submit his mind and will to Jesus Christ, except by submitting to their authority. Now, if this authority has really been transmitted to the successors of St. Peter, and to their colleagues in the episcopate, it is plain that it is by submission to this authority that we are to submit the mind and will to Jesus Christ, who has delegated it to them. "He that heareth you heareth me;" "As my Father hath sent me, even so send I you," Therefore, when a person who has not hitherto formally and explicitly recognized and submitted to this authority, makes his submission to it, we call it a conversion, because it betokens a real interior change of the intellect and will; accompanied by an exterior change of ecclesiastical relations, if he has belonged to any other visible communion before, or, if not, by the assumption of these relations for the first time. This is without respect to his former subjective state of interior relation to Christ and the church. If he had a divine faith before, conversion does not include the passage from a state of unbelief to faith. If this faith was previously vivified by charity, it does not include the passage from a state of sin to the state or grace. {109} If, on the contrary, he was before an infidel, or a wilful heretic, and destitute of charity, conversion includes both these transitions. We do not limit the application of the word conversion to a mere interior and exterior submission to the authority of the church. We employ it also to designate conversion from sin, and continually preach to Catholics who are living in sin the necessity of being converted to a holy life. We apply the term also to a change from a tepid condition of the spiritual life to a habit of more fervent piety. It is used as a general term to denote any marked religious change for the better, and its specific meaning must be determined by the connection in which it is employed. Its indiscriminate use in denoting the act of transition from a Protestant communion to the Catholic church does not necessarily imply that no discrimination can be made among those who make this transition. Nor does it follow that all the language of the writer whom Dr. Bacon criticizes, can be fully verified in regard to all Catholic converts. Numbers of them have had from childhood a firm faith in the principal Christian mysteries, and an habitual determination of the will, at least for many years, to the love of God. In such instances, what is technically called "conversion," is like what we have supposed the conversion of Stephen to have been, the evolution of the principle of faith and obedience into a more perfect and complete actuation. Stephen had _fides formata_ before he was baptized, and so have converts of the kind we are describing, _fides formata_, that is faith which worketh by love, before their external union to the body of the Catholic church is consummated.

The change which takes place in a convert of this kind, is not a transfer of mental allegiance from the word of God to the arbitrary, irresponsible dictation of a hierarchy. It is simply an increased intelligence of the actual contents of the word of God, and of the nature of the medium through which the knowledge of that word is transmitted. The object of faith, upon which the intellectual act of believing terminates, is the revealed truth considered as revealed, or as credible on the veracity of God. The medium or instrument is the testimony by which we are authentically informed of the fact of revelation and of its contents. In the case supposed, the person has received from the testimony of the Church, which reaches him through the Christian tradition, the knowledge of the principal facts and mysteries revealed by Jesus Christ. Having, therefore, a reasonable motive for believing, and the aid of divine grace, he was able, when he attained the use of reason, to elicit explicit acts of faith in the Trinity, the Incarnation, and other doctrines sufficiently proposed to him, to exercise continually the habit of faith, and to persevere in the same without any lapse. In this explicit faith, or faith in actual exercise, was contained an implicit faith in all that God has revealed, but which was not known to the subject in an explicit manner. When he examined into that testimony through which the doctrine of Christ had been proposed to him, he found that his undoubting belief in that testimony contained all implicit recognition of the infallibility of the witness, and that he must either draw the logical conclusion, or renounce the premises. He also found that the article of the creed, "I believe in the Holy Catholic Church," as revealed in the Scripture, and explained by the living, concrete sense of the primitive Christians, contains in itself the idea of infallibility. Convinced, therefore, that the Catholic Church, together with her testimony and instruction respecting the person of the incarnate God and Saviour, testifies and teaches her own infallibility as a witness, teacher, and judge of controversies, and that this doctrine is contained in the word of God, he perceives that he must believe on the veracity of God all that the church proposes to him as contained in the material object of faith, the _objectum materiale quod_ of theologians. {110} When he is further convinced that the bishop who occupies the See of Peter, together with his colleagues, constitutes the _ecclesia docens_, the teaching church, and that the infallible church has, therefore, proclaimed her doctrine in the decrees of the Council of Trent; of course, nothing remains for him to do but to seek admission into the fold of the Catholic Church. This act has not, however, changed the essence of his faith. The _objectum materiale quod_ of faith need not include explicitly the infallibility of the church, since all theologians maintain that the knowledge of God, the Trinity, and the Incarnation, is all that is necessary _ex necessitate medii_, or by an absolute necessity, to saving faith; and many maintain that it is the knowledge of God as the supernatural rewarder which is alone to be placed in this category. Nor is the infallibility of the church included in the _objectum materiale quo_ of faith, that is in the objective motive or determining cause of belief, which is the veracity of God. Billuart and De Lugo may be consulted on this point by any who wish to ascertain the germane sense of Catholic theology. Archbishop Manning, in a letter to Dr. Pusey, on the Workings of the Holy Spirit in the Church of England, has brought out this doctrine with appropriate proofs and citations in a very lucid and admirable manner. The letter can be found in the Catholic World for June, 1865. The same had been previously done by Father Walworth, in a sermon entitled Good Samaritans, published in the Volume of Paulist Sermons for 1864.

The church is the medium through which the object of faith is intellectually beheld, and the only medium. It is, therefore, impossible for her to substitute any other material object of faith in lieu of the true object, and equally impossible that the material object of faith should be seen at all through any other medium. Whoever, therefore, believes what the church proposes to his belief, necessarily believes in the true object of faith, and whoever believes in the true object of faith necessarily believes in it through the proposition of the church.

The first conclusion we draw from this postulate is, that the notion of Catholics being subject to an arbitrary authority of the hierarchy or the pope to impose whatever articles or belief they may choose, is a pure misapprehension. The church is a witness to the doctrines and facts once for all revealed at her original foundation. These doctrines and facts are on record, The testimony of the church in regard to them has been publicly given, and she cannot retract her testimony without manifestly falsifying her claim to be an infallible witness. As a judge of controversies, she can only judge of controversies relating to these very facts and doctrines. These judgments, once given, are irrevocable. They have been already pronounced respecting all the great facts and doctrines of Christianity, and are on record. One who submits to these judgments knows to what he is submitting. The synopsis of all Catholic doctrine is given to him in the decrees of the Council of Trent. Since that Council there has been but one definition of faith made, and that was the definition of a doctrine already universally believed before it was defined. The notion that a Catholic is subject to capricious, arbitrary, and unlimited decrees binding his faith is altogether chimerical. There is no room for further definitions except in regard to certain theological questions relating to doctrines already defined, and the practice of the church has proved how slow she is to limit the liberty of opinion in the schools by a final decision of questions of this kind. The argument from the tyrannical nature of church authority is therefore a mere begging of the question in dispute between Catholics and Protestants. If the church, as Catholics define the church, be not infallible, her judicial decisions of doctrine are tyrannical. If she is infallible, they are not, and do not enslave either faith or reason. {111} It is no tyranny over faith, to make known with unerring certainty what God has revealed, or what is a deduction from that which he has revealed. It is no tyranny over reason to furnish it with certain universal principles and indisputable data, from which to make its deductions. The only real question, therefore, respects the infallibility of the church. So far as the great mysteries of faith which are believed by orthodox Protestants are concerned, they must admit that the Catholic Church holds and teaches them; is compelled by her own formal principle to hold them, because she has long ago put on record her testimony respecting them; and can never change her doctrine on any of these vital points.

Our second conclusion is, that the notion of Catholic doctrine which conceives of it as requiring one to believe that there is no true faith or holiness outside of the visible communion of the See of Peter, is equally erroneous. All that Archbishop Manning has said of the workings of the Holy Spirit in the Church of England is equally applicable to the Congregational Church of Connecticut. We have no just reason for regarding the original colonists as formal heretics or schismatics, and even less reason for including the subsequent generations in that category. All who have lived and died in that faith which worketh by charity we acknowledge as the children of God and our brethren in Jesus Christ. Those now living who have this _fides formata_, are spiritually united to the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints. Consequently, if any of these shall hereafter enter the visible body of the church, not only will they not be required to deny the validity of their baptismal covenant with God, and to abjure their former spiritual life, but they will find in the tribunal of penance that both will be recognized.

We repeat, therefore, once more, that the proper basis on which we may confer together concerning the faith, is to be found in those doctrines in which we agree, and not in those in which we differ. We may not make a positive judgment in regard to the interior and subjective relation of individuals toward God or the true Church of God. We leave that to him who is the only judge of hearts and consciences. We are sure of this, however, that we are bound to cultivate the spirit of Christian charity toward those who profess allegiances to our common Lord, to the utmost possible extent. This charity forbids us to make an arrogant and harsh judgment that they are, _en masse_ and by the simple fact of their outward profession, aliens from the household of faith, or that any particular individual is so, unless he makes it plainly manifest in his conduct. We are agreed on both sides that we are responsible to God for our belief; and bound, as teachers and theologians, to study conscientiously the truths of the divine revelation. We have also a common interest in endeavoring to come to an agreement, so far as this is necessary in order to establish unity of faith and of ecclesiastical fellowship. Let us suppose for a moment that Dr. Bacon represents the Congregational clergy of Connecticut, and that we have the honor to represent the Catholic clergy. We shall agree that it is our common interest to defend the authenticity and inspiration of all those books of the Holy Scripture which we revere in common as canonical, and the historic truth of the Mosaic and Evangelical records, against infidel rationalism. Also, to solve the difficulties raised by modern science in relation to the harmony between rational and revealed truth. Also, to preserve the faith of the people in the Trinity, the Incarnation, and other doctrines which we hold in common, and which are strongly attacked by many popular preachers and writers in New-England. Also, to counteract the tendency to indifferentism and apathy in regard to religion which is so common. {112} Also, to take all possible means to bring the mass of the people under the influence of the spiritual and moral truths of the Gospel. Also, to protect the Christian ordinance of marriage from being to a great extent subverted by the practice of divorce. Also, to suppress intemperance, licentiousness, and immoralities destructive of the well-being of society. Also, to protect the religious liberties and rights of all religious societies, and the property, which is devoted to religious, charitable, and scientific purposes. Also, to do all in our power to blend the various elements of the population into one homogeneous body, and to educate them in an enlightened and devoted attachment to the political principles of the founders of the state.

We will not go any further with our enumeration, for fear of assuming too much in respect to the sentiments of our respected friend, Dr. Bacon. We speak for our individual self alone, in saying that we cannot but deplore the obstacle which is put in the way of carrying out into practical results our common desire for the spiritual, moral, and social well-being of the people of our native and ancestral State, by the schism which exists among those who profess in common so large a portion of the Christian faith. The spectacle presented by a divided Christianity is to us extremely painful. We think it ought to be, also, to a member of the church founded by the Puritans. The forefathers of New-England undoubtedly intended to plant the pure church and faith of Christ. They made the greatest sacrifices and the most heroic exertions in order to do it. They expected their church to flourish, to remain, and to include in its fold all their posterity. They took somewhat stringent measures to secure the success of their plan, and notwithstanding our difference of judgment from them as to the justice or wisdom of their policy, we must allow that they were conscientious. Things have turned out, however, quite otherwise than they sanguinely expected. Not to speak of the more extreme change which has taken place at the headquarters of Puritanism, Connecticut is divided up among Congregationalists, Episcopalians, Methodists, and Baptists, to say nothing of the small sects which exist there. Rival colleges and seminaries have been established, and even rival schools of theology among the Congregationalists dispute over their respective interpretations of the ancient standards of doctrine. Dr. Bacon and his friends have had no little to suffer during their public career as ministers and professors of theology, from the imputation of heterodoxy, and they know well how frequently and how deeply religious differences have interfered with the peace of families, the union of friends, and the success of religions efforts. The Catholic Church we say nothing about, for this has been almost exclusively the church of a late immigration of poor people, who have sought an asylum from English tyranny among the descendants of those who long ago fled from that same tyranny, and so nobly broke its yoke from their necks.

However tolerable and unavoidable such a state of things may appear to some, we cannot but think that the foresight of it would have made the stern old Puritans of the ancient times groan in spirit. We confess that we sympathize with them, and that it occasions mournful thoughts to look on the failure of such a high-souled undertaking as theirs. We sympathize with their strong affirmation of strict dogmatic and ecclesiastical principles, and with the same affirmation as made by those who have adhered to the doctrine handed down from them. We cannot help looking on division respecting that which pertains to the true, orthodox faith, and the essential terms of Christian communion, as a great evil. The complaint made by the late eminent president of Brown University, Dr. Wayland, of the extensive and growing scepticism of educated men, and the general decay of practical faith, must be well known to the educated religious public of New England. {113} It is our opinion, that the separation and disagreement among the professed teachers of Christianity is one great cause of this, and that it breaks the moral force of the evidence of Christianity in the minds of a large portion of the most intelligent class, and in the popular mind also. It disintegrates and neutralizes that power which a united body would have, and which would give it an irresistible moral force against infidelity, irreligion, and public immorality. We cannot help longing for the time, when all those who are now disunited shall be brought together in one fold, professing one faith, exhibiting the divine truth of the religion of Jesus Christ by their charity and peace, training up their children from infancy in the practice of religion, worshipping at the same altar, participating in life and at the hour of death in the same holy rites, and fully realizing what a Christian people ought to be.

The Puritan fathers of New-England had a foreshadowing of this state of things, a foreshadowing, as we hope, of a reality to come. In our opinion, "they builded better than they knew." We believe they were led here by the providence of God, and guided by a higher power than their own. So far as their work was merely human and defective, it was temporary and must pass away. So far as it was divine, it was lasting and must stand forever. They have founded noble institutions of learning and general education. They have transmitted a Christian tradition, which has entered into the very roots and fibres of intellectual and social life so strongly as to be ineradicable. However the plant may languish, the root is still vital. Even those who have wandered far beyond the region of Unitarianism into speculations so vague and misty that they are almost atheistic, show in their language, habits of thought, and entire mental structure, that they have come from a Christian stock. The question of questions is always, what is the religion of Jesus Christ and the meaning of his life and death upon the earth? We hope, therefore, that the work commenced by these sternly earnest men may be completed. In our view of the matter, it was necessary for divine Providence to interfere, after a long lapse of time, to carry out its own far-seeing purposes, into which this first and human plan was to be made to blend and lose itself. The first refugees from the spiritual tyranny of the British crown sought only an asylum for themselves and their progeny, where they might realize their own peculiar ideal of a Christian state and church, in a condition of colonial dependence on the mother country. As in the political order, the results of the colonization of America have taken an unforeseen form and magnitude, so in the spiritual. Roger Williams led out a new band of _Puritanissimi_ from among the Puritans, which made one division among them. The Church of England stretched her roots also over to the virgin soil of New-England, and her vigorous offshoot, Methodism, followed. Rationalism, too, has run its course, as we all know, from the starting point of Channing, to the most advanced position of Emerson. Finally, another race, distinct from the English race by a difference of origin running back to the deluge, whose origin as a people dates from the period of the grandfather of Moses, and as a Christian people from the period of the Fathers of the Church, has transplanted that form of Christianity which it has kept unaltered for fourteen centuries, to the same soil, where it grows and flourishes "like a green bay-tree." It is our opinion, that the Providence of God will bring something out of this far grander and more perfect than the ideal church of our ancestors. We think that the blending of races will produce a more perfect type of manhood and a stronger people. We think, also, that the religion of this people will contain all the positive qualities of the different elements that will combine to form it. {114} Catholic dogma and discipline, which contains in itself all that is positive in every form of religion, will assimilate whatever is good in all it finds around it, integrating the noble fragments which have been rent from the great edifice of Christianity into a perfect unity with architectonic skill. The collision, intershock, abrasion, and melting together of these various intellectual and spiritual forces will result in the harmonizing of all into a unity in which the opposite tendencies counterbalance each other. Depth and simplicity of interior life with a rich and varied ritualism, moral strictness and self-abnegation with a noble magnificence, taste and sobriety with fervor of devotion, unwavering orthodoxy with a genuine rationalism, stability of forms with a genial variety, hierarchical order with a manly liberty of personal action, form the grand features of the type of Christianity destined to be realized in the future. This is merely _our_ opinion, and we do not expect that it will be generally received by those who will read these words at the present time. We are confident, however, that their truth and force will be recognized hereafter, long after we are numbered with the dead. We have no expectation that the schism among those who profess the Christian name will be healed in a summary manner, or as the simple result of discussion and conference. It must be the work of the Creative Spirit, and cannot be accomplished without an extraordinary communication of grace. It requires time, also, and a gradual process. We have no intention of making an arrogant claim of immediate submission to the authority of the Catholic Church upon those who are not reasonably and calmly convinced of its legitimate foundation. We are simply desirous of making a beginning in the explanation of our own belief, in order to promote a better mutual understanding of the question at issue between us. We ask simply, what we are willing to concede to fair and honorable opponents, a hearing and a candid consideration. The only weight we profess to give to the conversions out of which this discussion has arisen is a moral weight entitling the reasons and causes which have produced them to a serious examination. Dr. Bacon has placed in the opposite scale the notorious fact of the great losses the Catholic Church has sustained by the defection of her own members. We beg leave to suggest, however, that there is no parity between the two facts he endeavors to balance against each other. Those who lapse into infidelity have first extinguished their conscience. They are not seeking to draw near to God and to serve Jesus Christ, but to escape from the dominion of both. Those who have become Protestants have not been instructed and pious Catholics who were seeking for more light and grace, but the offspring of parents through whose negligence or misfortune they had been left to grow up without instruction or practical religion. On the contrary, a large number of intelligent, well-instructed Protestants, some of whom were clergymen of the highest standing, like Dr. Newman, Dr. Manning, and Dr. Ives, have been led by the very effort they have made to come up to the highest standard of faith and piety presented by their church, after long and careful deliberation, to the threshold of the Catholic Church, and have crossed that threshold. Dr. Bacon denies that this fact has any particular moment for those who are not in the _viâ mediâ_ of the Anglican Church, but are standing on what he deems the surer foundation of the Reformed religion as established by Luther and Calvin. Let his exception have its full value. Nevertheless, the same thing has occurred on a lesser scale in the Lutheran and other churches of Switzerland and Germany. Haller, Schlegel, Hurter, and Phillips are names probably not unknown to the learned Protestants of our country. {115} In our own country, among the German Reformed Presbyterians, Dr. Nevin and others have advanced to a position whose logical direction is straight into the Catholic Church. The efforts of the illustrious Leibnitz in a former century, and of Guizot at the present moment, to span the chasm between Protestant orthodoxy and Catholicism are well known. The beginning of a reactionary movement of the orthodox Protestants toward Rome is indicated in the most terse and decisive manner by the great historian Leo, whose authority is indisputable. Leo is the friend of Hengatenberg the illustrious vindicator of the Bible against neology; a professor in the Protestant University of Halle; and the author of a Text Book of Universal History, which is both a scientific masterpiece and also one of the most splendid arguments for divine revelation and the truth of Christianity which this century has produced. These are his words taken from the work just mentioned:

"We shall be obliged to seek for the authorization of Protestantism and its mission in something widely different from church development, and forced to concede that Protestantism in the main forms only an exceptional case in the shape of a place of shelter from ecclesiastical difficulties, and that the Roman Church, when once released from the duties of her mission in other quarters, will also turn her attention, not to the abolition of papal authority, but to its more distinct definition, and secure it from arbitrary acts of administration, such, for example, as occur in the statement of the Thomist theses regarding the connection between indulgences and the doctrines of the church, and in one of the decrees against the Jansenists, and then will the possibility of the Protestant world returning to the church be realized." [Footnote 30]

[Footnote 30: Univ. Geschichte, vol. iii., p.181.]

We have nothing to say on the particular point the learned historian raises about doctrinal decisions of the Holy See, but have quoted his words just as they stand in order to show the similarity of his position to that of Dr. Pusey, and to prove that thoughtful minds in Germany as well as in England are beginning to desire a reconciliation of the separate communions with the great body of Christendom. The Catholic tendency is, therefore, not one which has sprung solely out of the hierarchical and sacramental doctrines preserved by a kind of semi-Catholic tradition in the high church school of the Anglicans. It has a deeper seat and a wider extension. It is not possible to nullify its importance by qualifying converts to the Catholic Church as men who have made an "abnegation of reason, of the faculty which discerns right and wrong, and even of choice and personal responsibility to God," stifled their faculties of thinking for themselves and of discerning between truth and falsehood. This theory will not hold water, as the judgment of the English press on the controversy between Mr. Kingsley and Dr. Newman amply proves. The prejudice against Catholics is wearing away. Many, even devout Protestants, have no longer any objection to join in the prayers or listen to the sermons or read the books of Catholic priests. Catholics and Protestants are becoming connected by ties of blood or marriage, they mingle in the social circle, and they have fought side by side on the bloody battle-field. The impressions made on the imagination of childhood must necessarily be effaced by contact with the reality. The Catholic religion will become known for what it is, and its advocates will receive the respectful hearing to which they are entitled.

We have all along intimated that it is not so much the mere exterior argument for the authority of the church, as the dogmatic theology and the interior spiritual doctrine preserved and transmitted by her authoritative teaching, to which we desire to see the attention of our evangelical brethren directed. The soul of the church is the noblest of its parts, and the vivifying principle of the body. The really cardinal question at issue concerns the method by which the individual soul is united with this soul of the church, nourished and perfected in divine knowledge and love. In this is included the nature of that manifestation of itself which the soul of the church makes in its visible body. {116} We have no time to go into this subject at present. Courtesy to both the writers whose articles we are reviewing requires, however, that we should notice some of the topics over which their polemical weapons have clashed so vigorously.

The writer of the article in this magazine denies that Protestants hold the doctrine of the visibility of the church, while the writer in the "New Englander" indignantly affirms that they do hold it. Both are in the right, because each has an entirely different idea of the visible church from the other. The Catholic idea will be found very ably exhibited in an essay on the Two Sides of Catholicism, translated from the German, and published in some of the earliest numbers of this magazine. Want of time and the necessity of keeping our article within proper limits oblige us to leave the matter without further remark, simply observing that no Catholic theologian would ever think of denying that orthodox Protestants hold to a visible, universal church, in the sense explained by Dr. Bacon.

In regard to justification, the first writer asserts that, according to the Protestant doctrine, every man who believes he is saved by Christ is by that sole belief united to the invisible church, which his opponent also vehemently denies. It is the original, genuine Lutheran doctrine, _Sola fides formaliter justificat_, Faith alone formally justifies, which is in question. We do not think Dr. Bacon either understands or believes this doctrine. The New England theology has from the beginning had a character of its own, in which the subjective change called regeneration, a change of heart, or conversion, consisting in an inward, supernatural transformation of the soul through the grace of the Holy Spirit, has been made very prominent. The Catholic formula, _Fides, una cum aliis requisitis, dispositive justificat_, Faith, together with other requisites, dispositively justifies, expresses better the spirit of this theology than the Lutheran formula. That the merits of Christ are the meritorious cause of justification is agreed upon by all parties. The exact sense of the Lutheran formula is difficult of apprehension and of expression in clear terms. As we understand it, it imports that the justification of the sinner, which is, in this system, a mere forensic justification, and is from eternity objectively perfect, is subjectively applied by an act of the mind firmly believing on Christ as the substitute and ransom of the particular subject making this act. In the strict Calvinistic system, the doctrine that Christ redeemed only the elect is distinctly made the basis of the doctrine of justification by faith alone. Saving faith, therefore, implies that the subject believes that Christ died for him in particular, and that consequently he is entitled to the favor of God and eternal life, irrespective of his personal acts, although he cannot receive this favor or be prepared for the happiness of heaven without the gift of a grace which gradually sanctifies him. Fletcher of Madely, the great theologian of the Methodists, wrote most ably against this Solifidian system. It has also been strongly combated within the past few months by Dr. Young, of Edinburgh. It is our opinion that this doctrine tends to reduce religion to pure individualism, and thus to obliterate both dogma and church. It concentrates the method of salvation into a mental or spiritual act by which Christ is apprehended in the relation of Saviour. This act is supposed to be excited by a supernatural inspiration of the Holy Spirit; but, as there is no test by which the reality of the inspiration can be certainly verified, it reduces personal religion to a subjective sentiment. A subjective personal trust in and affection to Jesus Christ becomes, therefore, the principal mark of a Christian and of a member of the true church. All who have this ought, therefore, to fraternize and commune together. The principle of private judgment on matters of doctrine is closely connected with this principle of individualism in the relation of the soul to Christ. {117} Intellectual and spiritual individualism is the metaphysical note of Protestantism. Spiritual illumination not being anything which can be verified, except by miracles, the principle of individualism has a tendency to eliminate it, and to substitute pure rationalism. Hence, the great Protestant writer Leo says, in the immediate context of the passage above cited from his history, that "entire Protestantism has continually complained of its inability ever to arrive at any union as regards the question whether the Scripture is to be interpreted by reason alone or through interior illumination." When we talk about Protestantism, we include the whole nominal Protestant world, and do not restrict our remarks to the comparatively small number of faithful adherents to the old orthodox confessions. We speak of the logical principles which distinguish Protestantism from Catholicity, as they are in their abstract essence, and as they work out their effects of negation and individualization. As to the actual, concrete condition of Protestant bodies, it is very easy to use loose expressions, and to make hasty generalizations, which can easily be criticised. The writer attacked by Dr. Bacon may have fallen into some inaccuracies of this kind. They afford no ground, however, for the charge of either ignorance or wilful misrepresentation. We do not care to analyze either his statements or the counter statements of his opponent. The manifest fact that a considerable body of Protestants do hold to the dogmatic formularies of their churches, and to strict practical rules of moral and religious duty, is one which we not only acknowledge, but take a great pleasure in knowing to exist. We are glad to estimate the Christian faith and piety which exist among them at its highest probable maximum.

Another point to be noticed is the estimation in which the Holy Scriptures are held among Catholics. This is a point of great importance in our estimation, and one in which it gives us great pain that the true Catholic sentiment should be misunderstood. Controversialists may sometimes exaggerate the difficulty of understanding the meaning of the Scriptures, when they are intent on proving the necessity of Catholic tradition and a teaching authority, or use expressions which would at first view appear to a devout Protestant like Richard Baxter or Dr. Bacon, lacking in due reverence for the written word of God. It is only, however, a want of acquaintance with the real doctrine and spirit of the Catholic Church which causes a person to be scandalized by such things. It is in the works of the fathers, of the doctors, of the great theologians, of the saints, that we find the just and adequate expression of the mind of the church. It is impossible to exaggerate the sentiment of reverence for the Holy Scriptures with which these great writers are filled. It is the perennial source, pure and undefiled, from which their inspiration is drawn. The Bible is the work of God, as the firmament of heaven is his work. It has the precedence of dignity over tradition, decrees of councils, theology, science, literature, every other work in which man concurs with the spirit of God; because in the production of the Bible the Spirit of God has concurred with the spirit of man in a higher and more immediate manner. There is but one question to be asked: How shall we ascertain the true sense of the Scripture? For, as soon as it is ascertained, it demands the homage of the mind _per se_ as the revelation of infinite truth.

We concur in what Dr. Bacon has written on this point, so far as its general scope is concerned. He establishes all we desire to maintain, namely, that the truths of revelation are not given in the form of systematized dogmatic teachings in the Scripture. Therefore it is that we need to be imbued with the sense of the Scripture by traditional teaching, and to be furnished with a dogmatic formula in which its doctrines are clearly defined, in order to be able easily and certainly to perceive in their sublimity and completeness the divine truths contained in it. {118} Hence, the Jews, for want of this, cannot see Christ in the Old Testament. Unitarians cannot see the Trinity or Incarnation in the New Testament. Catholics, Anglicans, Congregationalists, Calvinists, Armenians, Rationalists, Friends, Campbellites, and many others, cannot agree as to the combination principle which will unlock the whole meaning of the Scripture. We do not attribute this to the Scriptures themselves, but to the incapability of the individual mind or spirit to take the place of the divinely appointed, infallible witness, teacher, and judge of controversies, to whose keeping the sacred Scriptures have been committed. When faith is fixed as regards the great universal dogmas, and the canon authoritatively settled, a perfect universe is opened to the student of the Holy Scriptures, where he may prosecute his studies uncontrolled by anything except reason, conscience, and a just humility. We have no question whatever that all the articles of the Catholic Faith can be conclusively proved by Scripture. None whatever that the principles on which sound criticism and exegesis are conducted are truly scientific. We believe that the books of Scripture are intelligible, and a perfect mine of intellectual, spiritual, and moral treasure. This is true, eminently, of the sacred books as they are studied in their original languages. It is no less true, however, that its most important treasures of knowledge are equally open to those who can read the best versions. No book has ever been so many times well translated as the Bible. Let a version be warranted by a competent authority, and one may expatiate in it with as much freedom and confidence that his mind is really borne up on the ocean of divine truth, as if he could read the Hebrew and Greek with the readiness of a Mai or a Hengstenberg. It is, therefore, without doubt, a most excellent and profitable exercise for good, plain people, able to read and understand the English Bible, to read it continually and attentively. In proportion as one become capable of understanding the Holy Scriptures, and has the means of prosecuting his studies, in the same proportion will the advantage to be gained increase. We have no fear of any intelligent, instructed Catholic being injured by reading the Bible. Nor do we consider the very general and high esteem of King James's version among English-speaking Protestants, and their general familiarity with it, as an evil, or as an obstacle to the spread of Catholic doctrines. We regard that version as among the best in literary excellence, and as substantially accurate. We would as soon argue from it with a Protestant as from the original texts. Indeed, we think it a special blessing of God that one version, and that one so generally faithful to the true sense of the Scripture, should be almost universally diffused through the English-speaking world. Would that all who have inherited the Christian name were firmly persuaded of the divine inspiration of the Scriptures and sincerely desirous to learn their true meaning! With all those who acknowledge Jesus Christ to be an infallible Teacher sent from God, we feel that we have one firm spot to stand upon. Where not only this truth is held, but, also, that he is the true and eternal Son of God, and that the New Testament of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ is so inspired by his Spirit that every statement it contains respecting doctrine, morals, and the facts connected with them is infallibly true, we have another firm spot broader than the first. As for those who have altogether lost their footing upon even the first of these solid Christian principles, we may well shudder at the magnitude and difficulty of the work of their re-conversion to Christianity. Yet, this is the great work really impending, unless we would see a large portion of Christendom swept away into infidelity, and involved in all its appalling consequences. {119} For this reason we desire with all our heart that the differences among those who believe that all the hopes of the human race are contained in the Christian revelation should be finally settled, and that all should agree as to what that Christianity is, which shall be proposed to the acceptance of all mankind. This desire has been our motive for endeavoring to pierce through the special and personal issues of the controversy before us, and to bring it upon broader and more open ground. We have endeavored to get the question out of a region where we conceive that misunderstanding and useless contention will be interminable. There is an antecedent difficulty in the way which we know very well, and did know before we were so distinctly reminded of it by our learned friends of New-Haven. It is the preconceived opinion they hold respecting the end and object which the advocates of the Catholic religion have in view, and the policy according to which they act. We have not been sanguine enough to suppose that anything we can say will remove this difficulty. Until our respected friends become familiar with the works of our great theologians and spiritual writers, and come into closer intellectual contact with the general Catholic mind and heart, there must be a non-conducting medium between us, which will obstruct the communication of thought and sentiment. We aim only to recommend this study, on grounds of reason, policy, and Christian charity. We have already seen its effects in many instances in bringing nearer together those who are widely sundered, and therefore we will cherish the hope that its ultimate result may be a complete and universal reconciliation.

Abridged from the Dublin University Magazine.

Athlone And Aughrim.

Preparations for the Struggle.

During the winter and spring of 1691, General Ginckel had the comfort or seeing the forces under his command tolerably well clothed and fed, and housed in different cities and towns, while their antagonists in Connaught enjoyed these advantages but sparingly. Tyrconnell returned from France in January, leaving 10,000 louis d'or at Brest to purchase provisions, etc., and bringing to Limerick about 18,000. He established public confidence to some extent by reducing copper crowns and half-crowns to their just value. He gratified the Irish party by producing a royal patent, creating Sarsfield Earl of Lucan, Viscount of Tully, and Baron of Rosberry.

In May of the same year arrived in the Shannon the French fleet, laden with provisions, arms, ammunition, and clothing, but neither men nor money. However, what they did bring must have been a great boon to the poor soldiers, whose pay, when money was available, had hitherto not exceeded a penny a day. With these supplies came General St. Ruth to assume the command of James's forces in Ireland, which at and from that time included no French soldiers. The main strength of William's, armies was concentrated about Mulingar, and the Dutch commander was ably seconded by his officers-- Talmash, Mackay, and De Ruvigny, names familiar to the readers of Richard Ashton's play of the "Battle of Aughrim." St. Ruth had for assistants Majors-General d'Usson and De Tesse, and Lieutenant-General Patrick Sarsfield, but unhappily for the cause he came to maintain he assumed airs of reserve and superiority with the Irish nobleman, which the latter could ill brook.

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On June the 6th of that eventful year the campaign may be said to have begun with the march from Mullingar. We learn from "Tristram Shandy" that the army in Flanders swore frightfully, and indeed it was not much better in Westmeath. We find Baron de Ginckel giving strict orders, while the army was proceeding westward, that the chaplain should read prayers at the head of each regiment at ten in the morning, and again at seven in the evening, and exhort their flocks to desist from swearing, "a vice (as Rev. Mr. Story complains) too common among us." "Stealing" seems to have been another prevalent weakness; the chaplain relates how "a fellow stole a horse and was hanged for it, which wrought some reformation for a time." The following order implies considerable demoralization among the varied populace in arms ruled by the able Dutch general: "No sutler or other person whatever should buy any ammunition, arms, or accoutrements, or any thing that belonged to the soldiers on pain of death; because the soldiers for a little money would be apt to sell their cloaths or shoes; and if as great care were not taken of most of them as of children, they would soon be in a very indifferent condition."

The only incident that varied their march to Athlone was the taking of the strong fort of Ballymore. Mr. Story censures the commander, Myles Burke, for "not listening to the general's mild proposals." After vigorous salutations of powder and shot on both sides, Ginckel sent a verbal demand to surrender within two hours or else--! Governor Burke requested the message to be conveyed to him in writing, but gained nothing by the motion. The following missive was immediately sent in writing:

"Since the governour desires to see in writing the message which I just now sent him by word of mouth, he may know that if he surrenders the fort of Ballymore to me within two hours, I will give him and his garrison their lives and make them prisoners of war. If not, neither he nor they shall have any quarter, nor another opportunity of saving themselves. However, if in that time their women and children will go out they have my leave. "Given in the camp, this 8th day of June, 1691, at eight a clock in the morning. Bar. De Ginckell."

The general was not so severe in deed as in word, for though resistance continued to be made with two Turkish cannon mounted on cart-wheels, much beyond the stipulated two hours, he still treated the defenders as prisoners of war.

The Siege of Athlone.

On the 19th of June the English cannon began to thunder on the devoted outworks of the English town of Athlone, to wit, that portion of it which stands on the eastern side of the Shannon. Story gives the number of the English army at this time as eighteen thousand, well provided with all warlike appurtenances. A breach was made in the indifferent defence, and next day the assault was made by four thousand men. The defenders after losing two hundred men made their way into the Irish town on the western bank, taking care to leave behind them toward their own side two wide chasms, below which flowed the Shannon deep and rapid. This was the amount of the destructive work done on the second day. St. Ruth, hearing of the taking of the English town that evening, advanced within three miles of the still untaken portion, having about fifteen thousand men, horse and foot, under his command.

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The next things done were the erection of batteries on the eastern side of the river, and the subsequent demolition of the eastern wall of the castle, and other fortifications on the Irish side, by the incessant storm of cannon-balls from the strong defence on the eastern bank. A horrible incident of this siege was connected with a mill resting on the bridge, which, being fired by the English grenades, its sixty-four defenders were burnt alive. Two only escaped by springing into the river.

As fast as castle walls and other fortifications were demolished, new posts of defence and annoyance were set up on the Irish side, and the breaches in the bridge could not be floored over, owing to the unwelcome neighborhood of the Irish guns. The English general, weighing the difficulty of an effectual transit, bethought of sending a lieutenant with an exploring party to examine a reported ford toward Lanesborough:

"Where there might be an easy and undiscovered passage for most of our army, while our cannon amused the enemy at the town. This party went and found the pass according to information, but tho' he (the lieutenant) was positively ordered to return as soon as he had passed the river, yet such are the powerful charms of black cattle to some sorts of people, that the lieutenant, espying a prey some distance from him on the other side, must needs be scampering after them, by which means our design was discovered, and the enemy immediately provided against it by throwing up strong works on the other side. The lieutenant, I heard, was afterward try'd, and suffer'd for it."

Good-hearted as we imagine our chaplain to have been, he could never bring himself up to the point of impartial laudation of the good qualities of his opponents. The ford toward Lanesborough being out of the question, the most vigorous efforts were made to get possession of the bridge; but the stern determination of the Irish party foiled every attempt.

At last the Irish breastwork, which prevented the English engineers from laying a flooring over the now solitary chasm, was destroyed. It consisted in great part of fascines (fagots), which being in an unlucky moment set on fire by English grenades, were quickly consumed, owing to the dryness and heat of the weather. The opportunity was not lost, planks were thrown across, and even a flooring laid on in part, when a heroic band of ten men of Maxwell's regiment, commanded by a sergeant, and all in armor, advanced from the western end of the bridge, and began to tear up planks and boards, and fling them into the river. A storm of bullets soon levelled them despite their harness before they had completed the daring deed; but their places were taken by another devoted eleven. They succeeded in precipitating the remaining beams into the river at the sacrifice of the lives of nine of their number. Two escaped, and the bridge was once more impassable.

The name and fame of the historic or mythic Horatius Coeles has been preserved for upward of two thousand years. There is not a verse extant to the praise of these score of heroic men, martyrs to their cause. Their very names are lost, if we except the sergeant, and probably _Custume_, the name by which his memory is preserved, is either a mistake or a nickname.

The next attempt to pass the river was well arranged beforehand. It was decided that at an early hour in the day efforts should be made at three different points--the bridge, a ford lately discovered below the bridge, and a point still lower to be crossed on pontoons. However, the boats required more time to reach their places than was calculated on, and a covered gallery, intended to facilitate the passage at the bridge, was destroyed at the commencement of the advance. The Irish and English grenadiers on the bridge began to fling their peculiar weapons at each other, and luck being with the Irish on this occasion, their grenades set fire to the enemy's fascines and to the covered gallery. There being a strong westerly wind at the time, the flames spread rapidly, and caused much confusion. {122} St. Ruth had received previous intimation of the design, and the flower of the Irish troops were ready to receive the unwelcome visitors. Detachments had poured into the garrison, and the main army remained under the cover of the western ramparts of the Irish town, to rush in on the storming body if they succeeded in crossing the river. The event of the strife on the bridge prevented the attempt by the ford or the pontoons.

This check had a very disheartening effect upon the besieging forces; for, though their cannon ceaselessly continued to play on the defences of the Irish town, a council of war was held, wherein the difficulties of staying there any longer were represented.

The council came to a wise resolution under the circumstances. It was dangerous to retire, it was dangerous to advance; but glory and honor might wait on the latter alterative, and it was adopted. The report of two deserters who succeeded in coming across encouraged them in their courageous resolve. They represented St. Ruth and his officers as put off their guard, and expected to hear of the retreat of the English at any moment. They also reported the garrison at that moment as consisting of three of the rawest regiments in the whole force.

The report was in the main correct. St. Ruth had given a large party to the ladies and gentlemen of the country, and universal joy and negligence ruled in the army. The general, wishing to season the latest recruits, sent them to keep garrison, directing that the fortifications in the rear, chiefly consisting of earth works, should be levelled, so as to afford facility for the new hands to retire, if they found themselves crowded by the foe, and also facility to the tried men in the camp to come to their relief under the same undesirable circumstances. D'Usson represented the want of wisdom in the appointment of the raw hands to the post of danger, and further objected to the destruction of the ramparts. The Irish chiefs did not cordially co-operate; and there was a palpable want of wisdom in their councils. The earthworks remained untouched, and the inexperienced soldiers were set to learn their first dangerous lesson, a fierce foe in front, no means of safe retreat in the rear, and a prodigious stake depending on their firmness. [Footnote 31]

[Footnote 31: It is mentioned in some accounts that when these new men found themselves at their posts they were unprovided with powder. Having after some delay got this article, they had to apply again for bullets. Captain Maxwell, to whom the application came, thinking they were already provided, jestingly asked, "Was it to shoot larks?"]

The ford already mentioned had been tried in the first instance by three Dutchmen in armor, the English guns firing volleys apparently at them, but in reality over their heads during the transit. This device protected them from the Irish bullets, as they were supposed to be deserters. However, when they turned round after a reasonably near approach to the Irish side, they began to find the leaden shower pelting about their ears from that quarter. They made their escape with some slight wounds, the water at the deepest having only reached their waists. The season was a remarkably dry one, and that ford had never been so shallow in the memory of man.

De Ginckel and his chiefs, having come to the resolution of trying another bold assault, did not defer its execution till the enemy should become apprised of their intention. The hour of relieving guard at six o'clock was chosen, when the Irishtown men saw nothing very unusual in the crowding of the English soldiers into the garrison. Everything being minutely arranged between the Dutch general and his officers, a body of determined men moved toward the ford. This was the critical movement on the success of which depended the action to be taken at the other two passages. And here a quotation from the memoir of Patrick Sarsfield, by J. W. Cole, Esq., will help to make the state of things at that hour more clear:

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"Sarsfield apprised St. Ruth of the enemy's intention. He turned a deaf ear to the messenger who found him dressing for a shooting excursion, laughed at the idea of bringing up the army to repel an imaginary attack, and said scoffingly that his officers were tired with dancing at last night's ball. Sarsfield repeated the intelligence, representing in the most urgent terms that not a moment was to be lost. 'They dare not do it,' said the confident Frenchman, 'and I so near,' adding that he would give a thousand louis to hear that the English durst attempt to pass. 'Spare your money and mind your business,' was the gruff retort of Sarsfield. 'I know the English better than you do. There is no enterprise too desperate for their courage to attempt.'"

Col. Charles O'Kelly gives it as his opinion that the Scotch Colonel Maxwell "sold the pass." Here is a translation of his Latin:

"One of his legions having swam over the Lycus that afternoon, no sooner came to Ororis (Ginekel) and delivered him a private message than the party was immediately detached to attack the river. When the soldiers called out to Maxilles for arrows (bullets), he would give them none, but asked them whether they should shoot against the birds of the air. He ordered the men to lie down and take their rest, saying there would be no action till night. So that when the enemy entered, the soldiers for the most part were asleep, and few or none in their posts. When the first man of the enemy mounted the breach, be boldly asked him, 'Do you know me?' whereupon he got quarter, and all the rest were put to the sword; this it seems being the signal to distinguish the betrayer from the rest, and it is supposed that Ororis commanded those who were upon the attack, to use the officer well who should put that question. ... Lysander (Sarsfield) accused him a few days before in the general's presence, and it is certain it was not prudently done, after giving you such a public affront, to intrust to him the command of a post of that importance, but it seems Corydon (Tyrconnel) would have it so, and Pyrrhus (St. Ruth) did not think fit to disoblige the viceroy."

We are not convinced of Maxwell's treachery, Col. O'Kelly's surmises notwithstanding. He intensely disliked Tyrconnel, and this dislike was shared in by all who enjoyed his favor. The public accusation, and the important post intrusted soon after to the accused are the reverse of cause and effect. We shall presently set his behavior at the assault in a better light.

The Passage of the Shannon.

A few minutes after the tolling of the church bell at 6 o'clock P.M., the English batteries commenced playing furiously on the town, seconded by numerous volleys from marksman who were stationed on ladders placed against the inside of the wall in English town. In directing this deafening uproar Ginckel seems to have badly co-operated with Colonel Maxwell in putting the poor raw recruits to sleep. Simultaneously with this flourish, the trial of the ford was made, to describe which we prefer the words of the eye-witness, Story, to those of any other, including our own.

"About 2,000 detach't men were now ready, and Major-General Mackay to command them. Major-General Tettcau, the Prince of Hesse, and Brigadeer La Molliner were likewise of the party, and Major-General Talmarsh went a volunteer with a party of grannadeers, commanded by Collonel Gustavus Hambleton. And for the greater encouragement to the soldiers, the general distributed a sum of guinea's amongst them, knowing the powerful influence of gold, though our armies had as little occasion for such gratuities (I mean as to that point of whetting their courage) as any in all the world, and have done as much without them.

"The ford was over against a bastion of the enemies where a breach was made already, and the river being try'd three days before, ... and found passable; so that all things being in this order, six minutes past six a clock, Captain Sandys and two lieutenants led the first party of 60 granadeers, all in armour and 20 a breast, seconded by another good body, who all with an amazing resolution took the river, the stream being very rapid and deep (?) at which time our great and small shot began to play from our batteries and works on our side upon the enemies works on the other, and they fired as thick as possible upon our men that were passing the river, who forced their way thro fire and smoak, and gaining the other bank the rest laid planks over the broken part of the bridge, and others were laying the bridge of boats, by which our men passed over so fast that in less than half an hour we were masters of the town. ... A great many of the Irish were killed in their works, and yet its observable that our men when they saw themselves really masters of the town, were not at all forward to kill those at their mercy, though it was in a manner in the heat of action. But the rubbish and stuff thrown down by our cannon was more difficult to climb over than a great part of the enemies works which occasioned our soldiers to swear and curse even among the bullets themselves, upon which Major-General Mackay told them that they had more reason to fall upon their knees and thank God for their victory, and that they were brave men and the best of men if they would swear less. ... {124} Among the (Irish officers) were slain during the siege and attack, Col. O'Gara, [Footnote 32] Col. Richard Grace, Col. Art. Oge Mackmahon, two of the Mack Genness, and several others."

[Footnote 32: This is probably a mistake, as there is record but of one Col. O'Gara in King James's forces, and he is afterward heard of at Limerick. Col. Richard Grace had fought vigorously for Charles I. till the surrender at Oxford in 1646. Returning to Ireland he raised at his own expense a force estimated at from three to five thousand men, and enjoyed the honor of having his head valued at £500 by Cromwell. In 1652 he was permitted to retire to the continent with a contingent of 1200 men. The Duke of York always treated him with the greatest friendship. After the restoration his estates in the King's County and were restored to him. He had defendant Athlone during Cromwell's wars, and again in 1690 against Douglas. During his government of this garrison he was rigid in repressing any outrages on the country people by the military, and on one occasion he had 10 soldiers hung at the same time from the outer wall for such offenses. He was killed the day preceding the capture, and his body discovered when the English got possession. His activity and energy could not be surpassed. In bringing up forces from a part of Kilkenny to Athlone he walked with the men seventy miles in two days. Another time he rode from Dublin to Athlone and back, 116 Irish miles in twenty-four hours.]

Notwithstanding the treachery imputed to Col. Maxwell, he exerted himself gallantly to cover the retreat of the poor recruits, who found the rear fortifications sadly in their way. St. Ruth, on receiving the fatal news, sent off Major-General John Hamilton with two brigades of infantry to drive out the enemy. But as the western ramparts had been considerately left for the protection and comfort of this same enemy, the scrambling over these works, and the subsequent driving out of the numerous and flushed forces behind them, was not to be accomplished by a mere _coup de main_, and two infantry brigades. They did what in them lay. They covered the retreat of the fugitives, and gave the vanguard of their pursuers a warm reception. Col. Maxwell, now a prisoner, and a passive spectator, afterward declared that he had entertained great hopes of being rescued during the short but deadly strife between the combatants. St. Ruth's feelings were not to be envied the night of that dismal day; for he must have been sensible that, owing to his contempt of the enemy, over-weaning confidence, and neglecting necessary precautions, or not insisting on their execution, he wretchedly permitted the great stronghold of the king for whom he commanded to be taken out of his bands.

"At Ballinasloe (we quote Mr. Cole) he drew up his forces intending to make a stand. Sarsfield, backed by the other general officers, represented that it was madness to risk a certain defeat there by engaging a superior and better disciplined army, flushed with the recent conquest of Athlone; that the wiser plan would be to hold Galway and Limerick with strong garrisons, to march with the remainder of the infantry and all the cavalry into Munster and Leinster, intercept the enemy's communications, and perhaps make a dash upon Dublin, which was left in a state unprepared for resistance. St. Ruth yielded to their remonstrances, and retreated to Aughrim; but here he suddenly and in evil hour for his own cause changed his determination, and resolved to risk a battle. He was either stung by the loss of Athlone, or prompted by personal vanity which whispered to him that he was destined to immortalize his name by a great victory."

Having made up his mind to abide the brunt of Ginckel's well-appointed and well-disciplined and numerous forces, he halted his dispirited but determined troops on the hill-side of Kilcomedan, about three miles south-west of Ballinasloe.

The Field of Aughrim.

Probably most of our readers are in the same predicament with relation to this hill of dismal memory. They have not looked over that battle-field, and probably never will, the Great Western railway notwithstanding. So we borrow the graphic account of a writer who examined the ridge from end to end, the Danish fort on its summit, and the unlucky old castle, conversed with an aged man of the village, who had long since spoken with an aged woman, who when a very young girl had brought some country produce to King James's soldiers, and had witnessed with terror and curiosity some of the occurrences of the fatal 12th of July, 1691.

"The hill of Kilcomedan is in no part very steep. It forms a gradual slope extending almost due north and from end to end, a distance of about a mile and a half; and at the time of which we speak it was perfectly open and covered with heath. Along the crest or this hill was perched the Irish camp, and the position in which St. Ruth was resolved to await the enemy extended along its base.

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"The foremost line of the Irish composed entirely of musketeers, occupied a series of small enclosures, and was covered in front throughout its entire extent by a morass through which flows a little stream, and this swamp with difficulty passable by infantry, was wholly so for cavalry. Through two passes only was the Irish position thus covered assailable upon firm ground, the one at the extreme right much the more open of the two, and called the pass of Urrachree from an old house and demesne which lay close to it, and the other at the extreme left, by the long straight road leading into the town of Aughrim. This road was broken, and so narrow that some annalists state that two horses could not pass it abreast; in addition to which it was commanded by the castle of Aughrim, then as now it is true but a ruin, but whose walls and enclosures nevertheless afforded effectual cover, and a position such as ought to have rendered the pass impregnable. Beyond those passes at either side were extensive bogs, and dividing them the interposing morass. The enclosures in which the advanced musketeers were posted, afforded excellent cover, and from one to the other communications had been cut, and at certain intervals their whole length was traversed by broad passages, intended to admit the flanking charge of the Irish cavalry in case the enemy's infantry should succeed in forcing their way thus far. The main line extended in a double row of columns parallel to the advanced position of the musketeers, and the reserve of the cavalry was drawn up on a small plain a little behind the castle of Aughrim, which was occupied by a force of about two thousand men. The Irish army numbered in all, perhaps, about twenty thousand men, and the position they held extended more than an English mile, and was indeed as powerful a one as could possibly have been selected."

Begging the author's indulgence for this needful theft, we own ourselves unable to resist the temptation of committing another, especially as, if he had been under harness himself that day in the Irish camp, he would not have voluntarily shared in the solemn function so vividly describes:

"Many of our readers are doubtless aware that the field of Aughrim was fought upon a Sunday, a circumstance which added one to the many thrilling incidents of the martial scene. The army had hardly moved into that position which was that day to be so hardly and devotedly maintained, when the solemn service of high mass was commenced at the head of every regiment by its respective chaplain; and during this solemn ceremonial were arriving at every moment fresh messengers from the outposts, their horses covered with dust and foam, with the stern intelligence that the enemy were steadily approaching; and amid all this excitement and suspense, in silence and bare-beaded, kneeled the devoted thousands in the ranks in which they were to receive the foe, and on the very ground on which they were in a few hours so desperately to contend. This solemn and striking ceremonial under circumstances which even the bravest admit to be full of awe, and amid the tramp and neighing of horses, and jingling of accoutrements, and the distant trumpet signals from the outposts, invested the scene with a wildness and sublimity of grandeur, which blanched many a cheek, and fluttered many a heart with feelings very different from those of fear."

The Pass of Urrachree.

A thick vapor, called up from the surrounding bogs and marshes by the hot morning sun, kept the rival armies concealed from each other's sight till about 12 o'clock, when, all becoming clear, the men on Kilcomedan had a full sight of the allied forces, commanded by eight majors-general, and arranged in double columns, their rich appointments presenting an unpleasant contrast to their own much more modest if not shabby garb and accoutrements. As soon as General Ginckel could command a distinct view from a height toward the left of his lines, he was enabled to judge of the strength of the position held by the Irish, and the skill shown in the disposition of the forces adverted to above. He could see one portion of the cavalry prepared to dispute the pass at Urrachree, another watching the pass at Aughrim, the main body of horse posted below the crest of the hill, the infantry still lower disposed in two columns, and he could guess the presence of musketeers in the ditches at the bottom of the hill, prepared to receive the hardy infantry who would venture across the morass to exchange shots with them. Sarsfield's horse beyond the brow of Kilcomedan on the Irish left, he probably did not observe. There was the shrewd and fiery chief placed, with strict orders from his unfriendly superior not to stir from that spot till expressly ordered. {126} Had the gallant Dutchman at that moment known that St. Ruth had not communicated to any of his general officers the scheme be intended to observe through the engagement, his hopes of victory would have been much more sanguine. Feeling the inexpediency of commencing a general engagement, yet impatient of the scene of inactivity before him, he gave orders to a Danish captain of horse commanding sixteen men to attempt the pass of Urrachree. The small body was warmly received by some watching cavalry still fewer in number, and though the brave officer justified the reputation of his country for dogged courage, his men were deserted by that virtue so essential to every soldier, and "ran like men."

Ginckel, fully aware of the importance of the pass in case a general engagement should take place, next directed Colonel Albert Conyngham to take possession of some ditches near where one branch of the stream entered the morass. The chief of this party had received orders not to advance beyond the mere boundary, lest he should be intercepted, and thus bring on a premature engagement. The Irish party, after receiving the enemy's fire and returning it, showed their backs, and their assailants pursued them beyond the limits pointed out by the sagacious De Ginckel. An ambush had been prepared in expectation of this proceeding, and, while they were least expecting it, a destructive fire was opened on them from behind cover. Many immediately dismounted, and, taking advantage of a hedge, returned the fire with deadly interest. They had little time to enjoy the success of this move, when they were startled by the rush of a strong cavalry force sweeping down on them from behind the extremity of the hill, and the old manor-house of Urrachree. They were obliged to retire in disorder before this new enemy, but the watchful eye of the justly displeased general had well marked the progress of the action, and provided for the expected repulse. D'Eppinger's royal regiment of Holland dragoons came on amain to get between the pursuing Irish horse and the hill. But other detachments of Irish cavalry were at hand to frustrate this design; the Earl of Portland's horse were sent to support the forcing party, and a stern combat was waged for about an hour, fresh parties joining the strife from the natural impatience of men of heart to remain still while blows are bandying before their eyes. At three o'clock this contention came to an end, both sides having lost several stout partisans, and the relative positions being much the same as at the beginning of the skirmish.

For the next hour and a half nothing was done on either aide. The English generals were in close consultation as to whether it were better to renew the attack or defer it till next morning. The brave old Scotchman, Mackay, decided his fellow commanders for present action. He counselled a renewed and more effective attempt at Urrachree, which, causing re-enforcements to be drawn from the Irish centre and the neighborhood of Aughrim, would enable the infantry to try the morass where it was narrowest, and also enable the cavalry on the right wing to force the dangerous pass at Aughrim, watched by the garrison of the ruined castle.

The Morass And The Hedges.

At this time (half-past four in the evening) the main body of the English formed two lines directly before the morass, the generals on each side having a pretty correct idea of the state and efficiency of their foes. In other respects the advantage was with the allied army. There was a perfect cordiality and understanding between De Ginckel and his generals, and even in the case of his death and that of his second in command the Duke of Wirtemberg, Mackay, or Talmash, or De Ruvigny were perfectly apprised of the general plan of the action.

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The Danish horse and a body of infantry were ordered to the extreme left, with the apparent design to out-flank the enemy on that side, and thus draw away from the Irish centre and left wing much of the strength there needed. This body (the Dutch, to wit) kept that postilion during the remainder of the battle, doing as good service as if actually engaged. Three French regiments, namely, those of La Mellonière, Du Cambon, and Belcassel, commenced to assail the advanced forces of the Irish in the neighborhood of these inactive troops, and obliged St. Ruth to weaken his left and centre to support them. Except the cannonading from both sides there was no fighting going on until six o'clock along the entire line, except this in the neighborhood of Urrachree.

Mackay, in order to weaken still more the Irish left wing, advised Ginckel to separate a considerable body of horse from Talmash's troops, who were waiting for a favorable opportunity to tempt the narrow pass toward Aughrim, and to send them toward Urrachree. This had the desired effect, and now preparations were made to cross the morass at the narrowest part and attack the Irish centre.

While detachments of the second line of the left centre of the Irish were marching to defend the pass at Urrachree, and thus leaving their late positions comparatively weak, four English regiments, commanded by Colonels Erie, Herbert, Creighton, and Brewer, effected the passage of the marsh, and were received by a volley from the men ensconced behind the lowest fence. Openings (as before mentioned) being ready, these marksman, as soon as they were dislodged, retired behind the next shelter, and repeated the process till they had drawn the British soldiers nearly half a mile up the hill.

Now their orders had been to wait till a much greater force had crossed at a wider portion of the morass lower down (that is, near Aughrim, the stream in the centre of the morass flowing in that direction), and effected a junction with them. So when they saw their cunning enemies, joined by the main central force, and these again backed by cavalry, all preparing to sweep down on them, they remembered too late the wise orders they had received. However, if the charging party were Irish wolf-hounds, the charged were English bull-dogs, and determined to make courage repair evil done by rashness. The gallant Colonel Erie cried out: "There is no way to come off but to be brave!" But neither the courage of the men nor the ability of the leaders could resist the downward charge of horse and foot, and the flanking bullets that rained on them. Colonels Erie and Herbert and some captains were taken prisoners and rescued, and recaptured, and we are sorry to record that Colonel Herbert was killed while prisoner, from apprehension of his rescue. The English did not or could not make use of the fences in their downward flight, as their pursuers had done when enticing them upward, but were driven, as it were, by press of men till the survivors once more gained the bog.

Meantime five regiments, for whose safe lodgment these rash men ought to have waited, had crossed the wider part of the morass lower down, under the command of the veteran Major-General Mackay and Prince George of Hesse. This fiery young warrior was ordered by his senior to keep his division stationary in a cornfield until he himself should have made a sufficient _detour_ to the right among difficult ground and to attack the enemy in flank while Prince George was assailing them in front.

The same error as that just previously committed by the staid English colonels was repeated by the impetuous young German prince. Being fired at and probably jeered or mocked by the ditch holders he advanced to chastise them, and both parties came to such close quarters that the ends of their muskets nearly touched. {128} Back went the Irish musketeers, after them pushed the assailants, new shelter taken, fresh shots fired, fresh dislodgments, no attention paid by Englander or foreigner till they found themselves surrounded and assailed front, flank, and rear, by the Irish. There was a skirmishing retreat made till the corn-field was reached by the survivors, some even whose care for self overpowered love of fame or fighting, never stayed till they had put the morass between themselves and the pestilent hedgemen.

General Mackay, having mastered the difficulties before him, was in hopes of having the Irish foe between himself and the holders of the cornfield, but was thunderstruck on his return at the demoralized condition of his rash friends. He sent to request aid from General Talmash, and the three parties renewed a desperate onslaught on the musketeers who occupied the fences. They were received with the same determined resolution and deadly fire as on the two former occasions, and were obliged by the close and uninterrupted musket volleys and flank charges of horse to fall back on the cornfield, the marsh, and even to the dry ground on the eastern side on a line with the English batteries.

Three times did the tide of battle flow and ebb across the bog on that memorable afternoon, each party inspired with the dogged determination and hate that a struggle for life and for a darling cause inspired. Even the Williamite chaplain was obliged in a manner to do justice to the bravery of the Irish enemy. Describing the beginning of the attack, he says:--

"The _Irish_ in the meantime laid so close in their ditches that several were doubtful whether they had any men at that place or not, but they were convinced of it at last, for no sooner were the _French_ and the rest got within twenty yards or less of the ditches, but the _Irish_ fired most furiously upon them, which our men as bravely sustained, and pressed forward, though they could scarce see one another for smoak. And now the thing seemed so doubtful for some time that the by-standers would rather have given it on the Irish side, for they had driven our foot in the centre so far that they were got almost in a line with some of our great guns planted near the bog, which we had not the benefit of at that juncture, because of the mixture of our men and theirs."

During the continuance of this deadly strife in the centre, De Ginckel was directing the efforts of the foreign auxiliaries against the defenders of Urrachree. The general himself, regardless of his own safety, exposed his life on more than one occasion. He was re-enforced more than once from the left, but all that the greatest skill and energy on the part of himself and his generals, and bravery on the part of their men could effect, were insufficient to remove the Irish cavalry from their ground of vantage. Next to this mingled war of cavalry and infantry, and nearer the centre, the French infantry regiments of La Mellonière, Du Camben, and Belcassel struggled, like the fiery stout fellows they were, to drive the Irish infantry opposed to them from their ditches. They (the French) fortified their positions when any advantage was gained by _chevaux de frise_, but these were again and again taken and destroyed by their opponents. Scarcely did any portion of the mingled peoples suffer so much in the deadly struggle at Aughrim as these gallant Frenchmen. Had De Ginckel's cavalry, and these French infantry, succeeded in dislodging their opponents, they would then be in a position to take the Irish centre in flank, and bring the struggle to a speedy close, but this was not the mode in which it was the will of Providence to decide the day.

Where was St. Ruth employed during these momentous struggles? Just where he should have been, in front of his camp near the crest of the hill, watching the fluctuations of the battle, issuing orders, and sending aid wherever they were needed. Our chaplain says that he was so pleasurably excited by the charges of his central infantry to the very line of the British batteries that he flung his gold-laced hat into the air, extolling the bravery of the Irish infantry, and exclaiming that "he would now drive back the English to the gates of Dublin."

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How the Pass of Aughrim was Forced.

So far the Irish forces were sustained in their gallant struggle; but now the scale of fortune began to waiver. Their final defeat began in a quarter from which it was totally unlooked for by either themselves or their antagonists. The castle of Aughrim, so well garrisoned, looked on a narrow pass crossed by the stream before mentioned, but a little to the S. E. this isthmus of firm land opened out to a tolerably wide space "in the shape of a spindle furnished with its complement of thread." Here at about this time of the fight, the extreme right of the English force planted some cannon, and cleared of its defenders the gorge of the isthmus just between them and the space before the castle. So far a step was made in the right direction; they were enabled to make the next by the stupidity or treachery of an officer who had been directed to send to Urrachree a detachment from the second or rear line of the army toward the left. Along with this complement he sent away a battalion from the front line; [Footnote 33] and this being remarked by the English officers, three infantry battalions making use of hurdles, slipped across the edge of the morass in front of the castle, [Footnote 34] and took possession of a cornfield on the Irish side. The Irish musketeers stationed behind the hedges in that quarter, aware of the wide breach in the main columns behind them, retreated after delivering one discharge, and took refuge in the hollow near the castle, the post of the reserve cavalry. A troop of these coming to the rescue, the Englishmen took to the shelter of the hedges where they had little to fear from a charge.

[Footnote 33: Colonel Henry Luttrell having had to do in this transfer of the front line force where they were needed, gave a color to the tradition of his having "sold the pass at Aughrim."]

[Footnote 34: Let it be borne in mind that the castle was on the north side of the narrow road or pass, and that its defenders had before their eyes the N.E. side of Kilcomedan and the morass so often mentioned. The village of Aughrim lay to the west of the castle, and Irish reserve force partly between castle and village.]

This successful manoeuver encouraged the passage of two other regiments nearer to the centre, namely, those commanded by Lord George Hamilton and Sir Henry Belasyse, and the moment seemed favorable for the approach of the cavalry through the defile which they had cleared of its guards as already mentioned. They were accompanied by infantry, who not being restricted to the narrow limit of the boggy road, were prepared to fire on all the visible defenders of the occupants of the outer works of the place. After all, it is really difficult to account for the apparently rash movement. There were 2,000 men in and about the castle, and two field-pieces were in readiness to rake the pass in front. What possibility was there that a line of horsemen two or three abreast, unable to return the fire of the protected enemy, could escape destruction? We knew that small parties of men have exposed their lives as on forlorn-hope enterprises, but here were whole regiments.

Could it be that the leaders were aware that the danger to be incurred did not exceed in degree the ordinary risks of warfare?

The chaplain says in reference to the apparent danger of the attempt:

"The French general seeing our men attempt to do this, askt, '_What they meant by it?_ and being answered that they would certainly endeavor to pass there, and attack him on the left, he is said to reply with an oath, 'They are brave fellows; it's a pity they should be so exposed.'"

It is very probable that the words were uttered by the general, for the long file of horses and cavaliers were distant only thirty yards from the sheltered marksmen.

The adventurous bands owed their safety to a direct interposition of Providence, to a detestable deed of treachery, or to the grossest piece of negligence or stupidity in the annals of warfare.

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We are told that Colonel Walter Bourke, commander of the garrison, having sent to the camp for ammunition, four barrels of gunpowder and four of bullets were sent to him. But when the barrels of ball were opened, on the approach of the enemy, the eyes of the men engaged in the operation were blasted by the sight of cannon-balls! The confusion and misery of the defenders, officers and men, may scarcely be comprehended. However, they resorted to the only means in their power. To supply ammunition they loaded with buttons, with nails, with bits of stone, with their ramrods when all else was expended, and did what execution they could.

The infantry regiments of Hamilton and Kirke, having found materials at hand, barricaded a wide opening on the east side of the castle, in order to prevent a charge on the cannon when passing from the Irish reserve in the rere, and then they took possession of a dry ditch, whence they dislodged the defenders of the castle's outworks, whose ammunition was expended, and who for their misfortune lived before the bayonet was invented.

The Irish reserve, hearing from the fugitives how things were going on, sped round to the opening on their left, through which they might charge on the advancing artillery train; but there they found themselves checkmated by the barrier set up by the English infantry. They wheeled round, and, having made the circuit of the castle, they found themselves face to face with Lord Oxford's regiment, who, under Sir Francis Compton, had already gained the open ground. A brisk engagement took place, and the English cavalry were twice driven back, but, being soon re-enforced by the horse and dragoons of De Rouvigny, Langston, Byerly, and Levingston, they made good their footing, several being slain on both sides.

It may well be supposed that St. Ruth was not a little surprised to see the narrow and dangerous passage so well and safely achieved, and the lodgment effected at the bottom of the hill by the English infantry. Still there was nothing very disheartening in all this. He was at the head of a fine body of cavalry; only four squadrons of the enemy had as yet effected a standing at the north-east extremity of the hill; he and his troopers would charge down and annihilate the rash intruders; and if need were, he could easily summon the brave Earl of Lucan and his horse, who had been kept inactive to this moment, and dared not stir till the word was given.

Here a tirade might very appropriately come in against the spite of fortune toward the Irish cause, and particularly toward the aspirations of the single-minded and heroic Patrick Sarsfield. He had been kept at the fight of the Boyne in attendance on the king; at Aughrim he sat his horse on one side of Kilcomedan while the exciting battle game was being played at the other, and in neither case had he an opportunity of charging, or ordering to charge, or directing a movement, or striking a blow. A complete insight into the workings of his troubled and ireful heart on these days would not be desirable.

One Shot Decides the Victory.

The general, doomed to enjoy but a few minutes more of existence, was radiant with confident hope. Preparing for the final swoop, he cried, "They are beaten; let us beat them to the purpose!" He gave some directions to an artillery officer, placed himself at the head of his guard, and was about to give the command to charge when his head was blown to pieces by a cannon-ball!

Does not it now seem an easy thing for the next in command then to have sent at once to Lord Lucan, inform him of the fatal accident, and summon him to take the chief command? It was a simple matter to charge on the advancing columns, and through superiority in number and fresh untired forces render what they had effected of no avail. No. A cloak was laid over the body, and it was conveyed to the rere; part of the guard accompanied it, and the rest soon followed.

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The historians do not agree on the final resting-place of the body of the gallant but ill-advised Frenchman, but the probability is that it was conveyed to Athenry and interred in its roofless church; peace to his memory! [Footnote 35]

[Footnote 35: From the Green Book of Mr. O'Callachan, we extract (abridged) a curious traditional passage connected with the death of St. Ruth. The day before the battle, a neighboring gentlemen, by name O'Kelly, presented himself before him demanding payment of sundry sheep driven off his lands by the soldiers. The general refused, alleging that he should not grudge food to the men who were fighting for him and his country. O'Kelly persisting, the general used harsh language, and the other turning to his herdsman, bade him in Irish to mark St. Ruth and his appearance. "You are robbed, master," said the herd, "but anyhow, ask for the skins." These were needed by the soldiers for bed furniture, and all that master and herd obtained by the second request was a preemptory order to be gone. They obeyed and sought the English general, who recommended them to the care of a certain artillery officer named Trench. When the passage before the castle was made, Trench got his piece of ordinance fixed in an advantageous place on the edge of the marsh by means of planking, and as soon as the treacherous herd caught sight of St. Ruth he cried out, "Take aim! There he is, a man dressed like a bandsman." One wheel of the carriage being lower than was requisite, Trench put his boot under it, and everything being adjusted aim was taken, and O'Kelly and his herd got their revenge, and the favor of the ruling powers.]

However unaccountable it may seem, Sarsfield received no intelligence of St. Ruth's death till it was too late to repair the mischance. Meanwhile the English who had crossed at Aughrim found time to assist their struggling friends in the centre, and the musketeers were gradually driven upward. The main body of Irish infantry on right of the centre were as much discouraged by the death of Rev. Dr. Stafford, an energetic chaplain, as the guards had been by that of the commander-in-chief. The right wing at Urrachree, after incessant fighting, were obliged to retreat before the increasing numbers of their assailants released from duty elsewhere, and the English and Danish cavalry at Urrachree were at leisure to relieve the Huguenot infantry on their right from the fierce attacks of the Irish infantry to whom they had been opposed.

It was now past sunset and the rout of King James's adherents had become general, the last to retreat being the infantry next to Urrachree, who had done such good service against the regiments of La Mellonière, Du Cambon, and Belcassel.

After the Battle.

The infantry fled to the protection of the large red bog on their left, and the cavalry made an orderly retreat south-west, along the road to Loughrea. The poor infantry were slaughtered without mercy by the pursuing cavalry, but a thick mist mercifully sent saved the lives of many. An ingenious diversion in their favor was made by a brave and thoughtful officer of the old race of O'Reilly, who, getting on a small eminence, sounded the charge for battle, and stopped for a few minutes the bloody pursuit. One skilled in the domestic economy of battles may explain why the Irish cavalry did not combine and present a strong and effective obstacle to the English horse, while the poor fellows on foot were getting away under their shelter. The present writer being a mere civilian can allege no sufficient reason. Neither does he seek to excuse the party to whom the garrison in the old castle surrendered. Two thousand living men occupied the premises in the morning, and of these (the few killed excepted) only the commander, Walter Bourke, eleven officers, and forty soldiers, were granted their lives. To account for the absence of mercy on the English side it was asserted that NO QUARTER was among the instructions given to the Irish before the battle. We are not in condition to decide whether the fact was so or not.

The number of killed and wounded on both sides is variously estimated. Story says the Irish loss was 7,000. Others state it at 4,000. Captain Parker, on the English side, says that there were slain of the allied troops, about 3,000. This is a problem in the solution of which we feel no interest. {132} We are gratified by the heroism displayed on both sides, and our gratification would be much enhanced by finding it recorded that when resistance ceased, quarter was generously granted. With few exceptions this was not the case. Ardent partisan as the chaplain was, we are sure that his better feelings were stirred by what he looked on "three days after when all our own and some of theirs were interred."

"I reckoned in some small enclosures 150, in others 120, &c., lying most of them by the ditches where they were shot, and the rest from the top of the hill, where their camp had been, looked like a great flock of sheep, shattered up and down the countrey for almost four miles round."

Were we sure of keeping our temper we would here commence a lay sermon on the iniquity of those, whether emperors, kings, presidents, or evil oouncillors, who for wretched objects, in which vanity or covetousness has chief share, arm myriads of children of the great human family against each others' lives, and feel neither pity nor remorse at the sight of poor naked human remains, flung broadcast over heath, and moors, and hill-sides, like grey stones, or the scattered sheep of our chaplain's illustration.

The English occupiers of the ground after the battle buried only their own dead, unless where the presence of the other bodies interfered with their convenience, and as the inhabitants of the neighborhood had quitted their homes when the expectation of a battle became strong, the bodies of the Irish soldiers remained above ground till nothing but the bones were left. We quote an affecting incident from our chaplain relative to this sad condition of things:

"Many dogges frequented the place long afterwards, and became so fierce by feeding upon man's flesh, that it became dangerous for any single man to pass that way. And there is a true and remarkable story of a greyhound (wolfhound?) belonging to an _Irish_ officer. The gentleman was killed and stripped in the battle, whose body the dog remained by, night and day; and though he fed upon other corps with the rest of the dogs, yet, he would not allow them or anything else to touch that of his master. When all the corps were consumed all the dogs departed, but this used to go in the night to the adjacent villages for food, and presently to return to the place where his master's bones were only then left. And thus he continued till January following, when one of Col. Faulk's soldiers being quartered nigh hand, and going that that way by chance, the dog, fearing he came to disturb his master's bones, flew upon the soldier, who being surprised at the suddenness of the thing, unslung his piece thereupon his back and killed the poor dog."

Though our drama cannot conclude till the articles come to be signed at Limerick, the fight we have endeavored to describe with full justice to both parties, may be considered the catastrophe or _denouement_ of the piece, no engagement of its magnitude or so decisive in its results having taken place afterward.

From Aughrim to Limerick

Sarsfield, at the head of the cavalry and some infantry, proceeded to Limerick after the defeat of Aughrim; D'Usson conducted the main body of the infantry to Galway, before which city De Ginckel arrived on the 20th of the month. D'Usson had but few of the qualities requisite for a good military chief, and negotiations were entered on next day, the Irish evacuating the city, and the English general allowing them to proceed to Limerick with the honors of war, and all the conveniences in his power to afford them.

After Baldearg O'Donnel had much excited the expectations of the country being freed through his valor and wisdom, he is found at this time a mere chief of straggling parties, a greater terror to the natives by their exactions than to the common enemy. He opened a correspondence with the English general, and like some modern patriots was rewarded for the annoyance he had hitherto given the English Government by a valuable pension for life.

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Such was not the system acted on by our brave old acquaintance, Thigue O'Regan, now a knight, and Governor of Sligo. Baldearg having deserted his old-fashioned and loyal associate, Sir Thigue found himself on the 13th of September at the head of 600 men and provided with twelve days' food, the town and part of the citadel in the enemy's hands, and 5,000 fresh men sent against him by Lord Granard ready to smash his fortifications, or starve him into a sense of his condition. The little man of the long periwig, red cloak, and plumed hat, had a head as well as a heart. He capitulated and received all the respect due to loyalty and courage. He and his garrison were conducted out with honor, their twelve days' provisions (their own residue) given them, and all conveniences supplied them for their march to Limerick. To honor the peppery old knight, the same terms were granted to all the little garrisons in that country.

Omitting negotiations, marches, and petty affairs, important only to those concerned, we come to De Ginckel's camp at Cariganless (as our chaplain spells the name) in his progress to Limerick. On August 25th, the army left that town.

Limerick's Last Defence.

On the 26th of August the besiegers of Limerick were at their posts, and on the 30th the bombardment commenced. It was so severe and spread such devastation within Irish town that many inhabitants took their beds and migrated to the English town within the arms of the river, and Lords Justices and delicate ladies and sundry lovers of quiet set up their rest two miles inland in Clare. On the 10th of September forty yards of the defending wall of English town were reduced to rubbish, but the arm of the river was in the way, and no assault followed.

September 15th a bridge of boats was laid across the Shannon toward Annabeg, and a large detachment of English horse and foot crossed to the right bank of the Shannon. These took up their station beyond Thomond-bridge, the Irish cavalry, whose place that was, being obliged to remove to Sixmile-bridge. The laying of the bridge and the passage of the detachment were effected through the gross negligence or treachery of Brigadier Clifford, who was tried by a court martial for the offence. He acknowledged the negligence, but stoutly denied the treason. Colonel Henry Luttrell [Footnote 36] proved traitor without any doubt, and was kept close prisoner till King James's will could be ascertained. Before that time came the fortress was given up and Luttrell set at liberty. England rewarded him for his intentions; and his name has since been a word of ill-omen in the mouths of the Irish peasantry.

[Footnote 36: This is the same Colonel Luttrell who sold the pass at Aughrim, as before mentioned. Ed. C. W.]

22d. De Ginckel attacked the Irish post on the Clare side of Thomond-bridge. The three regiments of Kirke, Tiffin, and Lord George Hamilton, overpowered Colonel Lacy with his 700 men, and when these sought shelter in the city, they found themselves shut out by the town major, a Frenchman, who feared that the foes would enter pell-mell with the friends. Little quarter was given, and only 130 got the privilege of being made prisoners of war. This is one of those instances in which the Irish party suffered so fatally from the treachery or detestable negligence of some among themselves.

The Duke of Tyrconnel died at the residence of D'Usson during the siege.

This was the last trial of arms between the friends of William and James in Ireland. Next day a truce was agreed on and preliminaries of peace commenced. With the "Conditions of Limerick," a dismal household word with the peasantry of Ireland from that hour to the present, we shall not meddle. They do not come within our scope, which merely embraces the stirring events of the three years' campaign, our design being to present these in a picturesque and interesting light, and in a spirit of genuine impartiality. This being our design, we have seized on everything that could reflect honor or credit on the chiefs of both parties, or the conduct of the common soldiers. We have found much more rancor and want of humanity distinguishing both parties, the military chiefs excepted, then we could wish. These we have softened as much as truth would permit. No one reading our sketches but will, as we hope, think better of the party whose principles he repudiates, than he did before the perusal.

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Original

Asperges Me.

by Richard Storrs Willis.

I

Prostrate at thy altar kneeling, Not a thought or fault concealing, Hear me cry with inmost feeling, _Domine, asperges me!_ Ah! What sins I come confessing, Since I last received thy blessing! Yet with all this guilt oppressing, Still I pled _asperges me!_

II

Sins of thought, of word, of action, Many a righteous law's infraction, Many an hour of wild distraction-- _Domine, asperges me!_ Oft I think can Christ forgive me-- With such guilt can he receive me? What if my fond heart deceive me-- _Dare_ I plead _asperges me!_

III

Come I must, for thou dost bid me! Ne'er for coming hast thou chid me! From my guilt, ah! quickly rid me-- _Domine, asperges me!_ That my heavy heart grow lighter. That my love for thee burn brighter, That my soul than snow grow whiter, _Domine, asperges me!_

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From The Month.

Ancor-Viat--A New Giant City.

If any would-be discoverer of ancient monuments is envious of the laurels of Mr. Layard and other celebrities of the same class, let him at once set out by the overland route, and make his way as fast as he can to Ancor-Viat. Few people have yet heard of it, but if what is said of it be true, it must be simply the most stupendous collection of magnificent monuments in the world. If the traveller in Central America, who, like Mr. Stephens, quits the beaten tracks and plunges into the depths of vast forests, is amazed at the ruins of Copan, Palenque, Uxmal, and Chichen, with their huge truncated pyramids, palaces, corridors, and sculptured bas-reliefs, he would, it seems, be still more surprised if he extended his researches to the Empire of Annam, and, advancing toward the utmost boundary of Cambodia, where it skirts Thibet, he came, mounted on an elephant, to the gigantic temples and forests of marble pillars which mark the site of which we speak. It was thus that a French officer in the service of the King of Siam recently visited the spot; and the account he has given of it may be found in the Revue de l'Architecture, and is in great part reproduced in the Revue Contemporaine of December, 1866. No European writer before him has ever mentioned it, and in reading his letters we must make allowances for possible exaggeration. He is a mandarin of the third class, and has obtained the rank of general in command of the Siamese army. M. Perrin (for such is his name) proposes revisiting Ancor-Viat with a complete photographic apparatus; and when he has done this, and had given us the pleasure of examining his photographs, we shall be better able to judge of his veracity. Meanwhile the editor of the Revue Contemporaine is of opinion that the clearness and simplicity of his account leaves little room for doubting its truth.

When M. Perrin first visited Ancor-Viat, he saw nothing of its ancient splendor; for in "Indian China," as in Central America, monuments of large dimensions and great beauty are often unknown to the people who dwell within a few hundred yards of them. The concourse of intelligent and wealthy travellers alone teaches ignorant natives the value of their own surroundings. On his second journey M. Perrin's attention was directed to the ruins by a curious circumstance. The King of Kokien pays a yearly tribute to the King of Siam in kind, and among the articles saltpetre figures largely. In the whole of India beyond the Ganges--in the Birman Empire, Siam, Malacca, and Annam--the people, children-like, have a passion for fireworks, and consequently consume a large quantity of saltpetre. Now the excrement of bats and night-birds that haunt in great abundance the cities of the dead furnishes, it seems, a copious supply of this substance, and is, in fact, as fruitful in the production of squibs and rockets as guano--the dung of Peruvian sea-birds--is in the cultivation of corn and rye. It is collected by malefactors who work in chains, and is dissolved in water mixed with ashes. After some days the water and ashes, with the macerated dung strongly impregnated with ammonia, is passed through tight sieves, and exposed in big caldrons to the action of huge fires. {136} The entire substance then evaporates leaving behind it crystals of saltpetre. The East was famous of old for the manufacture of nitre; and we have all have noticed how it forms spontaneously on the walls of stables, slaughter-houses, cellars, and the like, from the decomposition of animal matter, and even from the breath and sweat of beasts.

No wonder M. Perrin was struck as a foreigner by the strange spectacle of convicts collecting bird-dung. The birds of night have a strong affinity for ruins, and crumbling towers and terraces are--to use an expression of Virgil's--

"Dirarum nidis domus opportuna volucrum."

It was along the northern part of the great city of Ancor-Viat that M. Perrin halted frequently to watch the culprits of Cambodia plying their foul task. During six days of elephant march he travelled on without coming to the end of the city. Here and there be penetrated into the ruins where explorers had opened a passage. No one, he says, would believe him if he told all be saw. The monuments, the palaces, the temples, the pillars, stairs, and blocks of marble pass description. The circle of the ruins was computed by the people of the country at ten or twelve leagues in diameter. Now considering that London, with its three millions of inhabitants, measures about eleven miles from east to west, and that Ancor-Viat by this calculation covered about three times as much ground, there must have been a pretty large concourse of human beings under the shadow of its colossal halls. It may have been the capital of an empire; it may have been an empire in itself. There, doubtless, as in the ancient cities of Mexico, the rich and the great dwelt in spacious edifices, with gardens and groves enclosed, while the poorer sort herded together in huts like those of the rudest tribes of Indians. There were no parliaments and philanthropic societies then to look after the dwellings of the poor; as space was no object in those days, they made up for straitened accommodation at home by plenty of spare room for building within the walls. Subaltern officers in the British army in Ceylon, who have surveyed that island of late years, report cities of enormous size, and covered in with jungle, as inviting excavation. Anarajaphpoorra, they tell us, must have been larger than London, and Polonarooa (be indulgent to the spelling, ye students of Cingalee!) contains statues of Anak height. The recumbent Buddha in the last of these two cities is 24 feet in length, and the Buddhist temples, built of a kind of granite, are huge in proportion. What bullock-power and elephant-power it must have required to move blocks of stone so unwieldy in an age when machinery and engineering were unknown! What thews must these Titans have had, before the time of eastern effeminacy, to build their towers of uncemented ashlars piled up like "Pelion upon Ossa"! M. Perrin assures us that he saw in Ancor-Viat temples in a good state of preservation, but overrun with weeds and shrubs, which measured a league in circuit. Pillars rose around him on every side, tall as cedars, and all in marble. The stairs, though partly buried under the soil, still mounted much higher than the noble flights one sees at Versailles or on the Piazza di Spagna at Rome. The buildings in some places were as solid as if they had been raised yesterday. According to local tradition, they are four or five thousand years old; and yet, but for lightning and the overgrowth of luxuriant vegetation, they would even at this day be perfect and intact. "Oh! that I had brought a photographic apparatus with me!" exclaims this traveller. "I assure you, whether you believe it or no, that the most famous monuments ancient or modern which we can boast of are mere sheds compared with what I have seen: our palaces, our basilicas, the Vatican, Colosseum, and the like, are just dog-kennels to it, and nothing more!"

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If we had never heard of the Indian cities of Central America which the tribes are supposed to have deserted six or seven hundred years ago, when warned by their priests of the coming of the Spaniards, we might feel disposed to reject M. Perrin's account as no less fabulous than the travels of Baron Munchausen. But when we follow the steps of Captain Del Rio and Captain Du Paix, and still more those of Mr. Stephens in Chiapas and Yucatan; when we see them working their way through dense forests in Honduras with fire and axe, and arriving at a wall six hundred feet long and from sixty to ninety in height, forming one side of an oblong enclosure called the Temple, while the other three sides are formed by a succession of pyramids and terraced walls that measure from thirty to a hundred and forty feet in height, we are not easily repelled by any report of ancient cities merely because the measurements in it run very high. There was a phase in the history of civilization when half barbarous races who knew not the use of iron, delighted in constructing lasting monuments, and made up for beauty of detail by huge proportions, and for writing and hieroglyphics by picture-painting. M. Perrin may be guilty of great exaggeration, but we ought not to charge him with it too hastily. Modern research has more than verified all that the Spaniards vaguely reported of the cities of the West, where immense artificial mounds are crowned with stately palaces, and the dauntless industry of former races is proved by the provision they made for water supply in a dry and thirsty land--by the vast reservoirs for water which have been excavated, and are found to be paved and lined with stone--by the pits around the ponds intended to furnish supplies or water when the upper basin was empty in the height of summer--by the wells hidden deep in the rock, and reached by the patient water-carriers by pathways cut in the mountain to a depth or 450 feet, and conducting them to that depth by windings 1400 feet in length--by the long ladders, made of rough rounds of wood and bound together with osiers, up which the Indians carried, and still carry, on their backs from these deep sources the water requisite for the consumption of 7,000 persons or more, according to the size of the villages, during four months of the year--and by the subterranean chambers, which the Indians of old probably used as granaries for maize, and which were made, like the ingenious cisterns just spoken of, by slaves obedient to more intelligent masters. These and similar discoveries in America add a color of probability to the description M. Perrin has given of Ancor-Viat in Asia. At the same time we would rather he had not forgotten his photographic machine.

"I was anxious," he says, "to ascend to a temple that seemed tolerably perfect. There were eleven staircases, of I know not how many stairs each, to reach the first five only of peristyles! I began climbing at half-past six in the morning, and at half-past seven I had barely been able to examine two or three of the lower apartments. I was obliged to shorten my stay, fearing that I should have to descend the stairs while the sun was hot. All the walls are sculptured and ornamented. The first effect the ruins produced on me was that of stupefaction. Yet I am not a man to cry out with astonishment at trifles. The following day I went up by a winding staircase to the top of an immense tower situated on a height, from whence I enjoyed a good view of the surrounding remains. In hollows and parts where one cannot penetrate there are palaces of colossal height and grandeur. I had an excellent opera-glass, and could observe the details. An untold store of architectural treasures was before me, stretching as far as the frontier of Cambodia, which is ten or twelve leagues off! Just think what Paris would be in ruins. Heaps of stones and ashlars scattered over a surface no more than two or three leagues in diameter. Here there is on the ground, and under the ground, marble, already hewn, enough to build after the fashion of giants all the cities in the universe!"

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This is indeed a climax; and one needs to pause and take breath before following M. Perrin any further up his winding stairs. Can we attach any credit to one who is so lavish in the use of words and figures? He has evidently a supreme disregard for nice distinctions, and ordinary measures of time and place. Marble enough in Ancor-Viat to build all the cities in the world? _C'est un peu fort, M. Perrin._ But let us hear him to the end. We can believe a good deal about cities excavated or still underground, for we have seen several such with our own eyes; but credulity itself has its limits. "I saw," M. Perrin continues, "the leg of a statue the great toe of which measured eleven times my fowling-piece in the length. It is in marble, like the rest of the figure; there is no other stones here used for building, except colored stones, which are employed as borders or for the eyes of statues. There are pedestals with flights of steps, of which the crowning images have disappeared, as high and as large as St. Germain l'Auxerrois. Fancy octagonal pyramids cut short at half their proper height--all in marble, recollect. Who the devil raised all this? If it was some famous dynasty, it cannot be very well satisfied with the oblivion into which it has fallen, in spite of its sumptuous monuments. What are the ruins of Palenque, or even Thebes with its hundred gates, or of Babylon, compared with this unknown city without history and without name?"

Now, setting aside Thebes and Babylon, it may be well to compare what we really know of Palenque with the general's singular account of Ancor-Viat. It is more than a hundred years since the Spaniards first heard of it from the Indians, and the reports of its extent differ as widely now as they did then. The natives say the ruins cover an area of sixty miles; Du Paix and Del Rio seven leagues; and Waldeck about three miles. But though travellers are not agreed as to their extent, they are quite unanimous as to the remains themselves. All admit that they are "unique, extraordinary, and mournfully beautiful." The largest building is on a mound forty feet high, raised by the hands of man, originally faced with stones, and measuring 310 feet by 260 at the base. It is richly adorned with paintings in the style proper to the ancient cities of Mexico; the corridors are sumptuous, the flights of steps broad, and the figures of giant proportions, uncouth and expressive of suffering. The tallest statue, however, that has been discovered is only ten feet six inches high, by which it appears that the stone figures of Mexican Indians were dwarfish compared with the huge heroes and idols of the East. M. Perrin had been questioned about the existence of religious monuments in the eastern Peninsula of India, and the answers which he returned are as follows: "Sacred stones are found here. Some of them are simply rocks which at some period or other were sufficiently soft to receive very clearly the impressions of the feet of men and animals. Of this sort the one most highly venerated is that of the Buddhist monastery at Phrabat. An immense number of pilgrims visit it annually. Others are enormous monoliths raised on socles roughly quarried. If there ever were any inscriptions, they have been effaced. I have also seen here gateways or arches of triumph built of huge stones laid one upon another. What giants or what machines moved these immense blocks? They stand alone. Not a vestige of any building is near them. Sometimes there are not even any quarries to be found within a great distance. I saw two such monuments as those I now speak of among the Stiengs, when I conducted a military expedition against them. They stood in the midst of marshy and almost impassable forests, and had certainly never before been seen by any European. {139} Some of the people of Laos had spoken to me of these remains, but I very nearly missed seeing them. The difficulties in the way of getting to them were so great that at first I did not think they would be worth the trouble. But they amply repaid me. I examined them most carefully with a powerful glass. They did not appear to bear any inscriptions. Even the luxuriant vegetation of the tropics had been unable to disjoint them. What roots could rend asunder these stones laid one upon the other without cement, and raise so heavy a weight? The side-supports were, I believe, as high as the top-stone laid across was long. The soil is evidently raised by the vigorous growth that marks the vegetation of these forests. These remains must rest on monolith socles or on the rock, or on gigantic foundations; for the ground on the surface is so soft and wet that you may easily thrust a cane into it up to the handle."

When M. Perrin inquired of the natives who reared these monuments, they replied the Gai; and by the Gai they meant some barbarous white men, who came from the land of perpetual snow, who were as tall as three Siamese, and whose fingers and toes, though articulated, were not separate from one another. They rode on horses double the size of those now seen, but bones of which are often found in the earth. Impious men were these Gai; they hunted elephants, and feasted on their flesh; they offered sacrifices of blood to their gods. Chinese merchants informed the general that monuments of the same huge description are to be found in the north and west of China, and that the people there call them "giants' stones." The traveller in Central America is, we know, sometimes amazed to find monstrous blocks evidently hewn by the hands of men, yet hundreds of leagues distant from any calcareous strata. Men in the neighborhood who are learned in other matters are quite at fault when their opinion respecting them is asked. Some will tell you that the nature of the soil is changed from what it was before the conquest, and others that the Incas had means of transport unknown to us. Probably there are quarries of granite under the surface of the savannas; but how the Indians could extract the stone without gunpowder or machinery is a problem we are unable to solve.

Important discoveries are not always due to scientific and discerning men. The earliest accounts of anything new and surprising are likely to be overdrawn; but they are not the less valuable from this circumstance. Their very exaggeration may stimulate inquiry, and thus be an advantage rather than otherwise in the outset. It was a poor Tungusian fisherman who discovered the most perfect specimen of the mammoth near the mouth of the river Lena, nearly seventy years ago, and his sale of the creature's tusks for fifty rubles led to an accurate knowledge of the monster's structure and habits, as well as to a great extension of the trade in ivory derived from mammoths' tusks. General Perrin's testimony appears to us well worthy of attention, in spite of its being highly colored here and there. It may, on the whole, fall far short of the reality, and may lead to the solution of questions of importance in oriental history.

Original

On the Planting of the Cross.

Dig deep: the tree will surely grow, And spread its branches far and wide; No tree had e'er such fruit to show, Nor with its shade so much to hide.

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Miscellany.

_The Cathedral Library at Cologne._--In the year 1794, when the French Revolutionary army advanced to the Rhine, the valuable library attached to the Cologne Cathedral was conveyed for safety to Darmstadt. Among its treasures are one hundred and ninety volumes, chiefly in manuscript. A careful catalogue of them was made so far back as 1752, by Harzheim, a learned Jesuit, under the title of "An Historical and Critical Catalogue of the Manuscripts of the Library of the Metropolitan Church of Cologne." This valuable collection dates as far back as Charlemagne. It was commenced by Hildebold, Archbishop of Cologne, and archchancellor of that monarch, in the year 783. It was considerably increased by gifts from Pope Leo the Third to the Emperor Charles in 804. The Archbishops Heribertus, Evergerus, Hanno, and their successors, continued the collection by the purchase of rare manuscripts and copies of ancient parchments. In the year 1568, Hiltorp, in the preface of his work "On Divine Offices," dedicated to Archbishop Salentin, alludes more than once to this rare collection. We might quote many other authorities to authenticate the manuscripts. Jacob Pamelius, in a work published at Cologne in 1577, entitled "The Liturgy of the Latin Church" (who is quoted by Harzheim in his book "The old Codexes of Cologne"), distinctly gives their date and origin. The collection consists of eight parts, namely: 1. Bibles; 2. The Fathers; 3. Ecclesiastical Law; 4. Writers on Sacrifices, Sacraments, Offices of the Church, and Liturgies; 5. Histories; 6. Ascetics; 7. Scholastics; 8. Philosophical, Rhetorical, and Grammatical writers. Some of these manuscripts are richly illuminated, and some set with precious stones. The first codex dates from the ninth century, if not earlier, which is indicated by the capital letters, which are in gold. The seventh codex contains the Gallic, Roman, Hebrew, and Greek Psalmody, as edited by St. Jerome--"a most rare and valuable codex." The twelfth codex, in elegant folio, adorned with many illuminations and annotations of the eighth century, comprises the four Gospels. Codex one hundred and forty-three deserves particular mention. As frontispiece, there is a portrait of Archbishop Evergerus in his episcopal robes. It is richly illuminated and set with jewels. The above quotations, which we have translated from the Latin, in which language the catalogue is written, will suffice to give such of our readers as are bibliophiles some idea of a treasures which will shortly be restored to the shelves of the library attached to the Cologne Cathedral. We may mention another restoration which is on the eve of accomplishment. The celebrated collection of pictures, known as the Dusseldorf collection, will shortly be returned to Prussia, negotiations having already commenced for that purpose. The collection, which comprises some of the finest specimens of the German and Dutch schools, is at present at Munich.--_All the Year Round_.

_On the Movements of the Heart_.--In a recent memoir Dr. Sibson describes his experiments on the movements of the heart, which were made on the ass under the influence of wourali, and on dogs subjected to chloroform. He found that the contraction of the ventricles takes please in every direction toward a region of rest, which in the right ventricle corresponds with the anterior papillary muscle in the left ventricle, with a situation about midway between apex and base. Simultaneously with the universal contraction of the ventricles there is universal distention of both auricles, the pulmonary artery, and the aortae. The total amount of blood contained in the heart and great vessels is the same during both systole and diastole. During the ventricular contraction, however, the distribution of the blood, lessened toward the region of the apex, balances itself by being increased in that of the base, since the auricles and great vessels are enlarged, not only toward the ventricles, but also outward and upward. During ventricular dilatation the reverse takes place.

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_The Physics of a Meteorite_.-In a recent note in the proceedings of the Royal Society, the Rev. Samuel Haughton, of Trinity College, Dublin, gives a very graphic account of the fall of an aërolite. The fire-ball was seen by two peasants, who have given the following written statement of their observations; and since the facts described by these ignorant men correspond exactly with the facts theoretically believed to present themselves, we think the description of the highest interest. It is headed, The Statement of Eye-witnesses, and runs as follows: "I, John Johnson, of the parish of Clonoulty, near Cashel, Tipperary, was walking across my potato-garden at the back of my house, in company with Michael Falvy and William Furlong, on August 12, 1865, at 7 P.M., when I heard a clap, like the shot out of a cannon, very quick and not like thunder; this was followed by a buzzing noise, which continued for about a quarter of an hour, when it came over our heads, and, looking up, we saw an object falling down in a slanting direction; we were frightened at the speed, which was so great that we could scarcely notice it; but after it fell we proceeded to look for it, and found it at a distance of forty yards, half buried in the ground, where it had struck the top of a potato-drill. We were some time looking for it (a longer time than that during which we heard the noise). On taking up the stone we found it warm (milk warm), but not enough to be inconvenient. The next day it was given up to Lord Hawarden."--_Popular Science Review_.

_The Earth and Moon in Collision_.--Mr. James Croll, who some time since asserted that, owing to peculiar solar and lunar action, the above extraordinary condition will eventually take place, has just published a paper reasserting the truth of his proposition. The theory was opposed by the astronomer royal and Professor William Thomson, who showed that, owing to the position of the tidal wave, the moon is drawn not exactly in the direction of the earth's centre of gravity, but a little to the east of that centre, and that in consequence of this she is made to recede from the earth. Her orbit is enlarged and her angular motion diminished. This argument does not, in Mr. Croll's opinion, affect his view. The conditions described by Professor Thomson and the astronomer royal do not in the least degree prevent the consumption of the _vis viva_ of the earth's motion round the common centre of gravity, although to a certain extent, at least, it must prevent this consumption from diminishing the moon's distance, and increasing her angular motion. But as this consumption of _vis viva_ will go on through indefinite ages, if the present order of things remains unchanged, the earth and the moon must therefore ultimately come together.--_Ibid_.

[Transcribers note: The moon is _receding_ from the earth at about 4 cm. per year, based on _lunar laser ranging_ (2015).]

_Sanskrit Library_.--Prof. Goldstücker lately communicated to a scientific meeting at London the intelligence he had received from Lahore of the existence in that city of a most extensive Sanskrit Library in the possession of Pandit Radha Kishen. From an examination of the catalogue that had been sent to him, he was able to state that that library contained a great many rare and valuable works, some of which had hitherto been supposed to be lost. He had also been promised catalogues of similar collections of Sanskrit MS. in other parts or India, of the contents of which he would keep the Society informed as they came to hand. The paper read was by Prof. Max Müller, "On the Hymns of the Gaupàyanas, and the Legend of King Asamâti." After some remarks on the proper use to be made of Sanskrit MSS., in general, and on the principles of criticism by which the writer was guided in his edition of Sàyana's Commentary on the Rig-veda, he proceeded to show by an example the characters of the three classes of MSS. he had made use of, and the manner in which the growth of legends was favored by the traditional interpretation of the Vedic Hymns. He had selected for this purpose the four hymns of the Gaupâyanas (Mandala x., 57-60), and the Legend of King Asamâti quoted by Sàyana in explanation of them; and then related the latter, according to the various forms in which it has been handed down to us, from the simple account given in the Tàndya Brahmana and Katyàyana's Sarvânukrama, to the more expanded one in the Satyâyanaka Brahmana, the Brehaddevatà and the Nitiananjarî. He then gives a double translation of the hymns in question--one in strict conformity to Sàyana's interpretation, and another in accordance with his own principles of translation--the latter as a specimen of what he intends to give in his forthcoming translation of the whole of the Rig-veda. {142} The writer concluded with a _resumé_ of the different points of interest which these hymns, though by no means fair specimens of the best religious poetry of the Brahmans, present; the healing powers of the hands, the constant dwelling on divinities which govern the life of man, and the clear conception of a soul as separate from the body--of a soul after death going to Yama Vanasvata, the ruler of the departed, or hovering about heaven or earth ready to be called back to a new life.--_Ibid_

Original

New Publications.

A Conversation on Union Among Christians; The Gospels Door of Mercy; What Shall I do to Become a Christian? The Church and Children; A Voice In The Night, Or Lessons of the Sick Room; The Gospel Church; Who is Jesus Christ?

Tracts Nos. 13-19; Catholic Publication Society, 145 Nassau St., New-York

The number of Tracts issued and distributed by the Catholic Publication Society through direct sales and the aid of auxiliary societies is so great that its noble and zealous project must, by this time, have become a subject of interest to every Catholic in the country. It is hardly one year since the first steps were taken to establish it, and already over _half a million_ Tracts have been distributed through the length and breadth of the land. This distribution goes on increasing; that made in the month of February alone amounted to _seventy-five thousand_. Large orders are constantly coming in for the books and tracts issued by the Society from the Rt. Rev. Bishops, the Rev. Clergy, and zealous laymen of every condition of life.

Encouraged by these marks of universal approbation, and accredited with the high sanction of our late Plenary Council, the Society will enter upon its work this spring, upon a scale commensurate with the increasing demands made upon it for its publications and the magnitude of its enterprise. A Publication House will be obtained, supplied with its own types and presses and bindery, which will enable it to conduct its operations with greater rapidity, and furnish its publications at the lowest possible cost. Not a few have expressed themselves surprised at its present unparalleled success, and are anxious to know by what means so much has been accomplished in so short a time.

For the information of the readers of the CATHOLIC WORLD, who, we are sure, are all deeply interested in the work, it may be stated that a good fund was contributed by a number of wealthy gentlemen, principally in New York, that enabled it to begin its work, and which has been increased by the proceeds of lectures delivered in the diocese of Boston, Albany, and New-York, the aid of auxiliary societies, and the sales of tracts and books.

It cannot be denied that within even the last five years, our holy religion has made great advances in the spiritual care of its own children, in the multiplication of churches, the foundation of seminaries for the priesthood, the greater interest shown in the working of Sunday schools and religious associations of both sexes, as well as in the numerous conversions that have been made from the different denominations of Protestants, and in the earnest consideration of the claims of the Catholic Church manifested by the people of our country, of whom so many have hitherto been either indifferent to, or ignorant of it.

The Catholic Publication Society being by its very character a ready arm for the diffusion of Catholic truth, must therefore commend itself to the warmest sympathies and generous co-operation of every Catholic who rejoices to see his holy faith spreading abroad and winning a multitude of souls to a knowledge of Christian truth and the practice of Christian virtues. In fact, the Society owes its existence to the ardently cherished wish of a large class for such an organization, which found an almost simultaneous expression. {143} Letters of encouragement and inquiry are being constantly received from the venerable bishops and clergy, heads of literary and benevolent associations, superintendents of Sunday-schools, and from different individuals in the humblest walks of life. The news of the enterprise has even penetrated to some of the most distant parts of the world; as is shown by a letter of sympathy containing an offer of inter-communion sent to the Society by a zealous priest in Bombay, India, who had started a Publication Society in that far-off city.

It may not be judged out of place to repeat here the article of the constitution referring to the conditions of membership. It will show any of our readers who desire to become copartners in this great work, and thereby secure for themselves the blessing of having aided in the "instruction of many unto salvation," how they may practically bring that aid to bear upon the realization of their pious desires.

"Any person paying, at one time, one hundred dollars into the treasury of the Society, may by request, become a 'Patron,' and shall be entitled to receive three dollars' worth of the Society's publications annually.

"Any person paying fifty dollars at one time may become a Life Member, and shall be entitled to receive two dollars' worth of the Society's publications annually.

"Any person paying thirty dollars may become a member for five years, and shall be entitled to receive one dollar's worth of the Society's publications for five years.

"Persons paying five dollars at one time shall be members for one year, and be entitled to receive of the Society's publications to the value of half a dollar."

It is plain, however, that while many will be found to associate themselves as members of the General Society, in order to carry on the work in other places, auxiliary societies should be formed which receive all the publications at cost price. It is to the rapid formation of these auxiliary associations that those many zealous friends of the work should turn their attention. The same object will also be gained by making it one of the labors of Societies of St. Vincent de Paul, guilds, confraternities, sodalities, and the like.

We have seen many communications in which inquiries have been made in reference to the publication of illustrated tracts and Sunday-school books, and the establishment of a cheap and attractive Sunday-school paper. The Society has all these objects in contemplation, and will proceed to their execution as soon as the Publication House is in operation.

We would suggest, therefore, that each and every one who has this matter at heart, will make personal efforts to aid the Society in the establishment of the Publication House, by sending at once their own names as members with as many more as they can procure, and take measures to found at least one auxiliary society for home distribution in the community where they reside.

Our people have shown the greatest interest in the diffusion of Catholic literature, and are ever ready to make heroic sacrifices, if necessary, for any work of charity; and in the present aspect of affairs it must be evident that one of the most urgent calls upon our Christian zeal and love is that of bringing instruction home to the thousands who need it, and who, experience has proved, receive it gladly. One little thought we cannot refrain from expressing, suggested by a remark made in our hearing, that it will be for us and our children, when time shall show us and them the happy fruits of this truly Apostolic work, a most consoling reflection that we were among those who first encouraged and aided it, and bade it "God speed" as it started upon its high and glorious mission.

L'echo De La France. Revue étrangère de Science et de Littérature. Montreal: Louis Ricard, Directeur.

By the Canadian public and the French-speaking portion of our population of the States, this well-edited eclectic has, we are glad to know, received a hearty welcome and a liberal support. It purposes to afford its readers a choice selection of articles culled from the best European magazines and reviews, chiefly those of France, and it certainly has accomplished its task hitherto with much ability. It is not to everyone we would care to confide the duty of choosing our literary repast from the current literature of the day; and, to anyone at all acquainted with the French periodicals, it must be evident that it would require a caterer, who is himself possessed of high intellectual culture, to make from their pages a judicious and worthy selection of articles suited to the varied tastes of the American literary public. {144} The "Echo de la Franco" is happily conducted by a gentleman upon whose judgment and taste in this matter we can confidently rely, if we may judge from the numbers already issued.

We have only to add that it has our best wishes, and we recommend it especially to the notice of the readers of the CATHOLIC WORLD who are acquainted with the French language.

Practical Hints On The Art Of Illumination. By Alice Donlevy. New-York: A. D. F. Randolph. 1867.

Together with this useful and elegant publication we have received a set of plates, designed by the same author, to illustrate the poem of Miss Rossetti, called "Consider."

The work is intended, as we are told in its preface, to instruct those who wish to study illumination; to assist those who, having commenced, find many stumbling-blocks in the way, and require aid in the minutiae of the art; to furnish those who can paint, yet are unable to design with outlines, to illuminate, etc. This beautiful art is fast becoming with our young people a favorite recreation, and, with not a few, a remunerative study. To such as desire to engage in its pursuit, whether for pleasure or profit, we heartily recommend this volume as one calculated to give them much desirable information on the subject.

Three Phases of Christian Love, By Lady Herbert. L. Kehoe. 1867.

We have received advanced sheets of this volume, which is to be presented to the public in a few days. It is not our purpose to speak of it at length in this place, but reserve it for a more extended and appreciative review which we hope to give of it in the future pages of the CATHOLIC WORLD.

It is a remarkable book; the purity and beauty of its style fitly according with the saintly biographies which the distinguished authoress has so happily chosen to illustrate the three phases of a Christian woman's life and love. We have given as the life of St. Monica as the mother; of Victorine de Galard Terraube, a young French lady of rank, as the maiden; and of the Venerable Mère Devos, superior of the Sisters of Charity, as the religious. It is a book we would wish to see placed in the hands of every woman in our country; for, whatever be her position in society, or whichsoever state of life she may have chosen, she will find in it an example of high Christian and womanly perfection, the view of which must claim her homage, and in turn exalt and refine her own character.

Mr. Kehoe, in republishing Bentley's superb English edition, offers us a volume of equal beauty and finish. As a publication it must claim the attention of every connoisseur and lover of first-class books.

Lauretta and the Fables, Compiled by the author of Philip Hartley, etc.

Alice; or, The Rose of the Black Forest. By the author of Grace Morton, etc.

Three Petitions. A tale of Poland and Trevor Hall. A Christmas story.

Conrad and Gertrude: the Little Wanderers. Peter F. Cunningham, Catholic Bookseller, Philadelphia.

These four 16mo volumes form a very acceptable addition to our list of Catholic tales for children. Their appearance is creditable to the publisher. We hope those who have ability and leisure will furnish a larger number of such stories for Sunday-school libraries.

Books Received.

From Leypoldt & Holt. New-York.

The Journal of Maurice de Guérin, with an essay by Matthew Arnold, and a memoir by Sainte-Beuve. Edited by G. S. Trebutien. Translated by Edward Thornton Fisher. 1 vol. 12mo., pp. 153. Price $1.25.

Easy German Reading after a New System, by George Storme. Revised by Edward A. Open. 1 vol. l2mo, pp.206. Price $1.

From P. F. Cunningham. Philadelphia.

Conrad and Gertrude; The Three Petitions, a Tale of Poland; Alice, or the Rose of the Black Forest; Lauretta and the Fables. 4 vols. of the Young Catholics Library, pp. 143, 141, 124, 126 Price 50 cents each.

From D. Appleton, New-York.

The Merchant of Berlin; an Historical Novel L. Mühlbach. Translated from the German by Amory Coflin, M.D. pp. 394. Price $2.

Berlin and San Souci; or, Frederick the Great and Friends. An Historical Romance. By L. Mühlbach. Translated from the German by Mrs. Chapman and her daughters. pp. 391. Price $2.

From J. J. O'Connor & Co., Newark.

The exclusion of Protestant Worship from the City of Rome. By the Rev. George H, Doane, pastor of St. Patrick's Cathedral, Newark, N.J. Pamphlets. Price 20 cents.

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The Catholic World.

Vol. V., No. 26.--May, 1867.

Original.

An Old Quarrel.

Those of our readers who have studied with the care their importance demands the papers on the "Problems of the Age" which have appeared in this magazine, can not have failed to perceive that the great questions now in discussion between Catholics and non-Catholics lie, for the most part, in the field of philosophy, and require for their solution a broader and profounder philosophy than any which obtains general currency outside of the church. We think, also, that no one can read and understand them without finding the elements or fundamental principles of a really Catholic philosophy, which, while it rests on scientific truth for its basis, enables us to see the innate correspondence or harmony of reason and faith, science and revelation, and nature and grace--the principles of a philosophy, too, that is no modern invention or new-fangled theory which is brought forward to meet a present emergency, but in substance the very philosophy that has always been held by the great fathers and doctors of the church, and professed in Catholic schools and seminaries.

Yet there is one point which the writer necessarily touches upon and demonstrates as far as necessary to his purpose, which was theological rather than purely philosophical, that, without interfering in the least with his argument, already complete, may admit of a more special treatment and further development. We refer to the objectivity and reality of ideas. The reader acquainted with the history of philosophy in the middle ages will perceive at once that the question of the reality of ideas asserted by the writer takes up the subject-matter of the old quarrel of the nominalists, conceptualists, and realists, provoked by the Proslogium of St. Anselm, archbishop of Canterbury, in the eleventh century, really one of the profoundest thinkers, greatest theologians, and ingenious philosophers of any age.

St. Anselm wished to render an account to himself of his faith, and to know and understand the reasons for believing in God. He did not doubt the existence of God; he indeed held that God cannot be thought not to be; he did not seek to know the arguments which prove that God is, that he might believe, but that he might the better know and understand what he already believed. {146} Thus he says: "Necque enim quero intelligere ut credam, sed credo ut intelligam. Nam et hoc credo quia nisi credidero, non intelligam." We believe that we may understand, and we cannot understand unless we believe--a great truth which modern speculators do not recognize. They reverse the process, and seek to know that they may believe, and hold that the first step to knowledge is to doubt or to deny.

In his Monologium, St. Anselm had proved that God is, and determined his attributes by way of induction from the ideas in the human mind, but it would seem not wholly to his satisfaction, or, at least, that in writing that work he discovered, or thought he discovered, a briefer and more conclusive, method of demonstrating that God is. He had already proved by psychological analysis, in the way Cousin and others have since done, that the human mind thinks most perfect being, a greater than which cannot be thought. This he had done in his Monologium. In his Proslogium he starts with this idea, that of _ens perfectissimum_, which is, in fact, the idea of God. "The fool says in his heart there is no God;" not because he has no idea of God, not because he does not think most perfect being, a greater than which cannot be thought, but because he does not understand that, if he thinks it, such being really is. It is greater and more perfect to be _in re_ than it is to be only _in intellectu_, and therefore the most perfect being existing only in the mind is not a greater than which cannot be thought, for I can think most perfect existing _in re_. Moreover, if most perfect being does not exist _in re_, my thought is greater and more perfect than reality, and consequently I can rise above God, and judge him, _quod valde est absurdum_.

Leibnitz somewhere remarks that this argument is conclusive, if we first prove that most perfect being is possible; but Leibnitz should have remembered that the argument _ab esse ad posse_ is always valid, and that God is both his own possibility and reality. Cousin accepts the argument, and says St. Anselm robbed Descartes of the glory of having produced it. But it is evident to every philosophical student that the validity of the argument, if valid it is, depends on the fact that ideas are objective and real, that is, depends on the identity of the ideal and the real.

Roscelinus, or Rosceline, did not concede this, and pronounced the argument of St. Anselm worthless. Confounding, it would seem, ideas with universals, he denied their reality, and maintained that they are mere words without anything either in the mind or out of it to respond to them, and thus founded Nominalism, substantially what is now called materialism. He rejects the universals and the categories of the peripatetics, and recognizes only individual existences and words, which words, when not the names of individual things, are void of meaning. Hence he denied the whole ideal or intelligible world, and admitted only sensibles. Hobbes and Locke were nominalists, and so is the author of Mill's Logic. Mr. Herbert Spencer is a nominalist, but is better described as an atomist of the school of Leucippus and Democritus, Epicurus and Lucretius. We know very little of Rosceline, except that he lived in the eleventh century, was born in Brittany, the native land of Abelard and Descartes, and incurred, for some of his speculations concerning the Trinity, the censures of the church. None of his writings have come down to us, and we know his doctrine only from the representations of others.

Guillaume de Champeaux, in the following century, who professed philosophy for a time at St. Victor, and was subsequently Archbishop of Paris, is the founder, in the middle ages, of what is called Realism, and which counts among its disciples Duns Scotus and William of Occam. {147} He is said to have maintained the exact opposite of Rosceline's doctrine, and to have held that ideas, or universals, as they then said, are not empty words, but entities, existing _a parte rei_. He held, if we may believe Abelard, that not only genera and species, but such abstractions as whiteness, soundness, squareness, etc., are real entities. But from a passage cited from his writings by Abelard, from which Abelard infers he had changed his doctrine, Cousin, in his Philosophie Scholastique, argues that this must have been an exaggeration and that Guillaume only held that such so-called universals as are really genera and species have an entitative existence. This is most probably the fact; and instead, then, of being driven to change his doctrine from what it was at first, as Abelard boasts, it is most likely that he never held any other doctrine. However this may be, his doctrine, as represented by Abelard, is that which the old realists are generally supposed to have maintained.

Abelard follows Guillaume de Champeaux, with whom he was for the earlier part of his career a contemporary. Confounding, as it would seem, ideas with universals, and universals with abstractions, he denied alike Rosceline's doctrine that they are mere words, and Guillaume de Champeaux's doctrine that they are entities or existences _a parte rei_, and maintained that they are conceptions, really existing _in mente_, but not _in re_. Hence his philosophy is called Conceptualism. He would seem to have held that universals are formed by the mind operating on the concrete objects presented by experience, not, as since maintained by Kant, that they are necessary forms of the understanding. Thus, _humanitas_, humanity, is formed by the mind from the concrete man, or _homo_. There is no humanity _in re_; there are only individual men. In the word humanity the mind expresses the qualities which it observes to be common to all men, without paying attention to any particular man. The idea humanity, then, is simply the abstraction or generalization of these qualities. Abelard, it would appear from this, makes what we call the race a property or quality of individuals, which, of course, excludes the idea of generation. There is, as far as we can see, no essential difference between the conceptualism of Abelard and the nominalism of Rosceline; for, by denying the existence _in re_ of genera and species, and making them only conceptions, it recognizes as really existing only individuals or particulars.

St. Thomas Aquinas, than whom no higher authority in philosophy can be named, and from whose conclusions few who understand them will be disposed to dissent, differs from each of these schools, and maintains that universals are conceptions existing _in mente cum fundamento in re_, or conceptions with a basis in reality, which is true of all abstractions; for the mind can form no conceptions except from objects presented by experience. I could form no conception of whiteness if I had no experience of white things, or of roundness if I had seen nothing round. I imagine a golden mountain, but only on condition that gold and mountain are to me objects of experience. This is certain, and accords with the peripatetic maxim, _Nihil est in intellectu, quod prius non fuerit in sensu_, which Leibnitz would amend by adding, _nisi ipse intellectus_, an amendment which, perhaps, contains in germ the whole Kantian philosophy.

But St. Thomas, as we shall see further on, does not confound ideal with universals, nor does he hold genera and species to be simply the abstraction or generalization of the qualities of individuals or particulars. Genera and species are real, or there could be no generation. But the genus or species does not exist apart from its individualization, or as a separate entity. There are no individuals without the race, and no race without individuals. Thus the whole race was individualized in Adam, so that in his sin all men sinned. {148} But as genera and species, the only real universals, do not exist apart from their particulars, and are distinctly possessed or apprehended only as disengaged from their particulars, which is done only by a mental operation, St. Thomas might say they exist _in mente cum fundamento in re_, without asserting them to be real only as properties or qualities of particulars.

Plato is commonly held to be the father of the ideal philosophy or ideal realism. We know very little of the philosophy that prevailed before him, and cannot say how much of the Platonic philosophy is original with him, or how much of it he took from his predecessors, but he is its originator as far as our knowledge extends. It is from him that we have the word _idea_, and his whole philosophy is said to be in his doctrine of ideas; but what his doctrine of ideas really was is a question. He seems when treating the question, What is it necessary to know in order to have real science? to understand by idea _causa essentialis_, or the thing itself, or what in anything is real, stable, and permanent, in distinction from the sensible, the phenomenal, the variable, and the transitory. The real existence of things is their ideas, and ideas are in the Logos or divine mind. These ideas God impresses on an eternally existing matter, as the seal upon wax, and so impressed they constitute particulars. Aristotle accuses Plato of placing the ideas _extra Deum_, and making them objects of the divine contemplation, but the accusation is not easily sustained; and we think all that Plato does is to represent the ideas as _extra Deum_ only as the idea or design of a picture or a temple in the mind of the artist is distinguishable from the artist himself. But in God all ideas must be eternal, and therefore really his essence, as is maintained by St. Thomas. If this is really Plato's doctrine, it is dualism inasmuch as it asserts the eternity of matter, and pantheism inasmuch as the ideas, the reality of things, are identical with the divine mind, and therefore with God himself. On this doctrine, what is that soul the immortality of which Plato so strenuously maintains? Is it the divine idea, or the copy of the idea on matter?

When treating the question, How we know? Plato seems to understand by ideas not the ideas in the divine mind, but their copies impressed on matter, as the seal on wax. According to him, all knowing is by similitude, and as the idea leaves its exact image or form on matter, so by studying that image or copy we arrive at an exact knowledge of the idea or archetype in the divine mind. This is plain enough; but who are _we_ who study and know? Are we the archetypal idea, or are we its image or copy impressed on matter? Here is the difficulty we find in understanding Plato's doctrine of ideas. According to him all reality is in the idea, and what is not idea is phenomenal, unsubstantial, variable, and evanescent. The impress or copy on matter is not the idea itself, and is no more the thing itself than the reflection I see in a mirror is myself. Plato speaks of the soul as imprisoned in matter, and ascribes all evil to the intractableness of matter. Hence he originates or justifies that false asceticism which treats matter as impure or unclean, and makes the proper discipline of the soul consist in despising and maltreating the body, and in seeking deliverance from it, as if our bodies were not destined to rise again, and, reunited to the soul, to live forever. The real source of Manichaeism is in the Platonic philosophy. We confess that we are not able to make out from Plato a complete, coherent, and self-consistent doctrine of ideas. St. Thomas corrects Plato, and makes ideas the archetypes, exemplars, or models in the divine mind, and identical with the essence of God, after which God creates or may create existences. He holds the idea, as idea, to be _causa exemplaris_, not _causa essentialis_, and thus escapes both pantheism and dualism, and all tendency to either.

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Aristotle, a much more systematic genius, and, in my judgment, a much profounder philosopher than Plato, rejects Plato's doctrine of ideas, and substitutes for them substantial forms, which in his philosophy mean real existences distinct from God; and which are not merely phenomenal, like Plato's copies on wax. True, he, as Plato, recognizes an eternal matter, and makes all existences consist of matter and form. But the matter is purely passive; and, as nothing, according to his philosophy, exists, save in so far as active, it is really nothing, exists only _in potentia ad formam_, and can only mean the ability of God to place existences after the models eternal in his own mind. His philosophy is, at any rate, more easily reconciled with Christian theology than is Plato's.

Yet Aristotle and the schoolmen after him adopt Plato's doctrine that we know by similitude, or by ideas in the sense of images, or representations, interposed between the mind and the object, or thing existing _a parte rei_. They suppose these images, or intelligible species, form a sort of intermediary world, called the _mundus logicus_, distinguished from the _mundus physicus_, or real world, which they are not, but which they image or represent to the understanding. Hence the categories or praedicaments are neither forms of the subject nor forms of the object, but the forms or laws of logic or this intermediary world. Hence has arisen the question whether our knowledge has any objective validity, that is, whether there is any objective reality that responds to the idea. Perhaps it is in this doctrine, misunderstood, that we are to seek the origin of scepticism, which always originates in the speculations of philosophers, never in the plain sense of the people, who never want, when they know, any proof that they know.

This Platonic and peripatetic doctrine, that ideas are not the reality, but, as Locke says, that "with which the understanding is immediately conversant," has been vigorously assailed by the Scottish school, which denies intermediary ideas, and maintains that we perceive directly and immediately things themselves. Still the old doctrine obtains to a very considerable extent, and respectable schools teach that ideas, if not precisely images, are nevertheless representative, and that the idea is the first object of mental apprehension. Balmes never treats ideas as the object existing _in re_, but as its representation to the mind. Hence the importance attached to the question of certainty, or the objective validity of our knowledge, around which Balmes says turn all the questions of philosophy; that is, the great labor of philosophers is to prove that in knowing we know something, or that to know is to know. This is really the _pons asinorum_ of modern philosophy as it was of ancient philosophy: How know I that knowing is knowing, or that in knowing I know? The question as asked is unanswerable and absurd, for I have only to know with which to prove that I know, and he who knows knows that he knows. I know that I know says no more than I know.

The quarrel has arisen from confounding ideas, universals, genera and species, and abstractions or generalizations, and treating them all as if pertaining to the same category. These three things are different, and cannot be scientifically treated as if they were the same; yet nominalists, realists, and conceptualists recognize no differences among them, nor do the Platonists. These hold all the essential qualities, properties, or attributes of things to be ideas, objective and real. Hippias visits Athens, and proposes during his stay in the city to give the eager Athenians a discourse, or, as they say nowadays, a lecture, on beautiful things. Socrates is delighted to hear it, and assures Hippias that he will be one of his audience; but as he is slow of understanding, and has a friend who will be sure to question him very closely, he begs Hippias to answer beforehand a few of the questions this friend is certain to ask. Hippias consents. {150} You propose to discourse on beautiful things, but tell me, if you please, what are beautiful things? Hippias mentions several things, and finally answers, a handsome girl. But that is not what my friend wants to know. Tell me, by what are beautiful things beautiful? Hippias does not quite understand. Socrates explains. All just things, are they not just by participation of justice? Agreed. And all wise things by participation of wisdom? It cannot be denied. And all beautiful things by participation of beauty? So it seems. Now tell me, dear Hippias, what is beauty, that which is so not by participation but in itself, and by participation of which all beautiful things are beautiful? Hippias, of course, is puzzled, and neither he nor Socrates answers the question.

But we get here a clue to Plato's doctrine, the doctrine of the methexis, to use his own term. He would seem to teach that whatever particular thing exists, it does so by the methexis, or participation of the idea. The idea is that which makes the thing what it is, _causa essentialis_. Thus, a man is man by participation of the man-idea, or the ideal man, humanity; a horse is a horse by participation of the horse-idea, or ideal horse; a cow is a cow by participation of the cow-idea, ideal cow, or _bovisty_; and so of a sheep, a weazel, an eagle, a heron, a robin, a swallow, a wren, an oak, a pine, a juniper. To know any particular thing is to know its idea or ideal, and to know its idea or ideal is to have true science, for it is science of that in the thing which is real, stable, invariable, and permanent. This doctrine is very true when by ideas we understand genera and species, but not, as we have already seen, and as both Rosceline and Abelard prove, when we take as ideas the abstract qualities of things. Man is man by participation of humanity; but is a thing white by participation of whiteness, round by participation of roundness, hard by participation of hardness, beautiful by participation of beauty, or just by participation of justice, wise by participation of wisdom? What is whiteness, roundness, hardness, beauty, justice, or wisdom in the abstract, or abstracted from their respective concretes? Mere conceptions, as said Abelard, or, rather, empty words, as said Rosceline. When Plato calls these ideas, and calls them real, he confounds ideas with genera and species, and asserts what is manifestly untenable.

Genera and species are not abstractions; they are real, though subsisting never apart from individuals. Their reality is evinced by the process called generation, by which every kind generates its like. The race continues itself, and does not die with the individual. Men die, humanity survives. It is all very well to say with Plato individuals are mimetic, and exist as individuals by participation of the idea, if we assume ideas are genera and species, and created after the models or archetypes in the divine mind; but it will not do to say so when we identify ideas with the divine mind, that is, with God himself: We then make genera and species ideas in God, and since ideas in God are God, we identify them with the divine essence--a doctrine which the Holy See has recently condemned, and which would deny all reality distinguishable from God, and make all existences merely phenomenal, and reduce all the categories, as Cousin does, to being and phenomenon, which is pure pantheism. The _ideae exemplares_, or archetypes of genera and species, after which God creates them, are in the divine mind, but the genera and species, the real universals, are creatures, and as much so as individuals or particulars themselves. They are creatures by the direct creation of God, without the intervention of the plastic soul asserted by Plato, accepted by Cudworth, and, in his posthumous essay on the Methexis and Mimesis, even by Gioberti. {151} God creates all living creatures in genera and species, as the Scripture plainly hints when it says: "And God said, Let the earth bring forth the green herb, and such as may seed, and the fruit-tree yielding fruit after its _kind_, which may have seed in itself upon the earth." Not only in the vegetable but also in the animal world, each living creature brings forth its kind--a fact without which generation would be unintelligible, and which our scientific men who dream of the formation of species by natural selection, and are laboring hard to prove that man has been developed from the tadpole or monkey, would do well to remember.

Genera and species are real, and so far, if we call them ideas, ideas or universals are real, as Plato and the old realists asserted. But when we understand by ideas or universals the simple abstractions or generalizations of the essential qualities or attributes of things, as whiteness, redness, roundness, hardness, beauty, justice, goodness, they are real only in their concretes or subject. Objects may be really white, red, hard, heavy; things may be really beautiful; actions may be really just, wise, and good; but what we call beauty, justice, wisdom, goodness, can exist only as attributes or qualities of being, and are real only in their concretes. They can be reflected by creatures, but have no reality as abstractions. Abstractions, as St. Thomas says, have a foundation in reality, because they are formed by the mind by way of abstraction from objects presented by experience, and experience can present only that which is real; but as abstractions they are nullities, as Rosceline rightly held.

It is necessary, then, to distinguish between genera and species and abstractions, and it would save much confusion to drop the name of ideas as applied to them, and even as applied to the intermediary world supposed to be inserted between the object and subject, as that world is commonly represented. This intermediary world, we think, has been successfully assailed by the Scottish school as ordinarily understood; but we do not think that the scholastics meant by it what is commonly supposed. These intermediary ideas, or intelligible species, seem to me in St. Thomas to perform in intellectual apprehension the office performed by light in external vision, and to be very defensible. They are not the understanding itself, but they are, if we may be allowed the expression, the light of the understanding. St. Thomas holds that we know by similitude. But God, he says, is the similitude of all things, _Deus est similitudo omnium rerum_. Now say, with him and all great theologians, that God, who is light itself, is the light of the understanding, the light of reason, the true light that lighteth every man coming into this world, and the whole difficulty is solved, and the scholastics and the philosophy so long taught in our Catholic schools and seminaries are freed at once from the censures so freely bestowed on them by the Scottish school and others. We suspect that we shall find seldom any reason to dissent from the scholastic philosophy as represented by St. Thomas, when once we really understand it, and adjust it to our own habits of thought and expression.

Supposing this interpretation to be admissible, the Scottish school, after all, must modify its doctrine that we know things directly and immediately; for as in external things light is necessary as the medium of vision, why should not an intelligible light be necessary as the medium of the intellectual apprehension of intelligibles? Now, as this light has in it the similitude of the things apprehensible by it, and is for that same reason light to our understanding, it may, as Plato held, very properly be expressed by the word _idea_, which means likeness, image, or representation. The error of Plato would not then be in holding that we know only _per ideam_ or _per similitudinem_, but in confounding creator and creature, and recognizing nothing except the idea either to know or to be known. On this interpretation, the light may be identical with the object, or it may not be. Being is its own light, and is intelligible _per se_; objects distinguishable from being are not, and are intelligible only in the light of being, or a light distinguishable from themselves. {152} As being in its full sense is God, we may say with Malebranche that we see all things in God, but must add, _and by the light of God_, or _in Deo et per Deum_.

Assuming ideas as the light by which we see to be the real doctrine of the scholastics, we can readily understand the relation of ideas to the peripatetic categories or praedicaments, or forms under which all objects are and must be apprehended, and thus connect the old quarrel of the philosophers with their present quarrel. The categories, according to the Platonists, are ideas; according to the peripatetics, they are the forms of the _mundus logicus_, which, as we have seen, they distinguish from the _mundus physicus_. The Scottish school having demolished this _mundus logicus_, by exploding the doctrine of intermediary ideas which compose it, if we take that world as formal, and fail to identify it with the divine light, the question comes up, Are the categories or self-evident truths which precede all experience, and without which no fact of experience is possible, really objective, or only subjective? The question is, if we duly consider it, Is the light by which we see or know on the side of the subject or on that of the object? Or, in other words, are things intelligible because we know them, or do we know them because they are intelligible? Thus stated, the question seems to be no question at all; but it is made a very serious question, and on the answer to it depends the validity or invalidity of St. Anselm's argument.

We have already expressed the opinion that the scholastics as represented by St. Thomas really mean by their phantasms and intelligible species, or intermediary ideas by which we attain to the knowledge of sensibles and intelligibles, simply the mediating light furnished by God himself, who is himself light and the Father of lights. In this case the light is objective, and by illumining the object renders it intelligible, and at the same time the subject intelligent. But Reid, who denied intermediary ideas, seemed to suppose that the light emanates from the subject, and that it is our powers that render the object intelligible. Hence he calls the categories first principles of science, constituent principles of belief, or common sense, and sometimes constituent principles of human nature. He seems to have supposed that all the light and activity is on the side of the subject, forgetting that the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it not, or that the light shines, and the darkness does not compress it, or hinder it from shining, without our perceiving it or the objects it illumines.

Kant, a German, but, on one side, of Scottish descent, adopts the principles of Reid, but sets them forth with greater precision and more scientific depth. Denying with Reid the mediating ideas, he makes the categories, which, according to Aristotle, are forms of the _mundus logicus_, or intermediary world, forms of the subject or the subjective laws of thought. He does not say with Rosceline that they are mere words, with Abelard that they are mere conceptions, nor with St. Thomas that they are, taken as universals, conceptions, _cum fundamento in re_, but forms of the reason, understanding, and sensibility, without any objective validity. They are not derivable from experience, because without them no experience is possible. Without what he calls synthetic judgments _à priori_, such as, Every phenomenon that begins to exist must have a cause, which includes the judgment of cause, of universal cause, and of necessary cause, we can form no synthetic judgment _à posteriori_. Hence he concludes that the categories, what some philosophers call first principles, necessary truths, necessary ideas, without which we do not and cannot think, are inherent forms of the subject, and are constitutive of reason and understanding. He thus placed the intelligibleness of things in the elemental constitution of the subject, whence it follows that the subject may be its own object, or think without thinking anything distinct from himself. {153} We think God, man, and nature, not because they are, and think them as we do not because they are really such as we think them, but because such is our mental constitution, and we are compelled by it to think them as we do. This the reader must see is hardly disguised scepticism, and Kant never pretended to the contrary. The only escape from scepticism, he himself contends, is to fall back from the pure or speculative reason on the practical reason, or the moral necessities of our nature, and yield to the moral imperative, which commands us to believe in God, nature, and duty. Kant has been followed by Fichte, Schelling, and Hegel, who differ more or less from one another, but all follow the fundamental principle he asserted, and end in the doctrine of absolute identity of subject and object. "_Cogito, ergo sum_," said Descartes: "I think, therefore I am." "To think," used to say our old friend Bronson Alcott, "is to _thing_; to thing is to give or produce reality. My thought is creative: I think, therefore I am; I think God, therefore he is; nature, and therefore nature exists. I by thinking make them, that is, _thing_ them, render them real." No bad statement, as far as it goes, of the development Kant's doctrine received from his disciple Fichte. The only defect is that his later disciples, instead of making thought creative, have made it identical with the object. St. Anselm says: "I think most perfect being, therefore most perfect being is;" and so does Descartes, only Descartes substitutes God for most perfect being; but St. Anselm never said it in the sense that most perfect being is because I by my thought make it. Only a modern transcendentalist gone to seed could say that. The trouble with this whole scheme is that it puts me in the place of God, and makes me myself God, which I am quite sure I am not. It would be much more philosophical to say: I exist, therefore I think; I think being because it is, not that it is because I think it. Things do not exist because I think them, but I think them because they exist; they are not intelligible because I think them, but I think them because they are intelligible. Yet the germ of our friend Alcott's philosophy was in Kant's doctrine, which places the _forma_ of the thought in the subject instead of the object.

Whether the categories, as given by Aristotle, are inexact, as Kant alleges, or whether, as given by Kant himself, they are reducible in number to two, as M. Cousin pretends, or to one, as Rosmini maintains, enters not into the present enquiry, which relates not to their number, but their objective reality. Kant in regard to philosophy has done simply what Reid did, only he has done it better or more scientifically. He has fully demonstrated that in every fact of experience there enters a non-empirical element, and, if he holds with Leibnitz that that element is the human understanding itself, he has still demonstrated that it is not an abstraction or generalization of the concrete qualities of the objects presented by experience.

Take the ideas or categories of the necessary, the perfect, the universal, the infinite, the perfect, the immutable, the eternal. These ideas, it is willingly conceded, never exist in the human mind, or are never thought, without their opposites, the contingent, the finite, the imperfect, the particular, the variable, the temporal; but they do not, even in our thought, depend on them, and are not derived or derivable from them by abstraction or generalization. Take the synthetic judgment instanced by Kant, Everything that begins to exist must have a cause. The idea of cause itself, Hume has shown, is not derivable from any fact of experience, and Reid and Kant say the same. The notion we have of power which founds the relation of cause and effect, or that what we call the cause actually produces or places the effect, these philosophers tell us, is not an object of experience, and is not obtainable from any empirical facts. {154} Experience gives only the relation of what we call cause and effect in time, that is, the relation of antecedence and consequence. Main de Biran and Victor Cousin, it is true, deny this, and maintain that the idea of cause is derived from the acts of our own will, which we are conscious of in ourselves, and which not merely precede their effects, but actually produce them. I will to raise my arm, and even if my arm be paralytic or held down by a [force] stronger than I, so that I cannot raise it, I still by willing produce an effect, the volition to raise it, which is none the less real because, owing to external circumstances not under my control, it does not pass beyond my own interior.

But even granting this, how from this particular act of causation conclude universal cause, or even from universal cause necessary cause? I by willing produce the volition to raise my arm, therefore everything that begins to exist must have a cause. The argument from the particular to the universal, _non volet_, say the logicians, and still less the argument from the contingent to the necessary.

Take the idea of the perfect. That we have the idea or category in the mind is indisputable, and it evidently is not derivable by abstraction or generalization from the facts of experience. We have experience only of imperfect things, and no generalizing of imperfection can give perfection. Indeed, without the category of the perfect, the imperfect cannot even be thought. We think a thing imperfect, that is, judge it to be imperfect--and every thought is a judgment, and contains an affirmation--because it falls short of the ideal standard with which the mind compares it. The universal is not derivable from the particular, for the particular is not conceivable without the universal. We may say the same of the immutable, the eternal, the infinite, the one, or unity.

By abstraction or generalization we simply consider in the concrete a particular property, quality, or attribute by itself, and take it _in universo_, without regard to anything else in the concrete thing. It must then be a real property, quality, or attribute of the concrete thing, or the abstraction will have no foundation in reality. But the universal is no property, quality, or attribute of particulars, the immutable of mutables, the eternal of things temporary, the necessary of contingents, the infinite of finites, or unity of multiples, otherwise particulars would be universals, mutables immutables, temporals eternals, contingents necessary, finites infinite, and multiples one--a manifest contradiction in terms. The generalization or abstraction of particulars is particularity, of mutables is mutability, of temporals temporality, of contingents contingency, of finites finiteness, of multiples plurality or multiplicity. The overlooking of this obvious fact, and regarding the universal, immutable, eternal, etc., as abstractions or generalizations of particulars, mutables, temporals, and so on, has given birth to the pantheistic philosophy, than which nothing can be more sophistical.

The ideas or categories of the universal, the immutable, and the eternal, the necessary, the infinite, the one or unity, are so far from being abstractions from particular concretes that in point of fact we cannot even think things as particular, changeable, temporal, contingent, finite, or multiple without them. Hence, they are called necessary ideas, because without them no synthetic judgment _à posteriori_ or fact of experience is possible. They are not abstractions formed by the human mind by contemplating concrete things, because the human mind cannot operate or even exist without them, and without them human intelligence, even if supposable, could not differ from the intelligence of the brute, which, though many eminent men in modern science are endeavoring to prove it, cannot be accepted, because in proving we should disprove it.

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The question now for philosophy to answer, as we have already intimated, is, Are these ideas or categories, which precede and enter into every fact of experience, forms of the subject or human understanding, as Kant alleges, or are they objective and real, and, though necessary to the existence and operation of the human mind, are yet really distinct from it, and independent of it, as much so as if no human mind had been created? This is the problem.

St. Thomas evidently holds them to be objective, for he holds them to be necessary and self-evident principles, principles _per se nota_, as may be seen in his answer to the question, _Utrum Deum esse sit per se notum?_ and we need strong reasons to induce us to dissent from any philosophical conclusion of the angelic doctor. Moreover, Kant by no means proves his own conclusion, that they are forms of the subject. All he proves is that there is and can be no fact of human knowledge without them, which may be true without their being subjective. He proves, if you will, that they are constituent principles of the human understanding, in the sense that the human understanding cannot exist and operate without their initiative and concurrence; but this no more proves that they are forms of the subject than the fact that the creature can neither exist nor act without the creative and concurrent act of the creator proves that the creator is an inherent law or form of the creature. To our mind, Kant confirms a conclusion contrary to his own. His masterly _Kritik der reinen Vernunft_ establishes simply this fact, that man's own subjective reason alone does not suffice for science, and that man, in science as in existence, is dependent on that which is not himself; or, in a word, that man depends on the intelligibleness of the object, or that which renders it intelligible, to be himself intelligent, or knowing. Man is, no doubt, created with the power or faculty of intelligence, but that power or faculty is not the power or faculty to know without an intelligible object, or to know what is not knowable independently of it. Hence, from Kant's facts, we conclude that the ideas or categories, without which no object is intelligible and no fact of intelligence possible, are not subjective, but objective, real, and independent of the subject.

The matter is simple enough if we look at it freed from the obscurity with which philosophers have surrounded it. Thought is a complex fact, the joint product of subject and object. God is his own object, because he is self existent and self-sufficing: is in himself, as say the theologians, _actus purissimus_, most pure act, which permits us up to a certain point to understand the eternal generation of the Son and the procession of the Holy Ghost. God, being self-existent and self-sufficing, needs and can receive nothing from without his own most perfect being. But man is a dependent being, a creature, and does not and cannot suffice in himself for either his own existence or his own intelligence. He cannot think by himself alone or without the concurrence of the object, which is not himself. If the concurrence of the object be essential to the production of my thought, then that concurrence must be active, for a passive concurrence is the same as no concurrence at all. Then the object must be active, therefore real, for what is not real cannot act or be active. Then the object in my thought is not and cannot be myself, but stands over against me. Now, I know that I think these ideas, and that they are the object in my thought without which I cannot think at all. Therefore, they are objective and real, and neither myself nor my creations, as are abstractions.

This conclusion is questioned only by those persons who have not duly considered the fact that there can be no thought without both subject and object, and that man can never be his own object. To assume that he can act, think, or know with himself alone, without the concurrence of that which is not himself and is independent of him, is to deny his dependence and to assume him to be God--a conclusion which some think follows from the famous "_Cogito, ergo sum_" of Descartes, and which is accepted and defended by the whole German pantheistic school of the present day. {156} Indeed, as atheism was in the last century, so pantheism is in the present century the real enemy philosophy has to combat. In concluding the reality of the object from the fact that I think it, I am far from pretending that thought cannot err; but the error is not in regard to what I really think, but in regard to that which I do not think, but infer from my thought. I think only what is intelligible, and what is intelligible is real, and therefore true, for falsehood, being unreal, is unintelligible, and therefore cannot be thought. But in converting my thought into a proposition, I may include in the proposition not only what I thought, but what I did not think. Hence the part of error, which is always the part not of knowledge, but of ignorance. It is so we understand St. Augustine and St. Thomas.[Footnote 37]

[Footnote 37: Vide St. Augustine, in lib lxxxiii. Qq., quaest. xxii., and St. Thomas, Summa p.1 quaest. xvii, a. 3 ln. c. The words of St. Augustine are, "Omnis qui fallitur, id quo fallitur, non intelligit." Hence the Intellect is always true.]

These considerations authorize, or we are much mistaken, the conclusion that the ideas or categories, which the schoolmen hold to be forms of the intermediary or logical world, and Kant to be forms of the subject, are objective and real, and either the intelligible object itself or the objective light by which it is rendered intelligible or knowable. Plato, Aristotle, and the scholastics, if we have not misapprehended them, regard them, in explaining the fact of knowledge, rather as the light which illumines the object than the object itself. Yet, when the object is intelligible in itself, or by its own light, St. Thomas clearly identifies it with the object, and distinguishes it from the object only when the object is not intelligible _per se_. Thus, he maintains with St. Augustine that God knows things _per ideam_; but to the objection that God knows them by his essence, he answers that God in his own essence is the similitude, that is, the idea, of all things: _Unde idea in Deo nihil est aliud quam essentia Dei_. Therefore, idea in God is nothing else than the essence of God. [Footnote 38]

[Footnote 38: Summa, p.1, quaest, xv. a. 1 ad 3. The question is _de Ideis_, and we think the reader, by consulting what St. Thomas says in the body of the first article, will agree that, though we have used a different phraseology, we have simply given his sense.]

The doctrine of St. Thomas is that all knowledge is by ideas, in the sense of image, likeness, or similitude. In God the idea, image, likeness, or similitude, the _species_, is not distinguishable from the divine essence, for he is in his essence _similitudo omnium rerum_. Now, though we are created after the _idea exemplaris_, or model eternal in his essence, and therefore in our degree copy or imitate him, we have not in us the types or models of all things, are not in ourselves _similitudo omnium rerum_, and therefore are not intelligent in ourselves alone. The ideas by which things are intelligible and we intelligent must be distinct from us, and exist independent of us. As no creature any more than we has in itself the likeness of all things, or is in itself its own _idea exemplaris_, no creature can be in itself alone intelligible. Hence what the schoolmen call idea or intelligible species must be equally distinct from and independent of the object when the object is _aliquid creatum_, or creature. Hence, while both the created subject and the created object depend on the idea, the one to be intelligible, the other to be intelligent, the idea, intelligible species, the light--as we prefer to say--is independent of them both. The idea _in re_ is not something intermediary between subject and object, as is sometimes supposed, but the light that intervenes between them, as the necessary condition of knowledge in creatures. This seems to us to be the real doctrine of the scholastics, as represented by St. Thomas, and is, in our judgment, indisputable.

{157}

We call the idea, regarded as intervening in the fact of knowledge, the light, and thus avoid the question whether all knowledge is by similitude or not. It may be that the idea is light because it contains the image or likeness of the object, but that seems to us a question more curious than practically important. We cannot see that the explication of the mystery of knowing is carried any further by calling the idea image or similitude than by simply calling it the intelligible light. The Platonists and peripatetics seem to us to come no nearer the secret of knowledge by so calling it than do our philosophers to the secret of external vision, when they tell us that we do not see the visible object itself, but its image painted by the external light on the retina of the eye. How do I see the image or picture, and connect it with the external object? When I have called the object or the idea light, I seem to myself to have said all that can be said on the point, and to retain substantially the scholastic doctrine of ideas, or intelligible species, which asserts, I add, by the way, what is perhaps very true, but which after all brings us no nearer to the secret of knowledge, or the explanation of how in the last analysis we do or can know at all.

How we do or can know seems to us an inexplicable mystery, as is our existence itself. That we do know is certain. Every man knows, and in knowing knows that be knows; but how he knows no man knows. To deny is as much an act of reason as is to affirm, and no one can deny without knowing that he denies. Men may doubt many things, but universal doubt is a simple impossibility, for whoever doubts knows that be doubts, and never doubts that he doubts or that doubt is doubting. In all things and in all science we arrive at last, if we think long and deep enough, at a mystery which it is in no human power to deny or to explain, and which is explicable only in God by his divine science. Hence it is that philosophy never fully suffices for itself, and always needs to be supplemented by revelation, as nature to attain its end must not only be redeemed from the fall, but supplemented by grace. Man never suffices for himself, since his very being is not in himself; and how, then, shall philosophy, which is his creation, suffice for itself? Let philosophy go as far as it can, but let the philosopher never for a moment imagine that human reason will ever be able to explain itself. The secret as of all things is in God and with him. Would man be God, the creature the Creator?

If we have seized the sense of the scholastic philosophy as represented by St. Thomas, and are right in understanding by the intelligible species of the schoolmen the light by which the object is intelligible, therefore the object itself when the object is intelligible _per se_, and the intelligible light when it is not, the ideal is objective and real, and both the old quarrel and the new are voided. Abstractions are null; genera and species are real, but creatures; ideas, as the intelligible light by which we know, are not forms of the subject, but objective and real, and in fact the light of the divine being, which, intelligible by itself, is the intelligibility of all created existences. St. Anselm's argument is, then, rigidly sound and conclusive: I think most perfect being _in re_; and therefore such being is, or I could not think it, since what is not cannot be thought. If the most perfect being, a greater than which and the contrary of which cannot be thought, be only in my thought, then I am myself greater than the most perfect being, and my thought becomes the criterion of perfection, and I am greater than God, and can judge him.

This follows from the fact that the ideal is real. The ideas of the universal, the infinite, the perfect, the necessary, the immutable, the eternal cannot be either the intelligible object or the intelligible light, unless they are being. As abstractions, or as abstracted from being, they are simple nullities. {158} To think them is to think real, universal, infinite, perfect, necessary, immutable, and eternal being, the _ens perfectissimum_ of St. Anselm, the _ens necessarium et reale_ of the theologians, a greater than which or the contrary of which cannot be thought. That this _ens_, intuitively affirmed to every intellect, is God, is amply shown in the papers on "The Problems of the Age," and also that _ens_ or being creates existences, and hence there is no occasion for us to show it over again.

But it will not do to say, as many do, that we have intuition of God. The idea is intuitive; and we know by intuition that which is God, and that he is would be indemonstrable if we did not; but we do not know by intuition that what is affirmed or presented in intuition is God. When Descartes says, "I think God, therefore God is," he misapprehends St. Anselm, and assumes what is not tenable. St. Anselm does not say he thinks God, and therefore God is; he says, "I think most perfect being, a greater than which cannot be thought," and therefore most perfect being is. The intuition is not God, but most perfect being. So the ideal formula, _ens creat existentias_ so ably defended in the papers on "The Problems of the Age," would be indefensible, if _Deus _were substituted for _ens_, and it read, God creates existences. That is true, and _ens_, no doubt, is _Deus_; but we know not that by intuition, and it would be wrong to understand St. Augustine, who seems to teach that we know that God is by intuition, in any other sense than that we have intuition of that which can be demonstrated to be God. We know by intuition that which is God, but not that it is God.

St. Thomas seems to us to set this matter right in his answer to the question, _Utrum Deum esse sit per notum?_--He holds that _ens_ is _per se notum_, or self-evident, and that first principles in knowing, as well as in being, evidence themselves, but denies that _Deum esse sit per se notum_, because the meaning of the word _Deus_ or God is not self-evident and known by all. His own words are: "_Dico ergo haec propositio, DEUS EST, quantum in se est, per se nota est, quia praedicatum est idem cum subjecto Deus enim est suum esse, ut infra patebit. Sed qua nos non scimus de Deo QUID EST, non est per se nota est, sed indiget demonstrari._" [Footnote 39]

[Footnote 39: Summa, pars. 1, quaest. 1 a. ln c.]

St. Thomas adds, indeed, "Sed indiget demonstrari, per ea quae sunt magis nota quoad nos, et minus secundam naturam, scilicet per effectus;" but this is easily explained. The saint argues that it is not self-evident that God is, because it is not self-evident what he is; for, according to the scholastic philosophy, to be able to affirm that a thing is, it is necessary to know its quidity [Footnote 40], since without knowing what the thing is we cannot know that it is. What God is can be demonstrated only by his works, and that it can be so demonstrated St. Paul assures us, Rom. 1:20: "Invisibilia ipsius, a creatura mundi, per ea quae facta sunt, intellecta, conspiciuntur: sempiterna quoqne virtus et divinitas;" or as we venture to English it: "The invisible things of God, even his eternal power and divinity, are clearly seen from the foundation of the world, being understood (or known) by the things that are made." St. Paul appeals to the things that are made not to prove that God is, but to show what he is, or rather, if we may so express ourself, to prove that he is God, and leaves us, as does St. Thomas, to prove, with St. Augustine, St. Anselm, Fénelon, and others, that he is, by the argument derived from intuitive ideas, or first principles, commonly called the _argumentum a priori_, though that, strictly speaking, it is not, for there is nothing more ultimate or universal in science than is God himself, or, rather, that which is God.

[Transcribers footnote 40: quidity--Real nature of a thing; the essence.]

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The ideal formula is true, for it is contained in the first verse of Genesis, "In the beginning God created heaven and earth," and in the first article of the creed, "I believe in one God, maker of heaven and earth, and all things visible and invisible;" and what it formulates is, as we have shown, and as is shown more at length in "The Problems of the Age," intuitive, and the human mind could not exists and operate if it were not so; but the formula itself, or, rather, the formulation as an intellectual judgment, is not so. The judgment was beyond the reach of all Gentile philosophy, which nowhere asserts or recognizes the fact of creation; it is beyond the reach of the mass even of the Christian people, who hold that God creates the world as an article of faith rather than as a scientific truth; it is denied by nearly all the systems of philosophy constructed by non-Catholics even in our own day, and it may well be doubted if science, unaided by revelation, could ever have attained to it.

This relieves the formula of the principal objections urged against it. The ideas formulated are the first principles in science with which all philosophy must commence, but the formulation, instead of being at the beginning, does not always appear even at its conclusion. The explanations we have offered show that there is no discrepancy between its assertion and the philosophy of St. Thomas. Indeed, the formula in substance is the common doctrine of all great Catholic theologians in all ages of the church, and may be seen to be so if we will only take the pains to understand them and ourselves. The objection, that the doctrine that we have intuition of most perfect being assumes that we have the intuitive vision of God even in this life, cannot stand, because that vision is vision of God as he is in himself, and this asserts only intuition of him as idea, which we even know not by intuition is God. The result of our discussion is to show that the sounder and better philosophy of our day is in reality nothing but the philosophy of St. Anselm and St. Thomas, and which in substance has been always, and still is, taught with more or less clearness and depth in all our Catholic schools.

Original

The Hidden Crucifixion.

"And they crucified him there."

Say not 'twas on dread Calvary's mountain top, And in the broad and glaring light Of noonday sun; With hooting rabble crowded 'round To show The Holy One despite.

No, no! But in this guilty breast, alone-- God of my love, how could I dare!-- The deed was done. Ye angels, look upon this heart; Ye know I crucified him there!

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Impressions Of Spain.

By Lady Herbert.

St. Sebastian and Burgos.

What is it that we seek for, we Englishmen and Englishwomen, who year by year, about the month of November, are seen crowding the Folkestone and Dover steamboats, with that unmistakable "going abroad" look of travelling--bags and wide-awakes and bundles of wraps and alpaca gowns? I think it may be comprised in one word--_sunshine_. This dear old land of ours, with all its luxuries and all its comforts and all its associations of home and people, still lacks one thing--and that is climate. For climate means health to one half of us; and health means power of enjoyment; for, without it, the most perfect of homes (and nowhere is that word understood so well as in England) is spoiled and saddened. So, in pursuit of this great boon, a widow lady and her children, with a doctor and two other friends, started off in the winter of 186-, in spite of ominous warnings of revolutions, and grim stories of brigands, for that comparatively unvisited country called Spain. As far as St. Sebastian the journey was absolutely without interest or adventure of any kind. The express train dashed them past houses and villages, and picturesque old towns with fine church towers, from Paris to Bordeaux, and from Bordeaux to Bayonne, and so on past the awful frontier, the scene of so many passages-at-arms between officials and ladies' maids, till they found themselves crossing the picturesque bridge which leads to the little town of St. Sebastian, with its beach of fine sand, washed by the long billowy waves of the Atlantic on the one hand, and its riant, well-cultivated little Basque farms on the other. As to the town itself, time and the prefect may eventually make it a second Biarritz, as in every direction lodging-houses are springing up, till it will become what one of Dickens's heroes would call "the most sea-bathingest place" that ever was! But at present it is a mass of rough stone and lime and scaffolding; and the one straight street leading from the hotel to the church of St. Maria, with the castle above, are almost all that remains of the old town which stood so many sieges, and was looked upon as the key of Northern Spain. The hotel appeared but tolerably comfortable to our travellers, fresh from the luxuries of Paris. When they returned, four or five months later, they thought it a perfect paradise of comfort and cleanliness. After wandering through the narrow streets, and walking into one or two uninteresting churches, it was resolved to climb up to the citadel which commands the town, and to which the ascent is by the fair zigzag road, like that which leads to Dover Castle. A small garrison remains in the keep, which is also a military prison. The officers receiving our party very courteously, inviting them to walk on the battlements, and climb up to the flag-staff, and offering them the use of their large telescope for the view, which is certainly magnificent, especially toward the sea. There is a tiny chapel in the fortress, in which the Blessed Sacrament is reserved. It was pleasant to see the sentinel presenting arms to it each time his round brought him past the ever open door. On the hill side, a few monumental slabs, let in here and there into the rock, and one or two square tombs, mark the graves of the Englishmen killed during the siege, and also in the Don Carlos revolution. {161} Of the siege itself, and of the historical interest attached to St. Sebastian, we will say nothing: are they not written in the book of the chronicles of Napier and Napoleon?

The following morning, after a fine and crowded service at the church of St. Maria, where they first saw the beautiful Spanish custom of the women being all veiled, and in black, two of the party started at seven in the morning, in a light carriage, for Loyola. The road throughout is beautiful, reminding one of the Tyrol, with picturesque villages, old Roman bridges, quaint manor-houses, with coats of arms emblazoned over their porticoes; rapid, clear trout-streams and fine glimpses of snowy mountains on the left, and of the bright blue sea on the right. The flowers, too, were lovely. There was a dwarf blue bugloss of an intensity of color which is only equalled by the large forget-me-not on the mountainsides of Lebanon. The peasants are all small proprietors. They were cultivating their fields in the most primitive way, father, mother, and children working the ground with a two-pronged fork, called by them a "laya;" but the result was certainly satisfactory. They speak a language as utterly hopeless for a foreigner to understand as Welsh or Gaelic. The saying among the Andalusians is that the devil, who is no fool, spent seven years in Bilboa studying the Basque dialect, and learned three words only; and of their pronunciation they add that the Basque write "Solomon," and pronounce it "Nebuchadnezzar!" Be this as it may, they are a contented, happy, prosperous, sober race, rarely leaving their own country, to which they are passionately attached, and deserving, by their independence and self-reliance, their name of "Bayascogara"--"Somos bastantes."

Passing through the baths Certosa, the mineral springs of which are much frequented by the Spaniards in summer, our travellers came, after a four hours' drive, to Azpeitia, a walled town, with a fine church containing the "pila," or font, in which St. Ignatius was baptized. Here the good-natured curé, Padre G--, met them, and insisted on escorting them to the great college of Loyola, which is about a mile from the town. It has a fine Italian façade, and is built in a fertile valley round the house of St. Ignatius, the college for missionary priests being on one side, and a florid, domed, circular marble church on the other. The whole is thoroughly Roman in its aspect, but not so beautiful as the Gothic buildings of the south. They first went into the church, which is very rich in jaspers, marbles, and mosaics, the marbles being brought from the neighboring mountains. The cloisters at the back are still unfurnished; but the entrance to the monastery is of fine and good proportions, and the corridors and staircase are very handsome. Between the church and the convent is a kind of covered cloister, leading to the "Santuario," the actual house in which the saint was born and lived. The outside is in raised brickwork, of curious old geometrical patterns; and across the door is the identical wooden bar which in old times served as protection to the château. Entering the low door, you see on your right a staircase; and on your left a long low room on the ground floor, in which is a picture of the Blessed Virgin. Here the saint was born: his mother, having a particular devotion to the Virgin, insisted on being brought down here to be confined. Going up the stairs, to a kind of corridor used as a confessional, you come first to the chapel of St. Francis Borgia, where he said his first mass. Next to it is one dedicated to Marianne di Jesu, the "Lily of Quito," with a beautiful picture of the South American saint over the high altar. To the left, again, is another chapel, and here St. François Xavier, the Apostle of the Indies, said his mass before starting on his glorious evangelical mission. {162} Ascending a few steps higher, their guide led them into a long low room, richly decorated and gilt, and full of pictures of the different events of the life of the saint. A gilt screen divided the ante-chapel from the altar, raised on the very spot where he lay so long with his wounded leg, and where he was inspired by the Blessed Virgin to renounce the world, and devote himself, body and soul, to the work of God. There is a representation of him in white marble under the altar as he lay; and opposite, a portrait, in his soldier's dress, said to be taken from life, and another of him afterward, when he had become a priest. It is a beautiful face, with strong purpose and high resolve in every line of the features.

In the sacristy is the "baldachino," or tester of his bed, in red silk. It was in this room that he first fell sick and took to reading the Lives of the Saints to amuse himself, there being no other book within reach. Such are the "common ways," which we blindly call "accidents," in which God leads those whom he chooses, like Saul, for his special service. The convent contains thirty fathers and twenty-five lay brothers. There are about 120 students, a fine library, refectory, etc. They have a large day-school of poor children, whom they instruct in Basque and Spanish; and distribute daily a certain number of dinners, soup, and bread, to the sick poor of the neighboring villages, about twenty of whom were waiting at the buttery door for their daily supply.

The English strangers, taking leave of the kind and courteous fathers, had luncheon at a little "posada" close by, where the hostess insisted on their drinking some of the cider of the country, which the doctor, himself a Devonshire man, was obliged to confess excelled that of his own country. The good curé entertained them meanwhile with stories of his people, who appear to be very like the Highlanders, both in their merits and their faults. Some of their customs seemed to be derived from pagan times, such as that of offering bread and wine on the tombs of those they love on the anniversary of their death; a custom in vogue in the early days of Christianity, and mentioned by St. Augustine in his Confessions as being first put a stop to by St. Ambrose, at Milan, on account of the abuses which had crept into the practice. The drive back was, if possible, even more beautiful than that of the morning, and they reached St. Sebastian at eight o'clock, delighted with their expedition.

The next day they started for Burgos, by rail, only stopping for a few minutes on their way to the station to see the "Albergo dei Poveri," a hospital and home for incurables, nursed by the Spanish sisters of charity. They are affiliated to the sisters of St. Vincent de Paul, and follow their rule, but do not wear the "white cornette" of the French sisters.

The railroad in this part of Spain has been carried through most magnificent scenery, which appeared to our travellers like a mixture of Poussin and Salvator Rosa. Fine purple mountains, still sprinkled with snow, with rugged and jagged peaks standing out against the clear blue sky, and with waterfalls and beautiful streams rushing down their sides; an underwood of chestnut and beach trees; deep valleys, with little brown villages and bright white convents perched on rising knolls, and picturesque bridges spanning the little streams as they dashed through the gorges; and then long tracks of bright rose-colored heather, out of which rose big boulder-stones or the wayside cross; the whole forming, as it were, a succession of beautiful pictures such as would delight the heart of a painter, both as to composition and coloring. No one can say much for the pace at which the Spanish railways travel; yet are they all too quick in scenery such as this, when one longs to stop and sketch at every turn. {163} Suddenly, however, the train came to a stand-still: an enormous fragment of rock had fallen across the line in the night, burying a luggage-train, but fortunately without injury to its drivers; and our party had no alternative but to get out, with their manifold bags and packages, and walk across the _débris_ to another train, which, fortunately, was waiting for them on the opposite side of the chasm. A little experience of Spanish travelling taught them to expect such incidents half a dozen times in the course of the day's journey; but at first it seemed startling and strange. They reached Burgos at six, and found themselves in a small but very decent "fonda," where the daughter of the landlord spoke a little French, to their great relief. They had had visions of Italian serving nearly as well as Spanish for making themselves understood by the people; but this idea was rudely dispelled the very first day of their arrival in Spain. Great as the similarity may be in reading, the accent of the Spaniard makes him utterly incomprehensible to the bewildered Italian scholar; and the very likeness of some words increases the difficulty when he finds that, according to the pronunciation, a totally different meaning is attached to them. For instance, one of the English ladies, thinking to please the mistress of the house, made a little speech to her about the beauty and cleanliness of her kitchen, using the right word (_cocina_), but pronouncing it with the Italian accent. She saw directly she had committed a blunder, though Spanish civility suppressed the laugh at her expense. She found afterward that the word she had used, with the "ci" _soft_, meant a female pig. And this was only a specimen of mistakes hourly committed by all who adventured themselves in this unknown tongue.

A letter of introduction procured for our travellers an instant admission to the cardinal archbishop, who received them most kindly, and volunteered to be their escort over the cathedral. He had been educated at Ushaw, and spoke English fluently and well. He had a very pretty little chapel in his palace, with a picture in it of Sta. Maria della Pace at Rome, from whence he derives his cardinal's title.

The cathedral at Burgos, with the exception of Toledo, is the most beautiful Gothic building in Spain. It was begun by Bishop Maurice, an Englishman, and a great friend of St. Ferdinand's, in the year 1220. The spires, with their lacework carving; the doorways, so rich in sculpture; the rose-windows, with their exquisite tracery; the beautiful lantern-shaped clerestory; the curious double staircase of Diego de Siloe; the wonderful "retablos" behind the altars, of the finest wood-carving; the magnificent marble and alabaster monuments in the side chapels, vying with one another in beauty and richness of detail; the wonderful wood-carving of the stalls in the choir; the bas reliefs carved in every portion of the stone; in fact, every detail of this glorious building is equally perfect; and even in Southern Spain, that paradise for lovers of cathedrals, can scarcely be surpassed. The finest of the monuments are those of the Velasco family, the hereditary high-constable of Castile. They are of Carrara marble, resting upon blocks of jasper: at the feet of the lady lies a little dog, as the emblem of "Fidelity." Over the doorway of this chapel, leading to a tiny sacristy, are carved the arms of Jerusalem. In the large sacristy is a Magdalen, by Leonardo da Vinci; and some exquisite church plate, in gold and enamel, especially a chalice, a processional cross, a pax, etc. In the first chapel on the right, as you enter by the west door, is a very curious figure of Christ, brought from the Holy Land, with real hair and skin; but painful in the extreme, and almost grotesque from the manner in which it has been dressed. This remark, however, applies to almost all the images of Christ and of the Blessed Virgin throughout Spain, which are rendered both sad and ludicrous to English eyes from the petticoats and finery with which modern devotion has disfigured them. {164} This crucifix, however, is greatly venerated by the people, who call it "The Christ of Burgos," and on Sundays or holidays there is no possibility of getting near it, on account of the crowd. In the Chapel of the Visitation are three more beautiful monuments, and a very fine picture of the Virgin and Child, by Sebastian del Piombo. But it was impossible to take in every portion of this cathedral at once; and so our travellers went on to the cloisters, passing through a beautiful pointed doorway, richly carved, which leads to the chapter-house, now a receptacle for lumber, but containing the chest of the Cid, regarding which the old chronicle says: "He filled it with sand, and then, telling the Jews it contained gold, raised money on security." In justice to the hero, however, we are bound to add, that when the necessities of the war were over, he repaid both principal and interest. Leaving, at last, the cloisters and cathedral, and taking leave of the kind archbishop, our party drove to the Town Hall, where, in a walnut-wood urn, are kept the bones of the Cid, which were removed twenty years ago from their original resting-place at Cardena. The sight of them strengthened their resolve to make a pilgrimage to his real tomb, which is in a Benedictine convent about eight miles from the town. Starting, therefore, in two primitive little carriages, guiltless of springs, they crossed the river and wound up a steep hill till they came in sight of _Miraflores_, the great Carthusian convent, which, seen from a distance, strongly resembles Eton College Chapel. It was built by John II. for a royal burial-place, and was finished by Isabella of Castile. Arriving at the monastery, from whence the monks have been expelled, and which is now tenanted by only one or two lay brothers of the order, they passed through a long cloister, shaded by fine cypresses, into the church, in the chancel of which is that which may really be called one of the seven wonders of the world. This is the alabaster sepulcher of John II. and his wife, the father and mother of Queen Isabella, with their son, the Infante Alonso, who died young. In richness of detail, delicacy of carving, and beauty of execution, the work of these monuments is perfectly unrivalled--the very material seems to be changed into Mechlin lace. The artist was Maestro Gil, the father of the famous Diego de Siloe, who carved the staircase in the cathedral. He finished it in 1493; and one does not wonder at Philip II.'s exclamation when he saw it: "_We_ have done nothing at the Escurial." In the sacristy is a wonderful statue of St. Bruno, carved in wood, and so beautiful and life-like in expression that it was difficult to look at anything else.

Leaving Miraflores, our travellers broke tenderly to their coachmen their wish to go on to Cardena. One of them utterly refused, saying the road was impassable; the other, _moyennant_ an extra gratuity, undertook to try it, but stipulated that the gentlemen should walk, and the ladies do the same, if necessary. Winding round the convent garden walls, and then across a bleak wild moor, they started, and soon found themselves involved in a succession of ruts and sloughs of despond which more than justified the hesitation of their driver. On the coach-box was an imp of a boy, whose delights consisted in quickening the fears of the most timid among the ladies by invariably making the horses gallop at the most difficult and precipitous parts of the road, and then turning round and grinning at the fright he had given them. It is needless to say that the carriage was not his property. At last, the horses came to a stand-still; they could go no further, and the rest of the way had to be done on foot. But our travellers were not to be pitied; for the day was lovely, and the path across the moor was studded with flowers. At last, on climbing over a steep hill which had intercepted their view, they came on a lovely panorama, with a background of blue mountains tipped with snow; a wooded glen, in which the brown convent nestled, and a wild moor foreground, across which long strings of mules with gay trappings, driven by peasants in Spanish costumes, exactly as represented in Ansdell's paintings, were wending their way toward the city. {165} Tired as some of our party were, this glorious view seemed to give them fresh strength, and they rapidly descended the hill by the hollow path leading to the convent. Over the great entrance is a statue of the Cid, mounted on his favorite horse, "Babicca," who bore him to his last resting-place, and was afterward buried beside the master he loved so well. But the grand old building seemed utterly deserted, and a big mastiff, fastened by an ominously slight chain to the doorway, appeared determined to defy their attempts to enter. At last, one of them, more courageous than the rest, tempting the Cerberus with the remains of her luncheon, got past him, and wandered through the cloister, up a fine staircase to a spacious corridor, in hopes of finding a guide to show them the way to the chapel, where lay the object of their expedition, that is, the monument of the Cid. But she was only answered by the echo of her own footsteps. The cells were empty; the once beautiful library gutted and destroyed; the refectory had nothing in it but bare walls--the whole place was like a city of the dead. At last, she discovered a staircase lending down to a cloister on the side opposite the great entrance, and there a low-arched door, which she found ajar, admitted her into the deserted church. The tomb of the Cid has been removed from the high altar to a side Chapel; and there is interred likewise, his faithful and devoted wife Ximena, and their two daughters. On his shield is emblazoned the "tizona," or sparkling brand, which the legends affirm he always carried in his hand, and with which he struck terror into the hearts of the infidels. This church and convent, built for the Benedictines by the Princess Sancho, in memory of her son Theodoric, who was killed out hunting, was sacked by the Moors in the ninth century, when 200 of the monks were murdered. A tablet in the south transept still remains, recording the massacre; but the monument of Theodoric has been mutilated and destroyed. The Christian spoilers have done their work more effectually than the Moslem! Sorrowfully our travellers left this beautiful spot, thinking bitterly on the so-called age of progress which had left the abode of so much learning and piety to the owls and the bats; and partly walking, partly driving, returned without accident to the city. One more memento of the Cid at Burgos deserves mention. It is the lock on which he compelled the king, Alonso VI., to swear that he had had no part in his brother Sancho's assassination at Zamora. All who wished to confirm their word with a solemn oath used to touch it, till the practice was abolished by Isabella, and the lock itself hung up in the old church of St. Gadea, on the way to the castle hill, where it still rests. This is the origin of the peasant custom of closing the hand and raising the thumb, which they kiss in token of asseveration; and in like manner we have the old Highland saying: "There's my thumb. I'll not betray you."

Another charming expedition was made on the following day to Las Huelgas, the famous Cistercian nunnery, built in some gardens outside the town by Alonso VIII. and his wife Leonora, daughter of our King Henry II.

When one of the ladies had asked the cardinal for a note of introduction to the abbess, be had replied laughing: "I am afraid it would not be of much use to you. She certainly is not under my jurisdiction, and I am not sure whether she does not think I am under hers!" No lady abbess certainly ever had more extraordinary privileges. She is a Princess Palatine--styled "By the grace of God"--and has feudal power over all the lands and villages round. She appoints her own priests and confessors, and has a hospital about a mile from the convent, nursed by the sisters, and entirely under her control. {166} After some little delay at the porter's lodge, owing to their having come at the inconvenient hour of dinner, our party were ushered into the parlor, and there, behind a grille, saw a beautiful old lady, dressed in wimple and coif, exactly like a picture in the time of Chaucer. This was the redoubtable lady abbess. There are twenty-seven choir nuns and twenty-five lay sisters in the convent, and they follow the rule of St. Bernard. The abbess first showed them the Moorish standard, beautifully embroidered, taken at the battle of Las Navas de Tolosa, in 1180. A curious old fresco representing this battle remains over the arch of the church. She then took them to the choir, which is very rich in carving, and contains the tombs of the founders, Alonso and Leonora, and also of a number of infantas, whose royal bodies are placed in richly carved Gothic sepulchres, resting on lions, on each side of the choir. In the church is a curious hammered iron gilt pulpit, in which St. Vincent de Ferrer preached. Here St. Ferdinand and Alonso XI. knighted themselves, and here our own king, Edward I., received the honor of knighthood at the hands of Alonso el Sabio.

The church is a curious jumble of different dates of architecture; but there is a beautiful tower and doorway, some very interesting old monuments, and a fine double rose-window. The cloisters are very beautiful, with round-beaded arches, grouped pillars, and Norman capitals. The lady abbess then ordered one of the priests of the convent to take her English visitors to see their hospital, called "Del Rey," the walk to which from the convent is through pleasant fields like English meadows. It is admirably managed and nursed by the nuns. Each patient has a bed in a recess, which makes, as it were, a little private room for each, and this is lined with "azulejos," or colored tiles, up to a certain height, giving that clean bright look which distinguishes the Spanish hospitals from all others. At the end of each ward was a little altar, where mass is daily performed for the sick. There are fifty men and fifty women, and the surgical department was carefully supplied with all the best and newest instruments, which the surgeon was eager to show off to the doctor, the only one of the party worthy of the privilege. The wards opened into a "patio," or court, with seats and bright flowers, where the patients who could leave their beds were sitting out and sunning themselves. Altogether, it is a noble institution; and one must hope that the ruthless hand of government will not destroy it in common with the other charitable foundations of Spain.

Madrid.

But the cold winds blew sharply, and our travellers resolved to hurry south, and reserve the further treasures of Burgos for inspection on their return. The night train conveyed them safely to Madrid, where they found a most comfortable hotel in the "Ville de Paris," lately opened by an enterprising Frenchman, in the "Puelta del Sol;" and received the kindest of welcomes from the English minister, the Count T. D., and other old friends. It was Sunday morning, and the first object was to find a church near at hand. These are not wanting in Madrid, but all are modern, and few in good taste: the nicest and best served is undoubtedly that of "St. Louis des Français," though the approach to it through the crowded market is rather disagreeable early in the morning. The witty writer of "Les Lettres d'Espagne" says truly: "Madrid _ne me dit rien:_ c'est moderne, aligné, propre et civilisé." As for the climate, it is detestable: bitterly cold in winter, the east wind searching out every rheumatic joint in one's frame, and pitilessly driving round the corners of every street; burning hot in summer, with a glare and dust which nearly equal that of Cairo in a simoom.

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The Gallery, however, compensates for all. Our travellers had spent months at Florence, at Rome, at Dresden, and fancied that nothing could come up to the Pitti, the Uffizi, or the Vatican--that no picture could equal the "San Sisto;" but they found they had yet much to learn. No one who has not been in Spain can so much as imagine what Murillo is. In England he is looked upon as the clever painter of picturesque brown beggar-boys: there is not one of these subjects to be found in Spain, from St. Sebastian to Gibraltar! At Madrid, at Cadiz, but especially at Seville, one learns to know him as he is--that is, the great mystical religious painter of the seventeenth century, embodying in his wonderful conceptions all that is most sublime and ecstatic in devotion, and in the representation of divine love. The English minister, speaking of this one day to a lady of the party, explained it very simply, by saying that the English generally only carried off those of his works in which the Catholic feeling was not so strongly displayed. It would be hopeless to attempt to describe all his pictures in the Madrid Gallery. The Saviour and St. John, as boys, drinking out of a shell, is perhaps the most delicate and exquisite in coloring and expression; but the "Conception" surpasses all. No one should compare it with the Louvre pictures of the same subject. There is a refinement, a tenderness, and a beauty in the Madrid "Conception" entirely wanting in the one stolen by the French. Then there is Velasquez, with his inimitable portraits; full of droll originality, as the "AEsop;" or of deep historical interest, as his "Philip IV.;" or of sublime piety, as in his "Crucifixion," with the hair falling over one side of the Saviour's face, which the pierced and fastened hands cannot push aside: each and all are priceless treasures, and there must be sixty or seventy in that one long room. Ford says that "Velasquez is the Homer of the Spanish school, of which Murillo is the Virgil." Then there are Riberas, and Zurbarans, Divino Morales, Juan Joanes, Alonso Caño, and half-a-dozen other artists, whose very names are scarcely known out of Spain, and all of whose works are impregnated with that mystic, devotional self-sacrificing spirit which is the essence of Catholicism. The Italian school is equally magnificently represented. There are exquisite Raphaels, one especially, "La Perla," once belonging to our Charles I., and sold by the Puritans to the Spanish king; the "Spasimo," the "Vergin del Pesce," etc.; beautiful Titians, not only portraits, but one, a "Magdalen," which is unknown to us by engravings or photographs in England, where, in a green robe, she is flying from the assaults of the devil, represented by a monstrous dragon, and in which the drawing is as wonderful as the coloring; beautiful G. Bellinis, and Luinis, and Andrea del Sartos (especially one of his wife), and Paul Veronese, and others of the Venetian and Milanese schools. In a lower room there are Dutch and Flemish chefs-d'oeuvre without end: Rubens, and Vandyke, and Teniers, and Breughel, and Holbein, and the rest. It is a gallery bewildering from the number of its pictures, but with the rare merit of almost all being good; and they are so arranged that the visitor can see them with perfect comfort at any hour of the day. In the ante-room to the long gallery are some pictures of the present century, but none are worth looking at save Goya's pictures of the wholesale massacre of the Spanish prisoners by the French, which are not likely to soften the public feeling of bitterness and hostility toward that nation.

There is nothing very good in sculpture, only two of the antiques being worth looking at; but there is a fine statue of Charles V., and a wonderfully beautiful St. John of God, carrying a sick man out of the burning hospital on his back, which is modern, but in admirable taste. {168} Neglected, in some side cupboards, and several of them broken and covered with dust and dirt, are some exquisite tazzas of Benvenuto Cellini, D'Arphes, and Beceriles, in lapis, jade, agate, and enamel, finer than any to be seen even in the Grüne Gewölbe of Dresden. There is a gold mermaid, studded with rubies, and with an emerald tail, and a cup with an enamelled jewelled border and stand, which are perfectly unrivalled in beauty of workmanship. Then, in addition to this matchless gallery, Madrid has its "Academia," containing three of Murillo's most magnificent conceptions. One is "St. Elizabeth of Hungary," washing the wounds of the sick, her fair young face and delicate white hands forming a beautiful contrast with the shrivelled brown old woman in the foreground. The expression of the saint's countenance is that of one absorbed in her work and yet looking beyond it. [Footnote 41] The other is the "Dream," in which the Blessed Virgin appears to the founder of the church of St. Maria della Neve (afterward called St. Maria Maggiore) and his wife, and suggests to them the building of a church on a spot at Rome, which would be indicated to them by a fall of snow, though it was then in the month of August. In the third picture the founder and his wife are kneeling at the feet of the Pope, telling him of their vision, and imploring his benediction on their work. These two famous pictures were taken by Soult from Seville, and are of a lunette shape, being made to fit the original niche for which they were painted: both are unequalled for beauty of color and design, and have recently been magnificently engraved, by order of the government.

[Footnote 41: This picture was stolen from the Carldad, at Seville, by the French, and afterward sent back to Madrid, where it still remains.]

But apart from its galleries, Madrid is a disappointment; there is no antiquity or interest attached to any of its churches or public buildings. The daily afternoon diversion is the drive on the Prado; amusing from the crowd, perhaps, but where, with the exception of the nurses, all national costume has disappeared. There are scarcely any mantillas; but Faubourg St.-Germain bonnets, in badly assorted colors, and horrible and exaggerated crinolines, replacing the soft, black, flowing dresses of the south. It is, in fact, a bad _réchauffé_ of the Bois de Boulogne. The queen, in a carriage drawn by six or eight mules, surrounded by her escort, and announced by trumpeters, and the infantas, following in similar carriages, form the only "event" of the afternoon. Poor lady! how heartily sick she must be of this promenade! She is far more pleasing-looking than her pictures give her credit for, and has a frank kind manner which is an indication of her good and simple nature. Her children are most carefully brought up, and very well educated by the charming English authoress, Madame Calderon de la Barca, well known by her interesting work on Mexico. On Saturdays, the queen and the royal family always drive to Atocha, a church at the extreme end of the Prado, in vile taste, but containing the famous image of the Virgin, the patroness of Spain, to whom all the royalties are specially devoted. It is a black image, but almost invisible from the gorgeous jewels and dresses with which it is adorned.

One of the shows of Madrid is the royal stables, which are well worth a visit. There are upward of two hundred and fifty horses, and two hundred fine mules; the backs of the latter are invariably shaved down to a certain point, which gives them an uncomfortable appearance to English eyes, but is the custom throughout Spain. One lady writer asserts that "it is more modest!" There is a charming little stud belonging to the prince imperial, which includes two tiny mules not bigger than dogs, but in perfect proportions, about the size required to drag a perambulator. Some of the horses are English and thoroughbred, but a good many are of the heavy-crested Velasquez type. The carriages are of every date, and very curious. Among them is one in which Philip I. (le Bel) was said to have been poisoned, and in which his wife, Jeanne la Folle, still insisted on dragging him out, believing he was only asleep.

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More interesting to some of our party than horses and stables were the charitable institutions in Madrid, which are admirable and very numerous. It was on the 12th of November, 1856, that the Mère Dévos, afterward Mère Générale of the order of St. Vincent de Paul, started with four or five of her sisters of charity to establish their first house in Madrid. They had many hardships and difficulties to encounter, but loving perseverance conquered them all. The sisters now number between forty and fifty, distributed in three houses in different parts of the city, with more than one thousand children in their schools and orphanages, the whole being under the superintendence of the Soeur Gottofrey, the able and charming French "provincial" of Spain. The queen takes a lively interest in their success, and most of the ladies of her court are more or less affiliated to them. There are branch houses of these French sisters at Malaga, Granada, Barcelona, and other towns; and they are now beginning to undertake district visiting, as well as the care of the sick and the education of children--a proceeding which they were obliged to adopt with caution, owing to the strong prejudice felt in Spain toward any religious order's being seen outside their "clausura," and also toward their dress, the white cornette, which, to eyes unaccustomed to anything but black veils, appeared outrageous and unsuitable. The Spanish sisters of charity, though affiliated to them, following the rule of St. Vincent, and acknowledging N. T. H. Père Étienne as their superior, still refuse to wear the cornette, and substitute a simple white cap and black veil. These Spanish sisters have the charge of the magnificent Foundling Hospital, which receives upward or one thousand children; of the hospital called Las Recogidas, for penitence; of the General Hospital, where the sick are admirably cared for and to which is attached a wing for patients of an upper class, who pay a small sum weekly, and have all the advantages of the clever surgery and careful nursing of the hospital (an arrangement sadly needed in our English hospitals); of the Hospicio de St. Maria del Cármen, founded by private charity, for the old and incurables; of the infant school, or "salle d'asile," where the children are fed as well as taught; and of the Albergo dei Poveri, equivalent to what we should call a workhouse in England, but which we cannot desecrate by such a name when speaking of an establishment conducted on the highest and noblest rules of Christian charity, and where the orphans find not only loving care and tender watchfulness, but admirable industrial training, fitting them to fill worthily any employments to which their natural inclination may lead them. The Sacré Coeur have a large establishment for the education of the upper classes at Chaumartin de la Rosa, a suburb of Madrid, about four miles from the town. It was founded by the Marquesa de Villa Nueva, a most saint-like person, whose house adjoins, and in fact forms part of the convent--her bedroom leading into a tribune overlooking the chapel and the blessed sacrament. The view from the large garden, with the mountains on the one hand, and the stone pine woods on the other, is very pretty, and unlike anything else in the neighborhood of Madrid. The superior, a charming person, showed the ladies all over the house, which is large, commodious, and airy, and in which they have already upward of eighty pupils. They have a very pretty chapel, and in the parlor a very beautiful picture of St. Elizabeth, by a modern artist.

One more "lion" was visited before leaving Madrid, and that was the armory, which is indeed well worth a long and careful examination. The objects it contains are all of deep historical interest. {170} There is a collar-piece belonging to Philip II., with scenes from the battle of St. Quentin exquisitely carved; a helmet taken from the unfortunate Boabdil, the last Moorish king of Granada; beautiful Moorish arms and Turkish banners taken at the battle of Lepanto, in old Damascus inlaid-work; the swords of Boabdil, and of Ferdinand and Isabella; the armor of the Cid, of Christopher Columbus, of Charles V., of St. Ferdinand, and of Philip II.; the carriage of Charles V., looking like a large bassinet; exquisite shields, rapiers, swords, and helmets; some very curious gold ornaments, votive crowns, and crosses of the seventh century; and heaps of other treasures too numerous to be here detailed. But our travellers were fairly exhausted by their previous sight-seeing, and gladly reserved their examination of the rest to a future day. At all times, a return to a place is more interesting than a first visit; for in the latter one is oppressed by the feeling of the quantity to be seen and the short time there is to see it in, and so the intense anxiety and fatigue destroy half one's enjoyment of the objects themselves. That evening they were to leave the biting east winds of Madrid for the more genial climate of sunny Malaga; and so, having made sundry very necessary purchases, including mantillas and chocolate, and having eaten what turned out to be their last good dinner for a very long time, they started off by an eight o'clock train for Cordova, which was to be their halting place midway. On reaching Alcazar, about one o'clock in the morning, they had to change trains, as the one in which they were branched off to Valencia; and for two hours they were kept waiting for the Cordova train. Oh! the misery of those wayside stations in Spain! One long low room filled with smokers and passengers of every class, struggling for chocolate, served in dirty cups by uncivil waiters, with insufficient seats and scant courtesy: no wonder that the Spaniards consider our waiting-rooms real palaces. You have no alternative in the winter season but to endure this foetid, stifling atmosphere, and be blinded with smoke, or else to freeze and shiver outside, where there are no benches at all, and your only hope is to get a corner of a wall against which you can lean and be sheltered from the bitter wind. The arrival of the up train brought, therefore, unmixed joy to our party, who managed to secure a compartment to themselves without any smokers (a rare privilege in Spain), and thus got some sleep for a few hours. At six o'clock the train stopped, the railroad went no further; so the passengers turned out somewhat ruefully, in the cold, and gazed with dismay at the lumbering dirty diligences, looking as if they had come out of the Ark, which were drawn up, all in a row, at the station door, with ten, twelve, or fourteen mules harnessed to each, and by which they and their luggage were to be conveyed for the next eight hours. The station master was a Frenchman, and with great civility, during the lading of the diligences, gave up to the ladies his own tiny bedroom, and some fresh water to wash themselves a little, and make themselves comfortable after their long night journey, for there was no pretence of a waiting-room at this station.

Reader, did you ever go in a Spanish diligence? It was the first experience of most of our party of this means of locomotion, and at first seemed simply impossible. The excessive lowness of the carriages, the way in which the unhappy passengers are jammed in, either into the _coupé_ in front, or into the square box behind, unable to move or sit upright in either; while the mules plunge and start off in every direction but the right one, their drivers every instant jumping down and running by the side of the poor beasts, which they flog unmercifully, vociferating in every key; and that, not at first starting, but all the way, up hill and down dale, with an energy which is as inexhaustible as it is despairing, till either a pole cracks or a trace breaks, or some accident happens to a wheel, and the whole lumbering concern stops with a jerk and a lurch which threaten to roll everything and everybody into the gorge below. {171} Each diligence is accompanied by a "mayoral," or conductor, who has charge of the whole equipage, and is a very important personage. This functionary is generally gorgeously dressed, with embroidered jacket, scarlet sash round the waist, gaiters with silver buttons and hanging leather strips, and round his head a gay-colored handkerchief and a round black felt hat with broad brim and feather, or else of the kind denominated "pork pie" in England; he is here, there, and everywhere during the journey, arranging the places of the passengers, the stations for halts, and the like. Besides this dignitary, there is the "moto" or driver, whose business is to be perpetually jumping down and flogging the far-off mules into a trot, which he did with such cruelly that our travellers often hoped he would himself get into trouble in jumping up again, which, unfortunately, he was always too expert to do. Every mule has its name, and answers to it. They are harnessed two abreast, a small boy riding on the leaders; and it is on his presence of mind and skill that the guidance and safety of the whole team depend. On this occasion, the "mayoral" and "moto" leant with their backs against what was left of the windows of the _coupé_, which they instantly smashed, the cold wind rushed in, and the passengers were alternately splashed from head to foot with the mud cast up in their faces by the mules' heels, or choked and blinded with dust. For neither misfortune is there either redress or sympathy. The lower panels of the floor and doors have holes cut in them to let out the water and mud; but the same agreeable arrangement, in winter, lets in a wind which threatens to freeze off your feet as you sit. A small boy, who, it is to be supposed, was learning his trade, held on by his eyelids to a ledge below, and was perpetually assisting in screaming and flogging. A struggle at some kind of vain resistance, and then a sullen despair and a final making up one's mind that, after all, it can't last forever, are the phases through which the unhappy travellers pass during these agreeable diligence journeys. It was some little time before our party could get sufficiently reconciled to their misery to enjoy the scenery. But when they could look about them, they found themselves passing through a beautiful gorge, and up a zigzag road, like the lower spurs of an Alpine pass, over the Sierra Morena. Then began the descent, during which some of the ladies held their breath, expecting to be dashed over the parapet at each sharp turn in the road; the pace of the mules was never relaxed, and the unwieldy top-heavy mass oscillated over the precipice below in a decidedly unpleasant manner. Then they came into a fertile region of olives and aloes, and so on by divers villages and through roads which the late rains had made almost impassable, and in passing over which every bone in their bodies seemed dislocated in their springless vehicle, till, at two o'clock in the afternoon, they reached the station, where, to their intense relief, they again came upon a railroad. Hastily swallowing some doubtful chocolate, they established themselves once more comfortably in the railway carriage; but after being in the enjoyment of this luxury for half an hour, the train came, all of a sudden, to a stand-still; and the doors being opened, they were politely told that they must _walk_, as a landslip had destroyed the line for some distance. Coming at last to a picturesque town with a fine bridge over the Guadalquiver, they were allowed once more to take their seats in the carriages, and finally arrived at Cordova at eight o'clock at night, after twenty-four hours of travelling, alternating from intense cold to intense heat, very tired indeed, horribly dusty and dirty, and without having had any church all day.

To be continued

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From All the Year Round.

Looking Down The Road.

In the early spring-time My long watch began; Through the daisied meadows Merry children ran; Happy lovers wandered Through the forest deep, Seeking mossy corners Where the violets sleep. I in one small chamber Patiently abode-- At my garret window Looking down the road.

Watching, watching, watching, For what came not back! Summer marked in flowers All her sunny track, Hid the dim blue distance With her robe of green, Bathed the nearer meadows In a golden sheen. Full the fierce sure arrows Glanced and gleamed and glowed On my garret window Looking down the road.

Watching, watching, watching, Oh! the pain of hope! Autumn's shadows lengthened On the breezy slope; Groups of tired reapers Led the loaded wains From the golden meadows, Through the dusky lanes; Home-returning footsteps O'er the pathway strode-- Not the one I looked for. Coming down the road.

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Winter stripped the branches Of the roadside tree: But the frosty hours Brought no change for me-- Save that I could better, Through the branches brown. See the tired travellers Coming from the town. Pitiless December Rained and hailed and snowed. On my garret window Looking down the road.

At the last I saw it (Not the form I sought), Something brighter, purer, Blessed my sleeping thought. 'Twas a white-robed angel-- At his steadfast eyes Paled the wild-fire brightness Of old memories. Nearer drew the vision, While with bated breath Some one seemed to whisper, The Deliverer, "Death." Then my dreaming spirit, Eased of half its load, Saw the white wings lessen Down the dusty road.

God has soothed my sorrow, He has purged my sin; Earthly hopes have perished-- Heavenly rest I win. Dull and dead endurance Is no portion here; I am strong to labor, And my rest is near. Lifting my dull glances From the fields below, So the light of heaven Settles on my brow. O my God. I thank thee, Who that angel showed, From my garret window Looking down the road.

{174}

Original.

Father Ignatius of St. Paul,[Footnote 42]

Hon. and Rev. George Spencer.

[Footnote 42: Life of F. Ignatius of St. Paul, Passionist. By the Rev. F. Pius a Sancto, Passionist. 1 vol. 12mo. Dublin, James Duffy.]

Fresh from the perusal of this book, we would gladly convey to others the agreeable impression it has left on our imagination. It is an interesting and impartial biography, full of pleasant incidents, simply narrated; with the view of throwing light upon the character of F. Ignatius, and not upon the personal views of his biographer. But we would rather dwell upon its value as the life of a saintly man, whose circumstances were so nearly akin to those of common Christians that no one can assert the impossibility of imitating his example. We have observed, in reading the lives of the saints, that one must himself be a saint to appreciate them aright. Generally severed from us (to our shame be it spoken) by time, race, and national habits, we are startled by strange details, and while wondering over individual idiosyncrasies we lose sight of the heroic purity of intention that hallowed almost every action of their mature lives.

In F. Ignatius we have a warm-hearted, frank, humorous Englishman, whose memory is fresh in the hearts of thousands now living. Though belonging to one of the noblest families in England, his training was simple, and his position as rector in a country parish was not so dazzling as to set him above the sympathies of those who read his life. His natural virtues were weighed down by a love of approbation that has ruined many a soul before now. He was accomplished, but not learned. Keen, sympathetic, and perceptive, but neither a philosopher nor a logician. In short, he was not set apart from the rest of humanity by any natural endowment; and yet one lays down his biography with a sense of having made acquaintance with one of the remarkable men of this century. Why? We cannot but suppose that it was because he placed every faculty under the guidance of God, who worked wonders with capacities by no means rare; and from an unready utterance brought forth fruits of conversion that probably surprised no one so much as the preacher himself.

Hon. George Spencer was the youngest child of John George, Earl Spencer, and Lavinin, daughter of Sir Charles Bingham, afterward Earl of Lucan.

Earl Spencer was successively member of parliament, one of the lords of the treasury, and first lord of the admiralty, succeeding Lord Chatham in the last-named office in the year 1794. It was while Earl Spencer was lord of the admiralty, in London, December 21, 1799, that the subject of our narrative first saw the light, or what goes by the name of light, during a December in London.

His first recollections, oddly enough, are of his six-year-old birthday, when his sister's governess, a Swiss lady, took him aside as for serious conversation, and told him of the existence of God, and some other truths of religion. Possibly he had heard these things before, but the room at Althorp where the scene took place, and the tender solicitude of the lady's manner, were ever after imprinted on his memory as if connected with a momentous occasion.

{175}

At nine years old, with his favorite brother, Frederick, be was carried in a grand equipage to Eton, and placed under the charge of a private tutor, the Rev. Richard Godley, who lived at the "Wharf," about half a mile from the college buildings. Mr. Godley's rule was a severe but blessed one, and young Spencer owed four years of marvellous innocence to its restrictions. "Egyptian bondage" he thought it, poor little fellow, that several times a day, summer and winter, be must run across the playgrounds to report himself to the tutor. He lived between two fires: the wrath of elder boys who called upon him to fag for them as he rushed through the cricket-ground, and the terror of Mr. Godley's awful countenance if he and Frederick arrived a few minutes late. "As might be expected," he says, in his autobiography, "the more we were required to observe rules and customs different from others, the more did a certain class of big bullies in the school seem to count it their especial business to watch over us, as though they might be our evil geniuses. A certain set of faces, consequently, I looked upon with a kind of mysterious dread, and I was under a constant sense of being as though in an enemy's country, obliged to guard against dangers on all sides. Shrinking and skulking became my occupation beyond the ordinary lot of little schoolboys, and my natural disposition to be cowardly and spiritless was perhaps increased. I say perhaps, for other circumstances might have made me worse; for what I was in the eyes of the masters of public opinion in the school I really was--a chicken-hearted creature, what in Eton language is called a _sawney_. It may be that had I been from the first in free intercourse among the boys, instead of being a good innocent one I might have been, what I suppose must be reckoned one of the worst varieties of public school characters, a mean, dishonorable one."

The experiment of close contact with other boys was too soon to be tried. Mr. Godley's influence appeared to be dangerously evangelical. "The Pilgrim's Progress" and "Alleine's Alarm" were recommended to George by his tutor's sisters, and did not find favor at Althorp in the holidays. We next hear of him at the Rev. ----'s, performing most of the duties of a footman to one or two big boys, and enduring initiation in the iniquities of public school-life. Everyone knows how valuable a prize to youthful tyrants is a child in whom innocence and moral cowardice are combined; and such a prize was George Spencer, blushing at immodest words, and ignorant of the nice distinction between thieving and orchard robbing that exists in the minds of school-boys only. Evening after evening the little boys' rooms were invaded, their occupations broken up, and persecution carried on against one or other of their set. For a little while Spencer used to find a little time of peace when, after such a turmoil, be got into bed, said his prayers, and cried himself to sleep. But the atmosphere was anti-religious, and in the course of ten days be had given up all attempt to pray. A moment of bitter self reproach awaited him. One day he was present when one of the rudest of his tormentors was dressing himself. "To my surprise," he says, "he turned to me, and with his usual civility said some such words as 'Now hold your jaw,' and then, down on his knees near the bed, and his face between his hands, said his prayers. I then saw for a moment to what I had fallen, when even this fellow had more religion than unhappy I had retained, but I had no grain of strength now left to rise. ..."

"When I had ceased attempting to maintain my pious feelings, the best consolation I had was in the company of a few boys of a spirit congenial to what mine was now become. All the time that I remained at Eton I never learnt to take pleasure in the manly, active games for which it is so famous. It is not that I was without some natural talent for such things. {176} I have since had my time of most ardent attachment to cricket, to tennis, shooting, hunting, and all active exercises: but my spirit was bent down at Eton; and among the boys who led the way in all manly pursuits, I was always shy and miserable, which was partly a cause and partly an effect of my being looked down upon by them. My pleasure there was in being with a few boys like myself, without spirit for these things, retired apart from the sight of others, amusing ourselves with making arbors and catching little fishes in the streams; and many were the hours I wasted in such childish things when I was grown far too old for them.

"Oh! the happiness of a Catholic child, whose inmost soul is known to one whom God has charged with his salvation. Supposing I had been a Catholic child in such a situation--if such a supposition be possible--the pious feelings with which God inspired me would have been under the guidance of a tender spiritual father, who would have supplied exactly what I needed, when about to fall under the sense of unassisted weakness which I have described. He would have taught me to be innocent and firm in the midst of my trials, which would then have tended to exalt instead of oppressing my character. I would have kept my character not only clear in the sight of God, but honorable among my fellows, who soon would have given up their persecution when they found me steadfast; and I might have brought with me in the path of peace and justice many whom I followed in the dark ways of sin. But it is in vain to calculate on what I might have been had I been then a Catholic. God be praised, my losses I may yet recover, and perhaps even reap advantages from them."

So much for the sad and puny childhood of one who in after-life freed himself absolutely from the bondage of public opinion. He who can truly say, "Tu solus Domine!" has reached the sublimest height of dignity and freedom.

If George Spencer's early years gave small promise of moral heroism, still less would his youth lead one to look for great virtues in him. His autobiography tells us that he yielded to the degrading temptations of student life at Cambridge, not from inclination so much as because other men set him the example. Two years of misery he endured, too, from the fear that a courteous and merited apology made by him to a gentleman whom he had unwittingly offended might have laid him open to the charge of cowardice.

As a scholar he ranked high, and held, at the same time, a good place among athletes; thus showing advance in mind and body, while his soul was still cramped by the fear of ridicule.

Then comes the continental tour, made after a grand and uninteresting fashion; courier, servants, maids, and family physician. George's journal is full of the sneers with which a well-bred English tourist is wont to exorcise the demon of popery. He is much amused at the street-preaching of a passionist father in Terracina; little dreaming that one day he himself would perform the duties of a _svegliarino_, and with only partial success too.

One admires constantly the good sense and high tone of Lord and Lady Spencer. Invaluable was the example they gave their children; wonderful to an American reader, the sway they exercised over their grown-up sons.

Soon after returning to England, Mr. Spencer took orders and entered upon the life of a country clergyman. By fulfilling in person the arduous duties which are too often left to a curate, he gave evidence of true nobility of character; but so deficient in judgment and in deference to superiors was his general conduct, that the world wondered more at his lack of common sense than at his courage. Viewed from the present time, the germs of sanctity are plainly visible in these vague struggles after perfection. He practised great mortifications, concealing them as far as was possible. He inveighed against tepidity wherever shown with an independence as valiant as it was unpleasant to the objects of his condemnation. No very comfortable member of a diocese was the Hon. Mr. Spencer in those days. Bishop Bloomfield, his former tutor, bore his vagaries with fatherly patience, and, looking through the mist of Methodism that hung about his views, acutely detected the true difficulty, and recommended as a cure The Poor Man's Preservative against Popery, by Blanco White. {177} On one occasion when Dr. Bloomfield read prayers in his own church, St. Botolph's, Bishopsgate, Mr. Spencer, who was invited to preach, took the occasion to explain these evangelical views of religion, intimating that the congregation were not in the habit of hearing the gospel fully and faithfully expounded. The bishop was wounded, but he only said: "George, how could you preach such a sermon as that? In future I must look over your sermon before you go into the pulpit."

Here is a scrap from his journal about the same time, 1824, or thereabout: "The Bishop of Bristol preached in the morning for the schools a sermon worthy of Plato rather than St. Paul." And another day: "Went with all speed to Craven chapel, where I heard Irving, the Scotch minister, preach nearly two hours. I was greatly delighted with his eloquence and stout Christian doctrine, though his manner is most blamably extravagant." And again: "I went with Mr. A---- and Miss B---- to hear Mrs. Fry perform, and was delighted to hear her expounding to the prisoners in Newgate."

Among evangelical believers, Mr. Spencer found an energy and a missionary spirit which harmonized with his own zealous nature. In theological matters he was dissatisfied whithersoever he turned. In 1822, soon after being made deacon, his early tendencies to high church principles had received a blow from which they never recovered. He shall tell the circumstances in his own simple words.

"I was at the time living at Althorp, my Father's principal residence in the country, serving as a curate to the parish to which it was attached, though the park itself is extraparochial. Among the visitors who resorted there was one of the most distinguished scholars of the day, to whom, as to many more of the Anglican Church, I owe a debt of gratitude for the interest which he took in me, and for the help I actually received from him in the course of inquiry, which has happily terminated in the haven of the true church. I should like to make a grateful and honorable mention of his name, but as this has been found fault with I forbear, [Footnote 43] I was one day explaining to him with earnestness the line of argument which I was pursuing with dissenters, and my hopes from it; I suppose I expected encouragement, such as I had received from many others. But he simply and candidly said: 'These would be very convenient doctrines if we could make use of them, but they are available only for Roman Catholics; they will not serve us.' I saw in a moment the truth of his remark, and his character and position gave it additional weight. I did not answer him; but as a soldier who has received what he feels to be a mortal wound will suddenly stand still, and then quietly retire out of the mélée, and seek a quiet spot to die in, so I went away with my high churchism mortally wounded in the very prime of its vigor and youth, to die forever to the character of an Anglican high churchman. Why did not this open my eyes, you will say, to the truth of Catholicity? I answer, simply because my early prejudices were too strong. The unanswerable remark of my friend was like a _reductio ad absurdum_ of all high church ideas. If they were true, the Catholic would be so; which is absurd, as I remember Euclid would say, 'Therefore,' etc. The grand support of the high church system, church authority, having been thus overthrown, it was an easy though gradual work to get out of my mind all its minor details and accomplishments, one after another; such as regard for holy places, for holy days, for consecrated persons, for ecclesiastical writers; finally, almost all definite dogmatic notions. It would seem that all was slipping away, when, coming to the conviction of the truth of Catholicity, some years after, it was with extraordinary delight I found myself picking up again the shattered dispersed pieces of the beautiful fabric, and placing them now in better order on the right foundation, solid and firm, no longer exposed to such a catastrophe as had upset my card-castle of Anglican churchhmanship."

[Footnote 43: This distinguished scholar was Dr. Elmaly.]

The divided state of his own parish occupied Mr. Spencer's thoughts, and he devoted himself to winning dissenters into the fold by other means than high church arguments. He tried to stretch open the gates of the establishment so as to admit all classes of religionists to her communion. Another system seemed more likely to prove efficacious, namely, the beautiful example he set of devotion in his parish; making great sacrifices for the poor, and qualifying himself to perform the offices of a physician to the body as well as to the soul.

{178}

But new difficulties were in store for him in matters of faith. The Athanasian creed begins to disturb him, not because of its doctrines, but because of the condemnatory clauses at the beginning and end. He is now rector of Brington, with excellent prospects of advancement. Is he not bound to resign his position, since he cannot agree in full with the Establishment? "No," says the Bishop of Peterborough; "there is a difference between an open attack upon the liturgy and thirty-nine articles, and the entertaining of private doubts to be confided to a friend with the hope of having them removed. It would have been a sufficient cause for choosing another profession than that of the ministry; but, being already in holy orders, it is not a sufficient reason for resignation." "No," said Dr. Blomfield; "it is one thing to doubt the truth of a doctrine, and another to believe it false. Besides, the Protestant Church does not pretend to pronounce a sentence of condemnation like the Church of Rome. These clauses are merely intended to assert the truth of certain dogmas very emphatically."

That this line of argument was not convincing it is easy to see. The result was that Mr. Spencer informed his superiors that he should give up reading the Athanasian creed in his church. Then feeling certain that he was no longer in danger of promotion, he threw himself with renewed ardor into the work of reconciling all sects to each other.

His family as a last resource bethought them of marrying him to a lady who had charmed him in his college days. No; his conviction was that he ought not to marry. One pities the disappointment of Lord and Lady Spencer. This son, whom they had placed in an admirable position in life, who had every attraction of manner and person that could insure worldly success, seemed determined to thwart their efforts for his happiness, and to disappoint parental ambition. But they little imagined how far his reckless unworldliness would finally carry him.

On the 23d of November, 1827, when he returned from his parochial visitation, he found a letter purporting to come from a gentlemen in Lille, who was "grievously troubled about the arguments for popery." Ever desirous to strengthen the wavering, Rev. Mr. Spencer entered into a long correspondence, which resulted in a promise on his own part to follow his correspondent into the Catholic Church if he would acknowledge his true name and pause awhile before joining the Catholics. He tells us:

"I heard no more of him till after my conversion and arrival at Rome, when I discovered that my correspondent was a lady, who had herself been converted a short time before she wrote to me. I never heard her name before (Miss Dolling), nor am I aware that she had ever seen me; but God moved her to desire and pray for my salvation, which she also undertook to bring about in the way I have related. I cannot say that I entirely approve of the stratagem to which she had recourse, but her motive was good, and God gave success to her attempt, for it was this that first directed my attention particularly to inquire about the Catholic religion, though she lived not to know the accomplishment of her wishes and prayers. She died at Paris, a year before my conversion, when about to take the veil as a nun of the Sacred Heart; and I trust I have in her an intercessor in heaven, as she prayed for me so fervently on earth."

Not being restrained, as was Mr. Spencer, by a sense of personal gratitude, we may be allowed to express entire disapproval of the stratagem of the "Maid of Lille." Like most other plots, it was quite unnecessary. Rev. Mr. Spencer would have listened with profound attention to any person who claimed to possess the truth, and it was offering him an indignity to trick him into attention, as foolish mothers decoy their children to the dentist's.

None the less, however, were Miss Dolling's arguments strong and convincing: "That Scripture without tradition is quite insufficient for salvation. {179} We cannot know anything about the Scriptures themselves, their composition, inspiration, interpretation, without tradition. Besides, the New Testament was not the text-book of the apostles. It is a collection of some things they were inspired to write for the edification of the first Christians and others who had not seen our Lord; and the epistles are a number of letters from inspired men bound up together in one volume. The body of doctrine, with its bearings, symmetry, extent, and obligation, was delivered orally by the apostles, and the epistles must be consonant to that system as well as explanatory of portions of it. Only by the unbroken succession of pastors from the apostles to the present time can we have any safeguard as to what we shall believe, and how we are to believe. The apostles and their successors were 'to teach all nations,' and Christ promised them, and them alone, the unerring guide of the Holy Spirit." She then assigns to tradition the office of bearing testimony to what the doctrines of the church have been and are at present. The definitions of councils are simple declarations that such and such is the belief then, and from the beginning of the Catholic Church. They state what is, not invent what is to be. Now, history or written tradition, as contradistinguished from Scripture, testifies to every simple tenet of the Catholic Church--her creeds, liturgy, sacraments, jurisdiction. It testifies unerringly, too, even from the objections of heretics, to the fact that this church has been always believed divine in her origin, divine in her teaching, infallible and unerring in her solemn pronouncements. This is fact, and who can gainsay it?

Toward the end of the year 1829, Rev. Mr. Spencer made the acquaintance of Mr. Ambrose Lisle Phillips, who was then seventeen years old. A few weeks later he visited this new friend at Garendon Park, Loughbro', a visit the result of which is best given in his own words:

"On Sunday, Jan. 24, 1830, I preached in my church, and in the evening took leave of my family for the week, intending to return on the Saturday following to my ordinary duties at home. But our Lord ordered better for me. During the week I spent on this visit, I passed many hours daily in conversation with Phillips, and was satisfied beyond all my expectations with the answers he gave to the different questions I proposed about the principal tenets and practices of the Catholics. During the week we were in company with several other Protestants, and among them some distinguished clergymen of the Church of England, who occasionally joined in our discussions. I was struck with observing how the advantage always appeared on his side in the arguments which took place between them, notwithstanding their superior age and experience; and I saw how weak was the cause in behalf of which I had hitherto been engaged; I felt ashamed of arguing any longer against what I began to see clearly could not be fairly disproved. I now openly declared myself completely shaken, and, though I determined to take no decided step until I was entirely convinced, I determined to give myself no rest till I was satisfied, and had little doubt now of what the result would be. But yet I thought not how soon God would make the truth clear to me. I was to return home, as I have said, on Saturday. Phillips agreed to accompany me on the day previous to Leicester, where we might have further conversation with Father Caestryck, the Catholic missionary established in that place. I imagined that I might take some weeks longer for consideration, but Mr. Caestryck's conversation that afternoon overcame all my opposition. He explained to me, and made me see, that the way to come at the knowledge of the true religion is not to contend, as men are disposed to do, about each individual point, but to submit implicitly to the authority of Christ, and of those to whom he has committed the charge of his flock. He set before me the undeniable but wonderful fact of the agreement of the Catholic Church all over the world, in one faith, under one head; he showed me the assertions of Protestants that the Catholic Church had altered her doctrines were not supported by evidence; he pointed out the wonderful, unbroken chain of the Roman pontiffs; he observed to me how in all ages the church, under their guidance, had exercised an authority, indisputed by her children, of cutting off from her communion all who opposed her faith and disobeyed her discipline. I saw that her assumption of this power was consistent with Christ's commission to his apostles to teach all men to the end of the world; and his declaration that those who would not hear the pastors of his church rejected him. What right, then, thought I, had Luther and his companions to set themselves against the united voice of the church? {180} I saw that he rebelled against the authority of God when he set himself up as an independent guide. He was bound to obey the Catholic Church--how then should I not be equally bound to return to it? And need I fear that I should be led into error by trusting to those guides to whom Christ himself thus directed me? No! I thought this impossible. Full of these impressions, I left Mr. Caestryck's house to go to my inn, whence I was to to return home next morning. Phillips accompanied me, and took this last occasion to impress on me the awful importance of the decision which I was called upon to make. At length I answered:

"'I am overcome. There is no doubt of the truth. One more Sunday I will preach to my congregation, and then put myself into Mr. Foley's hands, and conclude this business.'

"It may be thought with what joyful ardor he embraced this declaration, and warned me to declare my sentiments faithfully in these my last discourses. The next minute led me to this reflection: Have I any right to stand in that pulpit, being once convinced that the church is heretical to which it belongs? Am I safe in exposing myself to the danger which may attend one day's travelling while I turn my back on the church of God, which now calls upon me to unite myself to her forever? I said to Phillips, 'If this step is right for me to take next week, it is my duty to take it now. My resolution is made; to-morrow I will be received into the church.' We lost no time in despatching a messenger to my father, to inform him of this unexpected event. As I was forming my last resolution, the thought of him came across me; will it not be said that I endanger his very life by so sudden and severe a shock? The words of our Lord rose before me and answered all my doubts: 'He that hateth not father and mother, and brothers and sisters, and houses and lands, and his own life too, cannot be my disciple.' To the Lord, then, I trusted for the support and comfort of my dear father under the trial which, in obedience to his call, I was about to inflict upon him. I had no further anxiety to disturb me. God alone knows the peace and joy with which I laid me down that night to rest. The next day, at nine o'clock, the church received me for her child."

Far from finding himself harshly received by his family after his conversion, Mr. Spencer's domestic relations remained quite undisturbed. It was in the early days of conversions in England; Tractarianism was in its very infancy, and Earl Spencer had always shown kindness to Catholics, as to a vanquished enemy.

When his son returned from Rome as a priest in 1832 and took possession of his parish at West Bromwich, one of the poorest in the diocese, Lord Spencer made ample provision for his support. In 1834 this excellent nobleman died, and with the legacy left by him to Father Spencer, several churches and missions were established. It was a theory of Father Spencer's that the evangelical counsels could be practiced as well in the world as in a religious life. In order to carry out this experiment he placed all his possessions at the command of Right Rev. Dr. Walsh, his bishop, who appointed an _économe_ to supply his necessities and those of his church.

That his conversion was not allowed to pass without sharp criticism from Protestants can be easily imagined. He was pensive partly by nature, partly, perhaps, from the feeling that his actions were misunderstood by his old companions and friends. All the more attractive was the quaint humor that lighted up his conversation. "One day when speaking with a brother priest with sad earnestness about the spiritual destitution of the poor people around him, who neither knew God nor would listen to those who were willing to teach them, a poor woman knocked at the sacristy door, and was ordered to come in; she fell on her knees very reverently to get Father Spencer's blessing as soon as she approached him. His companion observed that this poor woman reminded him of the mother of the sons of Zebedee, who came to our Savior _adorans_. 'Yes,' replied Father Spencer, with a very arch smile, 'and not only _adorans_, but _petens aliquid ab eo_.'"

Though so harshly handled sometimes by Protestants, Mr. Spencer exercised a forbearance toward them that all converts would do well to imitate. Remembering his own honest delusions, he attributed sincerity to the adherents of every sect. {181} "Some were supposing once in his presence that it was impossible for followers of Joanna Southcote, and the like, not to be fully aware that they were being deluded. Father Ignatius said it was not so, and related a peculiar case that he witnessed himself. He happened to be passing through Birmingham, and had occasion to enter a shop there to order something. The shopkeeper asked him if he had heard of the great light that had arisen in these modern times. He said no. 'Well, then,' repeated the shopman, 'here, sir, is something to enlighten you,' handing him a neatly got up pamphlet. He had not time to glance at the title when his friend behind the counter ran on at a great rate in a speech something to the following effect: That the four gospels were all figures and myths, that the epistles were only faint foreshadowings of the real sun of justice that was now at length arisen. The Messias was come in the person of a Mr. Ward, and he would see the truth demonstrated beyond the possibility of a doubt by looking at the gospel he held in his hand. While the shopman was expressing hopes of converting him, he took the opportunity of looking at the pamphlet, and found that all this new theory of religion was built upon a particular way of printing the text: _'Glory be to God on high, and on earth peace to--Ward's men._' On turning away in disgust from his fruitless remonstrances with this specimen of _Ward's men_, he found some of _Ward's women_, also, in the same place, and overheard them exclaiming: 'Oh, little England knows what a treasure they have in ---- jail!' The pretended Messias happened to be in prison for felony at the time." He declared that these poor creatures were entirely sincere and earnest in the faith they had in this malefactor.

This belief in the genuineness of all kinds of religious convictions, joined to his passionate love of country, led Father Spencer to engage in the great work of his life--the forming of an Association of Prayers for the Conversion of England. Mr. Phillips joined with him heartily in the project, and it was a new element of joy in their beautiful friendship. From the year 1838 to the day of his death, Father Spencer labored unceasingly for this end. Many persons grew sick of the very sound of the words, and did not hesitate to tell him so either; but through praise, blame, success, or ridicule he labored unceasingly,--and works now, we may be sure, in heaven this very day for the same end. Who can doubt that such petitions will be granted?

After nine years of hardship, persecution, and loving labor as a parish priest, Father Spencer was called to Oscott College to take charge of the spiritual affairs of the students.

By education he was well suited to hold so distinguished a position. He was admirably versed in the French, Italian, and German languages; a good classical and mathematical scholar of course (having been a first-class Cambridge man), and well read both in Protestant and Catholic theology. His intercourse with the young men was very charming. He would make up a game at cricket, go heartily into all their youthful sports, and even give lessons to beginners. In spiritual matters he had a very fascinating way of throwing a certain poetry into what is usually considered the prosaic part of priestly duties. Between these two moods there was a third, in which, with a kindly assumption of equality, as it were, he would take them into his interests as genially as he entered into theirs.

In 1844 Father Spencer went abroad for his health, and accomplished much for the Association of Prayers. In the following year he returned to England, and entered at once into retreat under the direction of Father Thomas Clarke, S.J., in Hodder place. From this retreat he came forth with a fixed determination to join the order of the Passionists, lately established in England by his friend Padre Domenico. How happy the results of this decision were the following pages will show.

{182}

The Congregation of the Passion was founded by Blessed Paul of the Cross about the middle of the last century, and approved by Benedict XIV., Clement XIV., and Pius VI. Its object is to work for the sanctification of the souls of the faithful; to which end it uses, not only preaching and the sacraments, but the diffusion of devotion to the passion of Christ. This work is accomplished by means of missions, retreats, and parish work in passionist houses. If necessary, the fathers take charge of a parish; otherwise they work in their own churches as missioners. They teach only their own younger members, and they go on foreign missions when sent by the Holy Father or the Propaganda.

"To keep the members of an order always ready for their out-door work," says F. Pius, "there are certain rules for their interior life which may be likened to the drill or parade of soldiers in their quarters. This discipline varies according to the spirit of each order.

"The idea of a passionist's work will lead us to expect what his discipline must be. The spirit of a passionist is a spirit of atonement. He says with St. Paul: 'I rejoice in my sufferings, and fill up those things that are wanting of the sufferings of Christ in my flesh for his body, which is the church.' Coloss. i.24. For this cause the interior life of a passionist is rather austere. He has to rise shortly after midnight from a bed of straw to chaunt matins and lauds, and spend some time in meditation. He has two hours more meditation during the day, and altogether about five hours of choir work in the twenty-four. He fasts and abstains from flesh meat three times in the week, all the year round, besides Lent and Advent. He is clad in a coarse black garment; wears sandals instead of shoes; and practises other acts of penance of minor importance.

"This seems rather a hard life; but an ordinary constitution does not find the least difficulty in complying with the letter of the rule. It is withal a happy, cheerful life; for it seems the nature of penance to make the heart of the penitent light and gladsome, 'rejoicing in suffering.'"

The fathers are bound by these rules only when living in the houses of their order. Outside they accommodate themselves to circumstances and take life as they find it; not very easy, as we shall see by the experiences of F. Ignatius. The superior has, moreover, the right to relax the rule for those who are ill or overworked.

At forty-seven Hon. and Rev. George Spencer entered upon this austere life. There was little to attract human nature to the order. Four foreigners, living in a wretched house, friendless and nearly penniless, were the principal occupants of Aston Hall, and even this unenviable position they had reached only after four years of labor and trial.

The noble novice submitted to more than ordinary tests of vocation. Rank, age, and education made him especially the object of distrust to F. Constantine, master of novices, who knew that true kindness must turn the rough side of discipline to a candidate for admission.

"A day or two after his arrival he was ordered to wash down an old dirty flight of stairs. He tucked up his sleeves and fell to using his brush, tub, and soapsuds with as much zest and good-will as if he had been a maid-of-all-work. Of course he was no great adept at this sort of employment, and probably his want of skill drew down some sharp rebukes from his overseer. Some tender-hearted religious never could forget the sight of this venerable ecclesiastic, trying to scour the crevices and crannies to the satisfaction of his new master. He got through it well and took the corrections so beautifully that in a few days he was voted to the habit."

A little suffering there was for F. Ignatius (as we must now call him) from homesickness and the difficulty of adapting himself to the small items of novice discipline. Chilled feet, a hard bed, and meagre diet were not quite easy to bear. But his hardest trial was the consideration of his companions, who tried to spare him humiliations, and take upon themselves works that seemed degrading for one of his standing. Austerities were soon forgotten, but dispensations were true afflictions to one whose wish with regard to life was ceaseless labor, and with regard to death "to die unseen and unknown in a ditch."

{183}

The story of his fifteen years of religious life is beautifully told by his biographer. Only under the restrain& of a religious role did his gifts and virtues receive their right development. It was like a second youth, a second training for life; undue impetuosity was restrained, zeal, generosity, charity, tenderness, all found an object and a wise direction. Surely never was sanctity made more attractive than in the person of the noble and gentle F. Ignatius. Great was the rejoicing among postulants and novices when his arrival was announced at any one of the passionist houses. Anecdote, mirth, kind and sympathizing intercourse were in store for the recreation wherever he appeared, clad in his coarse attire, with a brace of rough drogget bags slung over his broad shoulders. The journey had been made, they might be sure, in the third-class cars, "because there was no fourth class." The spirit of holy poverty had grown to be a sort of passion with him, only to be surpassed by his zeal for the salvation of souls. He treated himself, and wished others to treat him, like a beggar; thankful for any favor, but cheerfully submissive to refusal. When he had a long journey before him, if anyone offered him a "lift" in a cart or wagon, he gladly accepted it; if not, he was quite contented. He seldom refused a meal when travelling, and would ask for something to eat at any house upon the road, if necessary. At home he generally washed and mended his own clothes, and when he was superior would allow no one to perform menial offices for him. In dress he dreaded overnicety, and would as gladly wear a cast-off tartan as anything else, if it did not tend to throw discredit upon his order. For several years he wore an old mantle belonging to a religious who had died, and only left it off at the desire of the provincial. This was by no means his natural bent. Those who knew him as a young man say that he would hunt through the hosiers' shops in a dozen streets in London to find articles that could satisfy his fastidious taste. But, to return to the pleasure which his presence in a community always gave:

"His visits at home were like meteor flashes, bright and beautiful, and always made us regret that we could not enjoy his edifying company for a longer time. Those who are much away on the external duties of the order find the rule a little severe when they return; to Father Ignatius it seemed a small heaven of refreshing satisfaction. His coming home was usually announced to the community a day or two before, and all were promising themselves rare treats from his presence among them. It was cheering to see the porter run in beaming with joy as he announced the glad tidings, 'Father Ignatius is come!' The exuberance of his own delight, as he greeted first one and then another of his companions, added to our own joy. In fact the day Father Ignatius came home almost became a holiday by custom. Those days were; and we feel inclined to tire our readers by expatiating on them, as if writing brought them back.

"Whenever he arrived at one of our houses, and had a day or two to stay, it was usual for the younger religious, such as novices and students, to go to him, one by one, for conference. He liked this very much, and would write to higher superiors for permission to turn off at Broadway, for instance, on his way to London, in order to make acquaintance with the young religious. His counsels had often a lasting effect; many who were inclined to leave the life they had chosen remained steadfast after a conference with him. He did not give commonplace solutions to difficulties, but he had some peculiar phrase, some quaint axiom, some droll piece of spirituality to apply to every little trouble that came before him. He was specially happy in his fund of anecdote, and could tell one, it was believed, on any subject that came before him. This extraordinary gift of conversational power made the conferences delightful. The novices, when they assembled for recreation, and gave their opinions on F. Ignatius, whom many had spoken to for the first time in their life, nearly all would conclude, 'If ever there was a saint, he's one.'

"It was amusing to observe how they prepared themselves for forming their opinion. They all heard of his being a great saint, and some fancied he would eat nothing at all for one day, and might attempt a little vegetables on the next. One novice, in particular, had made up his mind to this, and to his great surprise he saw Father Ignatius eat an extra good breakfast; and when about to settle into a rash judgment, he saw the old man preparing to walk seven miles to a railway station on the strength of his meal. Another novice thought such a saint would never laugh or make anyone else laugh; to his agreeable disappointment, he found that Father Ignatius brought more cheerfulness into the recreation than had been there for some time. {184} We gathered around him, by a kind of instinct, and so entertaining was he that one felt it a mortification to be called away from the recreation room while Father Ignatius was in it. He used to recount with peculiar grace and fascinating wit scenes he went through in his life. There is scarcely an anecdote in this book we have not heard him relate. He was most ingenuous. Ask him what question you pleased, he would answer it if he knew it. In relating an anecdote he often spoke in five or six different tones of voices; he imitated the manner and action of those he knew to such perfection that laughter had to pass into admiration. He seldom laughed outright, and even if he did he would very soon stop. If he came across a number of Punch, he ran over some of the sketches at once and then he would be observed to stop, laugh, and lay it down at once as if to deny himself further enjoyment. It is needless to say there was nothing rollicking or off-handed in his wit--never; it was subdued, sweet, delicate, and lively. ... In fact, a recreation presided over by Father Ignatius was the most innocent and gladsome one could imagine.

"In one thing Father Ignatius did not go against anticipation, he was most exact in the observance of our rules. He would always be the first in for midnight office. Many a time the younger portion of the community used to make arrangements over night to be in before him, but it was no use. Once, indeed, a student arrived in choir before him, and Father Ignatius appeared so crestfallen at being beaten that the student would never be in before him again, and would delay on the way if he thought Father Ignatius had not yet passed. He seemed particularly happy when he could light the lamps or gas for matins. He was child-like in his obedience. He would not transgress the most trifling regulation. It was usual with him to say, 'I cannot understand those persons who say, Oh! I am all right if I get to purgatory. We should be more generous with Almighty God. I don't intend to go to purgatory, and if I do I must know what for.' 'But, Father Ignatius,' a father would say, 'we fall into so many imperfections that it seems presumptuous to attempt to escape scot free.' 'Well,' he would reply, 'nothing can send us to purgatory but a wilful, venial sin, and may the Lord preserve us from such a thing as that; a religious ought to die before being guilty of the least wilful fault.'"

In the year 1850, Father Ignatius made the resolution of never being idle a moment, and carried it out to the end of his life. Bergamo's Pensieri ed Affetti he translated in railway stations while waiting for trains, before and after dinner, and in intervals between confessions. Of letter-writing he made a kind of duty, and on one occasion he wrote seventy-eight in the course of two free days. Not mere notes, either, were his letters, but epistles full of thought and sympathy for his correspondent.

"His days were indeed full days, and he scarcely ever went to bed until he had shaken himself out of nodding asleep over his table three or four times. No one ever heard him say that he was tired and required rest; rest he never had, except on his hard bed or in his quiet grave. If any man ever ate his bread in the sweat of his brow, it was Father Ignatius of St. Paul, the ever-toiling passionist."

Illness, unless it kept him in his bed, never interfered with the performance of his duties. When superior, he used his power to secure the hardest work for himself. During the time of his rectorship in Sutton, he would preach and sing mass after hearing confessions all the morning; attend sick calls, preach in the evening at some distant parish, come home perhaps at eleven o'clock, say his office, and be the first to come to matins at two o'clock. The Father Provincial found him so ingenious in eluding privileges that he placed him under obedience in matters of health to one of the priests of his community, whom he strictly obeyed ever after.

Once a cramp or some accident had made him fall into a ditch where he got drenched and covered with mud. On returning from the sick call which he was attending, he found a friend at the house, who sympathized with his especial interests. Down he sat for a good talk upon the conversion of England, and at the end of two hours was frightened off by one of the religious to change his clothes.

When giving a retreat somewhere in midwinter, the shameful carelessness of his entertainers allowed him to sleep in a room where there was neither bed nor fire, and where the snow drifted in under the door. In the morning it occurred to some one that perhaps Father Ignatius had occupied this apartment. {185} "A person ran down to see, and there was the old saint amusing himself by gathering up the snow that came into his room, and making little balls of it for kitten to run after. The kitten and himself seem to have become friends by having slept together in his rug the night before, and both were disappointed by the intrusion of the wandering visitor."

But though the good passionist was utterly forgetful of his "own rights," as the saying goes, he well knew how to administer a rebuke if justice demanded it:

"Once he was fiercely abused when begging, and as the reviler came to a full stop in his froward speech, Father Ignatius quietly retorted: 'Well, as you have been so generous to me personally, perhaps you would be so kind as to give me something now for my community.' This had a remarkable effect. It procured him a handsome offering then, as well as many others ever since."

On another occasion his knock was answered by a very superb footman. Father Ignatius gave his errand and religious name, with a request to see the lady or gentleman of the house. The servant returned in a moment with the information that the gentleman was out and the lady engaged and also unable to help him. "Perhaps she is not aware that I am the Honorable Mr. Spencer," said the mendicant. Mercury bowed courteously and retired. In a minute or two came a rustling of silks and the sound of quick steps tripping down stairs. The lady entered with blush and courtesy and apology. She had not known that it was he, and there were so many impostors. "But what will you take, my dear sir?" she exclaimed, ringing the bell, before he could accept or decline the proposal. Father Ignatius said that he did not stand in need of anything to eat, and that he never took wine; but that he was in need of money for a good purpose, and would be glad to accept anything that she could give him of that kind. The lady instantly handed him a five-pound note, with many regrets that she could not make it more. He took the note, and, folding it carefully away in his pocket, made his acknowledgments after this fashion: "Now, I am very sorry to have to tell you that the alms you have given me will do you very little good. If I had not been born of a noble family, you would have turned me away with coldness and contempt. I take the money because it will be as useful to me as if it were given from a good motive; but I would advise you for the future, if you have any regard for your soul, to let the love of God, and not human respect, prompt your almsgiving." Then taking his hat, he bade his amazed benefactress good morning, and left her to meditate upon purity of intention.

Notwithstanding his fortitude and independence of spirit, we may gather from the following extract from his letters that begging cost him some effort:

"My present life is pleasant when money comes kindly; but when I get refused or walk a long way and find everyone out, it is a bit mortifying. That is best gain for me I suppose, though not what I am travelling for. ... I should not have had the time this morning to write to you had it not been for a disappointment in meeting a young man, who was to have been my begging guide for part of the day; and so I had to come home and stay until it is time to go and try my fortune in the enormous market-house, where there are innumerable stalls with poultry, eggs, fruit, meat, etc., kept in great part by Irishmen and women, on whom I have to-day presently to go and dance attendance, as this is the great market-day. I feel when going out on a job like this, as a poor child going in a bathing machine to be dipped in the sea, _frissonnant_; but the Irish are so good-natured and generous that they generally make the work among them full of pleasure when once I am in it."

These expeditions extended not only through Great Britain, but even to the Continent sometimes. As he was passing through Cologne one day, he met his brother Frederick, then Earl Spencer. At first his lordship looked wonderingly at him, and then, recognizing his features, exclaimed: "Hilloa, George, what are you doing here?" "Begging," was the prompt reply, and then the two fell into a friendly chat about old times.

{186}

Strangely enough, the only member of the Spencer family who ever treated Father Ignatius with the least harshness was this favorite brother, who, on succeeding to the title, laid such conditions upon his visiting the family estate that priestly dignity forbade his going home. "Twelve years have I been an exile from Althorp," he said in 1857. But in that same year the earl relented and invited his brother to make him a visit. The letter joyfully accepting this tardy invitation was read by Lord Spencer upon his death-bed. This bereavement was a grievous blow to Father Ignatius.

In 1862 he visited Althorp. The present earl carried out his father's good resolutions to the utmost, and even restored a part of the annuity which had been diverted from Father Ignatius to other objects. Before leaving the community for this visit the religious saw him looking for a lock for one of his bags, and asked why he was so very particular all at once. "Why, don't you know," said he, "that the servant at the big house will open it, in order to put my shaving tackle, brush, and so forth, in their proper places? and I should not like to have a general stare at my beads, sandals, and habit." But fashions had changed at Althorp. When the company who had been invited, especially in his honor, went to dress for dinner, Father Ignatius remarked to the countess that his full dress would perhaps, not be quite in place at the table. "On the contrary," she answered, good-humoredly, "all his old friends would be delighted to see a specimen of the fashions he had adopted since his old days of whist and repartee in the same hall." The volunteers were entertained by the earl during his uncle's visit. The passionist appeared in full costume, and sat next Lord Spencer, whom nothing would satisfy but a speech from the old man's lips. A very patriotic speech it was too, and greeted by a cheer that gave pleasure to both uncle and nephew.

And so one of the crosses of his life was gently removed, leaving many others, however, to be endured. For a heart so tender, a conscience so sensitive, a temperament so vivid and excitable as his, the world had many trials. His simplicity was mistaken for egotism; his zeal looked to many persons like unbridled impetuosity; his broad sympathies again seemed like indifferentism, and even calumny dared to attack his spotless character.

All this he bore very patiently, but the suffering was often acute. A deep abstraction of manner would come over him at such times, making him quite unconscious of his own actions and of the impression they made upon those around him. One day when he was going through the streets of Rome with a brother religious, they passed a fountain. "He went over and put his hand so far into one of the jets that he squirted the water over a number of poor persons who were basking in in the sun a few steps beneath him. They made a stir, and uttered a few oaths as the water kept dashing down on them. The companion awoke Father Ignatius out of his reverie, and so unconscious did he seem of the disturbance he had unwittingly created, that he passed on without alluding to it."

But whoever might blame Father Ignatius for his projects and his peculiar pertinacity in carrying them into execution, one consoler never failed him. The Holy Father was ever ready to speak with him of the conversion of England, merely requesting him to endeavor to interest persons to pray also for all those separated from the faith in all countries. His Holiness has granted an indulgence of three hundred days to any one who shall say a devout prayer for the conversion of England. The preaching of Father Ignatius was peculiar to himself; he could not be said to possess the gifts of human eloquence in the highest degree, but there was something like inspiration in his most commonplace discourse. {187} He put the point of his sermon clearly before his audience, and he proved it most admirably. His acquaintance with the Scriptures was something marvellous; not only could he quote texts in support of doctrines, but be applied the facts of the sacred volume in such a happy why, with such a flood of new ideas, that one would imagine he lived in the midst of them, or had been told by the sacred writers what they were intended for. Besides this, he brought a fund of illustrations to carry conviction through the mind. His illustrations were taken from every phase of life and every kind of employment; persons listening to him always found the peculiar gist of his discourse carried into their very homestead; nay, the objections they themselves were prepared to advance against it were answered before they could have been thought out. To add to this, there was an earnestness in his manner that made you see his whole soul, as it were, bent upon your spiritual good. His holiness of life, which report published before him--and one look was enough to convince you of its being true--compelled you to set a value on what he said far above the dicta of ordinary priests.

His style was formed on the gospel. He loved the parables and the similes of our Lord, and rightly judged that the style of his divine Master was the most worthy of imitation. So far as the matter of his discourses was concerned, he was inimitable; his manner was peculiar to himself, deeply earnest and touching. He abstained from the rousing, thundering style, and his attempts that way to suit the taste and thus work upon the convictions of certain congregations, showed him that his forte did not lie there. The consequence was, that when the words of what he jocosely termed a "crack" preacher would die with the sound of his own voice or the exclamations of the multitude, Father Ignatius's words lived with their lives, and helped them to bear trials that came thirty years after they had heard him. Toward the end of his life he became rather tiresome to those who knew not his spirit; but it was the tiresomeness of St. John the Evangelist. We are told that "the disciple whom Jesus loved" used to be carried in his old age before the people, and that his only sermon was "My little children, love one another." He preached no more and no less, but kept perpetually repeating these few words. Father Ignatius, in like manner, was continually repeating "the conversion of England." No matter what the subject of his sermon was he brought this in. He told us often that it became a second nature with him; that he could not quit thinking or speaking of it even if he tried, and believed he could speak for ten days consecutively on the conversion of England without having to repeat an idea.

"He got on very well in the missions: he took all the different parts as they were assigned him; but he was more successful in the lectures than in the great sermons of the evening. His confessional was always besieged with penitents, and he never spared himself."

His last mission was given in the beautiful little church of St. Patrick, Coatbridge (eight miles from Glasgow). Crowds came to hear the saintly old father plead for the conversion of England and the sanctification of Ireland. The first two days he heard confessions from six A.M. to eleven P.M., excepting the time needed for devotions and meals. On the third day he remained in the confessional until after midnight. When he came into the house, his host said: "I am afraid, Father Ignatius, you are overexerting yourself, and that you must feel tired and fatigued:' "No, no," he answered with a smile, "I am not fatigued. There is no use in saying I am tired, for, you know, I must be at the same work to-night in Leith." He was in the confessional again at six o'clock in the morning, said mass at seven; breakfasted at half-past eight, and left Coatbridge about nine o'clock. {188} Father O'Keefe remarked to him that he looked much better and younger in secular dress than in his habit. This made him laugh heartily. "When Father Thomas Doyle," he replied, "saw me in secular dress, he said, 'Father Ignatius, you look like a broken-down old gentleman.'" And the frankness of the observation seemed to amuse him immensely.

The rest is easily told. He reached Carstairs Junction at half-past ten, and, leaving his luggage with the station-master, walked toward Carstairs House, the residence of his friend and godson, Mr. Monteith. Half a mile from the entrance to the estate, the long avenue is crossed at right angles by a second, which leads to the grand entrance of the house. Father Ignatius had just passed the "rectangle," when he turned off into a by-path. Then seeing he had lost his way, he asked a child which was the right road. He never spoke to mortal again. On a little corner in the avenue, just within sight of the house, and about a hundred paces from the door, he fell suddenly and yielded up his spirit into the hands of his Creator. May we all die doing God's work, and as well prepared as Father Ignatius of St. Paul! "It was God's will that angels instead of men should surround his lonely bed of death." It was simply by an after-thought that he had gone to Carstairs House to pass the time between the arrival and departure of two trains, and thus died at the threshold of an old friend's door, instead of in the station.

Very tenderly did Mr. Monteith receive the weary burden that the grand old missionary laid down at his gates. The remains lay in religious state at Carstairs House for the greater part of three days. Fathers came from various retreats to look once more upon his beloved face, never so noble as in its last repose; and looked with silent wonder on all that now remained of one whom the world was not worthy of possessing longer. Everyone, on hearing of his death, appeared to have lost a special friend; no one could lament, for they felt that he was happy; few could pray for him, because they were more inclined to ask his intercession. The greatest respect and attention were shown by the railway officials all along the route, and special ordinances were made in deference to the respected burden that was carried.

Lord Spencer's letter with regard to his uncle's death is so pleasing that we transcribe it entire. He was in Denmark, and could not reach England for the obsequies:

Denmark, Oct. 16th, 1864 Rev. Sir: I was much shocked to hear of the death of my excellent Uncle George. I received the sad intelligence last Sunday, and subsequently received the letter which you had the goodness to write to me. My absence from England prevented my doing what I should have wished to have done, to have attended to the grave the remains of my uncle, if it had been so permitted by your order.

I assure you that, much as I may have differed from my uncle on points of doctrine, no one could have admired more than I did the beautiful simplicity, earnest religion, and faith of my uncle. For his God he renounced all the pleasures of the world; his death, sad as it is to us, was, as his life, apart from the world, but with God.

His family will respect his memory as much as I am sure you and the brethren of his order do.

I should be much obliged to you if you let me know the particulars of the last days of his life, and also where he is buried, as I should like to place them among family records at Althorp.

I venture to trouble you with these questions, as I suppose you will be able to furnish them better than anyone else.

Yours faithfully, Spencer.

Thus in the end did Father Ignatius, in the simple pursuance of his duties, pierce through the prejudices of caste and tradition, harder to penetrate in England than elsewhere.

Mr. Monteith has erected a cross on the corner of the avenue where his saintly friend fell. It bears this inscription:

"On this spot the Hon. and Rev. GEORGE SPENCER, in religion, Father Ignatius of St. Paul, Passionist, while in the midst of his labors for the salvation or souls, and the restoration of his countrymen to the unity of the faith, was suddenly called by his heavenly Master to his eternal home. October 1st, 1864. R. I. P."

{189}

From Chambers's Journal.

A Naturalist's Home.

There is no place like England for a rich man to live in exactly as he pleases. It is the appropriate exercising-ground for the hobbies of all mankind. You may join an Agapemone, or you may live alone in dirt and squalor, and call yourself a hermit. The whim of the late Charles Waterton, naturalist, was a very innocent one, namely, to make his home a city of refuge for all persecuted birds--a sanctuary inviolate from net and snare and gun; and he effected his humane purpose. An intimate associate and fervent admirer of his, one Dr. Richard Hobson, has given to the world [Footnote 44] an account of this ornithological asylum; and it is certainly very curious. The name of the place was Walton Hall, near Wakefield; and it seems to have been peculiarly well adapted for the purpose to which it was put. It was situated on an island, approachable only by an iron foot-bridge, and having no other dwellings in its immediate neighborhood. The lake in which it stood gave the means of harboring waterfowl of all kinds, while the "packing" of carrion crows in the park exhibits a proof of the protection afforded by even the mainland portion of the estate; it was sufficiently extensive to allow of portions being devoted to absolute seclusion, for those birds which are naturally disposed to avoid the haunts of man. "Two thirds of the lake, with its adjacent wood and pasture land, were kept free from all intrusion whatever for six successive months every year; even visitors at the house, of whatever rank, being 'warned off' those portions set apart for natural history purposes. Even the marsh occupied by the herons was forbidden ground throughout the whole breeding-season, unless in case of accident to a young heron by falling from its nest; in which case aid was afforded with all the promptitude exhibited by the fire escape conductors for the safety of human life."

[Footnote 44: Charles Waterton: his Home, Habits, and Handiwork. By Richard Hobson, M.D.]

The surroundings of the mansion itself were quaint and exceptional, exhibiting the eccentric character of their proprietor. Item, a magnificent sundial--constructed, however, by a common mason in the neighborhood--composed of twenty equilateral triangles, so disposed as to form a similar number of individual dials, ten of which, whenever the sun shone, and whatever its altitude, were faithful timekeepers. On these dials were engraved the names of cities in all parts of the globe, placed in accordance with their different degrees of longitude, so that the solar time of each could be simultaneously ascertained. Near this sundial was a subterraneous passage leading to two boat-houses, entirely concealed under the island, furnished with arched roofs lined with zinc-plate, and arrangements for slinging the boats out of water when they required painting or repair. Four sycamores, with roosting branches for peahens, and a fifth, whose decayed trunk was always occupied by jackdaws, screened the house from the north winds. Close to the cast-iron-bridge entrance was a ruin, on the top of whose gable, at the foot of a stone-cross, twenty-four feet above the lake, a wild duck built her nest, and hatched her young for years. A great yew-fence enclosed this ruin on one side, so that within its barrier birds might find a secure place for building their nests and incubation. {190} For the special encouragement and protection of the starling and the jackdaw, there was erected within this fence a thirteen feet high stone-and-mortar-built tower, pierced with about sixty resting-berths. To each berth there was an aperture of about five inches square. A few, near the top, were set apart for the jackdaw and the white owl. The remaining number were each supplied at the entrance with a square loose stone, having one of its inferior angles cut away, so that the starling could enter, but the jackdaw and owl were excluded. The landlord of these convenient tenements only reserved to himself the privilege of inspection, which he could always effect by removing the loose stone.

The lake had an artificial underground sluice, which issuing out at a little distance into sight, furnished the means of cultivating a knowledge of the mysterious habits of the water-rat; this stream then passed through one of the loveliest grottoes in England. Near this place were two pheasantries, the central portion of each consisting of a clump of yew-trees, while the whole mass was surrounded by an impenetrable holly fence; the stable-yard was not far off; and hence the squire had infinite opportunities of establishing the important fact, as he considered it, that the game-cock always claps his wings and crows, whereas the cock-pheasant always crows and claps his wings. Mr. Waterton's interest in natural history was, however, by no means confined to the animal creation. He concerned himself greatly with the culture of trees (though by no means of land), and hailed any _lusus naturae_ that occurred in his grounds as other men welcomed the birth of a son and heir. Walton Hall had at one time its own corn-mill, and when that inconvenient necessity no longer existed, the mill-stone was laid by in an orchard and forgotten. The diameter of this circular stone measured five feet and a half, while its depth averaged seven inches throughout; its central hole had a diameter of eleven inches. By mere accident, some bird or squirrel had dropped the fruit of the filbert tree through this hole on to the earth, and in 1812 the seedling was seen rising up through that unwonted channel. As its trunk gradually grew through this aperture and increased, its power to raise the ponderous mass of stone was speculated upon by many. Would the filbert tree die in the attempt? Would it burst the millstone? Or would it lift it? In the end, the little filbert tree lifted the millstone, and in 1868 wore it like a crinoline about its trunk, and Mr. Waterton used to sit upon it under the branching shade. This extraordinary combination it was the great naturalist's humor to liken to John Bull and the national debt.

In no tree-fancier's grounds was there ever one tenth of the hollow trunks which were to be found at Walton Hall; the fact being that the owner encouraged and fostered decay for the purposes of his birds' paradise. These trees were protected by artificial roofs in order to keep their hollows dry, and fitted thus for the reception of any feathered couple inclined to marry and settle. Holes were also pierced in the stems, to afford ingress and egress; and one really would scarcely be surprised if they had been furnished with bells for "servants" and "visitors." In an ash tree trunk thus artificially prepared, and set apart for owls (the squire's favorite bird), an ox-eyed titmouse took the liberty of nesting, hatching, and maturing her young. Mr. Waterton attached a door, hung on hinges, to exactly fit the opening in the trunk, having a hole in its inferior portion for the passage of the titmouse. The squire would daily visit the his little tenant, and opening the door delicately draw his hand over the back of the sitting bird, as though to assure it of his protection. But unfortunately, after the bird had flown, one year, a squirrel took possession of this eligible tenement, and although every vestige of the lining of its nest was carefully removed, no titmouse or any other bird ever occupied it again.

{191}

In May, 1862, the squire pointed out to the author no less than three birds' nests in one cavity--a jackdaw's with five eggs; a barn-owl's with three young ones, close to which lay several dead mice and a half grown rat, as in a larder; and, eighteen inches above the owl's nest, a redstart's, containing six eggs! Our author deduces from this circumstance, that in an unreclaimed state birds, although of different species, are not disposed to quarrel; and the fact that near this "happy family" a pair of water-hens hatched their eggs in a perfectly exposed nest, under the very eyes of two carrion crows who occupied the first floor of the same tree--an alder--without the least molestation, seems to confirm this view.

In this Garden of Eden, however, all sorts of anomalous things seem to have been done by birds. In a cleft branch of a fir tree, twenty-four feet from the ground, a peahen built her nest, through which piece of ambition, since falling is much easier to learn than flying, she lost all her young ones. In the branch of an oak, twelve feet from the ground, a wild-duck nested and brought down all her brood in safety to their natural element. A pair of coots built their nest on the extreme end of a willow-branch closely overhanging the water; but the weight of the materials, and especially of the birds themselves, depressed it so that their habitation rested on the very surface of the water, and its contents rose and fell with every ripple; and, finally, another pair of coots, who had built their house upon what they considered _terra firma_, found themselves altogether adrift one stormy morning, and continued so, veering with the fickle breeze for many days, until at last the eggs were hatched, and their young family became independent, and could shift for themselves. All these minutiae were carefully watched by the squire. An excellent telescope enabled him to perceive from his drawing-room window the manoeuvres of both land and water fowls. "You could carefully scrutinize their form, their color, their plumage, the color of their legs, the precise form and hue of their mandibles, and not unfrequently even the color of the iris of the eye: also their mode of walking, of swimming, and of resting. You could distinctly ascertain the various kinds of food on which they lived and fed their young. .... You could see the herons, the water-hens, the coots, the Egyptian and the Canada geese, the carrion crows, the ringdoves (occasionally on their nests), the wild-duck, teal, and widgeon." No less than eighty-nine descriptions of land-bird and thirty of water-fowl sojourned in the grounds or about the lake of Walton Hall. In winter, when the lake was frozen, it was literally a fact that the ice could sometimes not be discerned, it was so crowded by the thousands of water-fowl that huddled together upon it without sound or motion.

Mr. Waterton, it may be easily imagined, was himself no sportsman; but it was his custom to supply his own table on a fast-day (he was a Roman Catholic) with fish shot by himself with a bow and arrow. Otherwise, he made war on no living creature, except the rat: the "Hanoverian" rat, as he designated him with bitterness: and even him he preferred to exile rather than destroy. But having caught a fine specimen of the "Hanoverian" in a "harmless trap," he carefully smeared him over with tar, and let him depart. This astonished and highly scented animal immediately scoured all the rat-passages, and thus impregnated them with the odor of all others most offensive to his brethren, who fled by hundreds in the night across the narrow portion of the lake, and were no more seen. The squire was indeed a most tolerant and tender-hearted man. He built a shelter upon a certain part of the lake expressly for poor folks, who were permitted to fish whether for purposes of sale or for their own dinners; and notwithstanding that it was his custom to dress like a miser and a scarecrow, and to live like an ascetic--sleeping upon bare boards with a hollowed piece of wood for a pillow, and fasting much longer than was good for him--he was very charitable and open-handed to others.

{192}

It must be confessed, however, we gather from this volume that the great naturalist was, out of his profession, by no means a wise man, and certainly not a witty one. He loved jokes of a schoolboy sort, and indulged in sarcasms more practical than theoretical. The two knockers of his front-door were cast, from bell-metal, in the similitude of human faces, the one representing mirth, and the other misery. The former was immovably fixed to the door, and seemed to grin with delight at your fruitless efforts to raise it; the latter appeared to suffer agonies from the blows you inflicted on it. In the vestibule was a singularly conceived model of a nightmare, with a human face, grinning and showing the tusks of a wild boar, the hands of a man, Satanic horns, elephant's ears, bat's wings, one cloven foot, one eagle's talon, and with the tail of a serpent; beneath it was the following motto:

"Assidens praecordiis Pavore soinnos auferam." [Footnote 45]

[Footnote 45: Sitting on the region of the heart, I take away sleep by fear.]

It was his humor, more than once, when between seventy and eighty years of age, to welcome the author, when he came to dinner, by hiding on all-fours under the hall-table, and pretending to be a doll. He made use of his wonderful taxidermic talents to represent many individuals who took a leading part in the Reformation by loathsome objects from the animal and vegetable creation, and completed the artistic group with a sprinkling of "composite" demons. He was seriously vexed at a stranger under his own roof, who had profanely designated his favorite (stuffed) Bahia toad as "an ugly brute." These and similar instances of bad taste we think Dr. Hobson might have left unrecorded with advantage. Still, there was much to like as well as to admire about the great naturalist. He could show good taste as well as bad. No museum of natural history elsewhere could compare with the beauty and finish of the specimens, prepared by the squire's own hand with wonderful skill and patience, which adorned the inside of Walton Hall. "Not even _living_ nature," says our author, "could surpass the representations there displayed." In attitude, you had life itself; in plumage, the lustrous beauty that death could not dim; "in anatomy, every local prominence, every depression, every curve, nay, the slightest elevation or depression of each feather." The great staircase glowed with tropic splendor. At the top of it was the veritable cayman mentioned in the Wanderings, on which the squire mounted in Essequibo, and a huge snake with which he contended in single combat. Doubts have been thrown on both these feats, but Dr. Hobson relates instances of presence of mind and courage shown by the squire in his own presence quite as marvellous as these. Wishing to make experiment as to whether his Woorali poison, obtained in 1812 from the Macoushi Indians, was more efficacious than the bite of the rattlesnake, he got an American showman to bring him twenty-four of these dangerous reptiles, and took them out of their cases, one by one, with his own hand, while the Yankee fled from the room in terror, accompanied by very many members of the faculty, who had assembled to witness the operation. In his old age, he alone could be found to enter the cage of the Borneo orangoutang at the Zoological Gardens, in order minutely to inspect the palm of its hand during life, and also the teeth. It was with difficulty he obtained permission to run this hazard, the keepers insisting upon it that the beast would "make very short work of him." However, nothing daunted, the squire entered the palisaded enclosure. {193} "The meeting of these two celebrities was clearly a case of love at first sight, as the strangers embraced most affectionately, kissing one another many times, to the great amusement of the spectators. The squire's investigations were freely permitted, and his fingers allowed to enter his jaws; his apeship then claimed a similar privilege, which was as courteously granted; after which the orang-outang began an elaborate _search_ of the squire's head."

The strength and activity of Waterton were equal to his physical courage, notwithstanding that he was wont to indulge in venesection to a dangerous extent, always performing that operation himself, even to the subsequent bandaging. At eighty-one, the suppleness of his limbs was marvellous; and at seventy-seven years of age our author was witness to his scratching the back part of his head with the toe of his right foot! Death, however, claimed his rights at last in the squire's eighty-third year.

Charles Waterton lies buried in a secluded part of his own beautiful domain, at the foot of a little cross, with this inscription, written by himself:

Orate Pro anima Caroll Waterton, Viatoris: Cujus jam fessa Juxta hanc crucem Hic sepelluntur ossa.

Even those iron limbs of his, it seems, grew weary at last.

Original.

My Tears in Sleep.

"And He said: Weep not; the maid is not dead, but sleepeth."

"Whence come these tears upon thy face? What sorrow craved these scalding drops of woe In peaceful sleep? Didst dream of pain or dire disgrace? Sob not so bitterly. I fain would know What made thee weep!"

"Not for the woes which life may bring-- The life, in sooth, that doth just now begin-- These tears were shed. But memory hath a bitter sting, And dreaming bade me mourn the time of sin When I was dead."

{194}

Translated from the French.

Robert; or, The Influence of a Good Mother.