Chapter III.

"Chione, my niece; nay, my daughter in Jesus Christ, tell me, for pity's sake, why do I find you here?"

"Uncle, I weary of the tedious routine of our household. I come to woo the naiads and the fauns of early days, for a little relaxation of my spirit."

"The naiads and the fauns! Strange worship for a Christian!"

"Nay, uncle, do not cast religion at me for ever. I mean no harm by speaking in the language of my childhood; and, indeed, I need to recreate my soul; my spirit is fainting away amid the tedium of our ever immaculate household."

"What possible fault can you find with the Lady Damaris?"

"None, none at all, absolutely none. Have I not just said she is immaculate, faultless? too perfect, in fact, fair as the moon and as chaste; ay, and as cold too!"

"Cold! Lady Damaris who has spent her fortune in relieving the indigent, in soothing the sorrows of the mourner, in setting free the slave. Cold! Where, then, will you find the fire of charity?"

"I wish she would set me free!"

"You! Are you not too free already! as witness this unmaidenly step of visiting these glades alone and unprotected? Free! Are you not already as free as is safe for you? is not the Lady Damaris more a mother than a mistress to you? Go to, your labors are too light, your liberty too great, since you know not how to make a better use of it. A Christian maiden should have more reserve."

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"What harm is there in sunning myself on the river-banks awhile?"

"None, if that is your object, and that _alone_, though even so, for one in your condition there might be danger. But, Chione, you do not come here either to woo the naiads or the fauns, or to sun yourself on the riverbanks. You come here to meet one you are bound to avoid, and I come to take you home again."

"By what right?"

"Ay, by what right, base slave?" asked the voice of Magas, as he suddenly came upon the couple. "By what right dare you to interfere with the fairest muse of earth's bright temple? you who have scarcely brains enough to know whether Apollo steers his chariot from east to west or from north to south."

"Noble sir," said Merion respectfully, as if unheedful of the insulting tone in which he was addressed, "I am this maiden's uncle, and seek but to conduct her to a place of safety."

"I will dispense with thine office, by fulfilling it myself; take thyself hence, I say."

Merion looked at Chione, who, with an incomprehensible caprice, settled the dispute by rapidly taking flight in the direction of the abode of the Lady Damaris, thus again leaving Magas foiled at the moment he thought himself certain of an interview; and, what was still more perplexing, leaving him in a state of uncertainty as to whether she desired to grant him an interview or otherwise. He turned fiercely upon Merion:

"Where is the girl flown to? Where does she live?"

"I cannot tell you, noble sir," said the slave, turning away.

"For cannot, say will not," said Magas, arresting him. "I insist on knowing where Chione lives."

"You cannot know it from me, sir," said Merion, breaking away, while fortunately some persons appearing in sight, forbade the noble Magas from renewing a contest with another person's servant; and thus the faithful guardian of Chione effected his escape.

It was, however, to the house of Dionysius he betook himself to consult with him concerning the measures to be taken to insure the safety of his wayward niece.

It was a difficult matter for the learned but simple-hearted bishop, known in the city as Dionysius the Areopagite, to interfere in. The conversion of this noble-hearted prelate had, in his own case, been so sincere, so entire, it was difficult for him to comprehend an adhesion given partly to the intellectual, partly to the moral bearings of the religion of Christ, an adhesion which more resembled a philosophical adoption of tenets, than the surrender of the whole being into the keeping of his divine Lord, such as he understood to be the requirement demanded of himself when, under the tuition of the great apostle, he had learned to put on Christ. The gospel had come to him, not in word only, but also in power, and in the Holy Spirit, and in much assurance. [Footnote 60] It filled his soul, not only with its intellectual delights, with its wondrous solutions of the dread mysteries of existence, with its harmonious developments and sublime manifestations, but with _interior_ light. "Faith" was to him as, alas! it is to so few, "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." [Footnote 61] It animated him wholly; it was a part of himself; he could say with the great apostle in very truth, "I live, yet not I, but Christ liveth in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God who loved me, and gave himself for me." [Footnote 62]

[Footnote 60: Thes. i. 5.]

[Footnote 61: Heb. xi. 1.]

[Footnote 62: Gal. ii. 20.]

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But Dionysius was the pastor of souls; he dared not refuse to come to the assistance of one of his flock, albeit, that one was a child, a slave, and that the request for his interference came to him also from a slave. The true-hearted Merion was worthy of his highest love; long since would he have redeemed him, and associated him in his labors of love, but that the slave ever put him off, pointing out to him others on whom the _material_ chain weighed more heavily, so that its wearers were fainting under the burden, while he walked erect. The truth had made him free [Footnote 63] in soul, and he was not willing to encroach on the limited means placed at the disposal of the bishop by the faithful, while so many of the weaker brethren needed help to sustain their fainting steps. Besides, as a slave, bearing his own burden, Merion possessed a greater influence among his own class than he would have done had he accepted the purchase of his liberty. "The poor and lowly," said he to Dionysius, "have many advantages which you in higher stations wot not of. Truth is not veiled from them by politeness, or by the conventionalism of society; they see things as they are, unmasked, and view themselves also by another light than that which is shed on the man to whom everybody bows. I have often thought, my lord, that they need an extraordinary degree of grace, who are thus placed above the multitude. Since our Lord has declared that it is the '_poor_ who are blessed,' and he himself asks, 'How can ye believe, ye who receive honor one of another?' [Footnote 64] Believe me, then, my kind friend, there is a greater blessing in a position to which no worldly honor is attached than to others; at least for poor souls like mine, who cannot claim the extraordinary graces needed to clear away the mists which obscure the light from the great ones of this world." Thus pleaded Merion against his own advancement, to which the bishop replied:

[Footnote 63: St. John viii. 32.]

[Footnote 64: St. John v. 44.]

"It is true, my Merion, we must all become 'poor in spirit,' giving all honor to God alone, for the good that is in us, since all that man has done is to pervert his gifts."

"And the more wonderful, the more exalted the gifts, the more they are perverted. Chione's beauty and talent are already turning her away from the religion she has professed."

"Nay, not so bad as that, my Merion. Neither is it the beauty or the talent that are in fault. These are God's gifts to Chione. It is the human self-love, the self-centralization which craves homage and admiration, that are to blame. It is the repetition of the primeval sin, the wilful separation of the soul from God, for the sake of inordinate gratification. But Chione has worshipped Christ. She will see her error and repent."

"Would I could think so," sighed the slave.

"Nay, now it is you who are wanting in confidence, my good friend. Chione is the child of your prayer. You begot her in the Lord, and He will preserve her for you. How, is not so plain. May be, she will _fall_. Gifts like hers too often lack humility, and humility, the foundation of the Christian character, sometimes needs a fall, in order to produce it. Faith you have already won for her, from God. Now set yourself to intercede for her again, to win other gifts which shall render her faith available to salvation. Ask for her, humility, at any price of suffering to yourself or her. God will grant your prayer, be assured of that, my friend. Now, as to what we can do for the exterior circumstance, let me know your wishes."

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"Is it possible to remove her from the path of that Magas?"

"We might try; though, rich and ardent as he is, he would be apt to trace her to any place within our power to send her. I have friends at Corinth. Should you be satisfied to send her there?"

"They are Christians?"

"Else I would not have named them. But, reflect, to none is she as dear as she is to you. None will take the same interest in her, watch over her--"

"But she will be out of the way of Magas."

"Her person will. How her mind will be affected, is another question. We cannot change the affections or annihilate desires by change of place. But it shall be as you wish."

"Will the Lady Damaris consent?"

"You know, full well, that the welfare of her household, temporal and eternal, is the object of that lady's constant solicitude. She will agree to anything she deems will promote it."

......

Chione was scarcely surprised when she was told that she was to be sent to Corinth. Nay, to do her justice, she was not altogether grieved. She knew her danger. Her pride and self-respect revolted from any degrading connection with Magas. And what other could she hope for? Neither as a slave nor as a freed-woman could Magas elevate her to the rank of his wife. He himself had proposed Aspasia for her model; but Aspasia to a Christian maiden! Dazzling as was the ideal, not for a moment did Chione suffer herself to believe it could be hers. Why, then, did she hover around her destruction, as a moth hovers around the candle? Why did her thoughts perpetually dwell on Magas as the only one who understood her, the sole being on earth who could appreciate her? Why had she endeavored, why did she still endeavor, to attract his attention the more that she knew the burning passion which fired his impetuous and vehement nature?

Chione felt but too truly the inward conflict of her soul. She loved Magas. She could not conceal herself from him if he were near--could not even avoid him. The attraction was too great. But at Corinth she could forget him, at Corinth other objects would occupy her, at Corinth she would again learn to love Christ. So to Corinth she consented to go, making so little opposition to the measure, that Merion half persuaded himself he had overrated her weakness.

Chione was conveyed away stealthily, in company with a Christian family who were making the journey homeward. Days elapsed; and Magas watched in vain, set spies in vain. Chione was not to be met with.

"The girl must be ill, or bewitched," said he. "Three appearances, and nothing heard of her! A whole year since I saw her before, and she so changed, beautified, and _silenced_ when we met again! What can it mean?"

"What can _what_ mean, Magas, that you are here talking to yourself, and flinging yourself about like a madman?"

"Critias!"

"Yes; it is long since we met. What have you been doing since?"

"Tracing the girl who imposed upon us in the muses' temple."

"What! not forgotten that yet?"

"No. It was scarcely an adventure to be forgotten, save by one who cares for nothing, like yourself."

"Well, what have you discovered?"

{680}

"This much, at least: the girl is Merion's niece."

"So! Then we may suppose her rhapsodies referred to the new sect?"

"Yes; and that they must be looked to. I wish you would let me question your slave awhile."

"Question all you like; but I warn you, Merion is not likely to answer you unless _he_ likes."

"Then we can apply the torture?"

"No! not to Merion! no! Not on a subject which interferes with no one, even though you have assumed it as a cobweb to your brain. Merion is a faithful servant. I consent to no torture while he continues such."

"Not if you learn that he is concerned in hatching a conspiracy against the state?"

"Magas, I think you are taking leave of your senses."

But Magas was in love, and would neither hear reason nor be turned away from his purpose. Merion would tell him nothing. He said only that he had not seen the girl for many days, and that it was not his business to inquire to what place she had been sent. Lotis, the daughter of the principal philosopher of the day, had been her frequent companion in early days, but of late had seen her little, and, since the adventure in the temple, not at all. Lotis was suspected to know the name of Chione's owner; but, if she did, she kept it to herself. Months passed; and then Magas disappeared also, and, for a while, was not again heard of in Athens.

Continued.

Philosophy Not Always Vain.

There are persons who think we err, and make our magazine too heavy by devoting so large a portion of it to quasi-philosophical discussions. All readers, we are aware, are not and need not be interested in such discussions; but there are some who want them, value them, and profit by them. One of our contributors has received the following letter from a distinguished professor in a Southern university, which proves that our heavy articles are read by some, at least, and have served the cause of truth.

October 26, 1867.

To The Author Of The Article On "The Cartesian Doubt," Published In The November Number Of _The Catholic World_:

Dear Sir: I beg you to accept the presentation of this copy of a book I published, as you see, in 1860.

I do not offer it with any idea that you will find in it anything new or instructive to you, or with any expectation that you will give it approval or praise. I have become conscious of several of the errors it contains.

I send it to you under the influence of two motives: 1st. To offer you a token of the deep gratitude I feel toward you for the article on "The Cartesian Doubt," and other articles (which I take also to be from your pen) entitled "Problems of the Age," published in _The Catholic World_; this gratitude being felt for the flood of religious and intellectual light they have shed upon my mind and heart, and for their having convinced me of the truth of many Catholic doctrines I had obscurely perceived, and which, through the clearness and force of your language and arguments, now shine to my eyes with unsullied lustre. Second. I also offer you this token, that you may thereby judge for yourself how far I was behind, and therefore what great advance I must have made toward a clear understanding of the true relation and subordination of philosophy to Catholic doctrine, now that I admit that doctrine as received through your articles, which I have no doubt are approved by the Church.

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Hoping, sir, you will kindly receive this expression of my heartfelt thanks, I subscribe myself, affectionately and respectfully, yours.

The professor is mistaken in supposing that the article on T_he Cartesian Doubt_ and those on _The Problems of the Age,_ are from the same writer. This, however, is a matter of no consequence; for in both the profoundest principles of philosophy are treated; and both, for the most part, set forth and defend the same philosophical doctrine. We lay before our readers another letter, from a distinguished lawyer, a recent convert to the church, which shows that our philosophical articles are read by eminent men, and with respect, even when their doctrine is not accepted.

December 10, 1867. To The Editor Of The Catholic World:

Dear Sir: In _The Catholic World_ for December, you say, on page 427, "The school Sir William Hamilton founded ... avowedly maintains that philosophy cannot rise above the sensible, and that the supersensible, as well as the superintelligible, must be taken, if at all, on the authority of faith or revelation." Just before this, you also say, "The science neither of language nor of logic can be mastered by one who holds Sir William Hamilton was a philosopher," etc. Again, on page 424, you say, "The tendency of all inductive philosophy, as any one may see in the writings of ... Sir William Hamilton and his school, is to restrict all science to the phenomenal, and, therefore, to exclude principles and causes, and consequently laws."

The ideas here advanced are new to my mind, and my object in troubling you with this letter is to request you to refer me to some philosophical work in which they are fully developed. I came into the Catholic Church in the spring of 1865, as I supposed by a process of induction, and by process of induction I am thoroughly convinced that we have higher and better evidence of the truth of the dogmas of the church, than of any scientific fact; indeed, better than we have of any other fact, save that of existence. But I have failed to discover in the writings of Sir William Hamilton (the only one of the writers you mention with whom I am even slightly acquainted) the tendency you describe, and I cannot understand how such a result could be produced by a legitimate inductive philosophy. Sir William Hamilton shows that induction, when applied to Deity, to the infinite or to the absolute, (he ought to have said to any spiritual existence also,) fails to yield even apparent truth, because it yields contradictions. It seems to me that this must be a very near approach to a true catholic philosophy, that is, to a definition of the field in which induction is to operate; and I find it a weapon which silences, if it does not convince, my Protestant friends; for if they admit that their reasoning powers--those faculties which enable them to make the boasted progress in physical science--give no help in explaining the relation which exists between them and their Creator, they then have to deny, with the deist, that any such application exists; or if it does exist, admit that it rests on authority, thus destroying the right of private judgment, a result in either case fatal to Protestant Christianity.

I don't think I am mistaken about what Sir William Hamilton teaches, for I have his works before me; but it is very possible that I do not comprehend the tendency of it; and I may be entirely wrong in regarding him as a philosopher second to but few since Aristotle. I am not seeking controversy, but information; and if you can refer me to a book, not too large for a hard-working lawyer to read, which will clearly define what is regarded in the Catholic Church as the philosophy or _rationale_ of religion, you will confer a favor which will be long remembered. Very respectfully.

The old controversy with heresy has lost its former importance, for heresy in our time gives way to downright infidelity, or total religious indifference, and the intelligent Catholic, who understands his age, is more disposed to recognize and cherish the fragments of Christian truth still retained by the sects respectively, than to point out and refute their heresies. He would be careful not to break the bruised reed or to quench the smoking flax. In these times all who are not against our Lord are for him. {682} The field of controversy has changed. The non-Catholic world is either slowly retracing its steps toward the church, or rushing headlong into rationalism, naturalism, humanitarianism, pantheism, atheism. The modern atheists are a far more numerous class than is commonly supposed. Virtually all naturalists, humanitarians, and pantheists are atheists, and the God admitted by the rationalists is not the living God, an ever-present Creator and upholder of the universe, but an abstraction, a vague generalization, or a God so bound hand and foot by the so-called laws of nature, as to be powerless, and incapable of a single free movement, or an efficient act.

These several classes of unbelievers pretend to base their denial of divine revelation, the supernatural, the Christian religion, the freedom, and even the very being of God, on science and philosophy; and it is only on scientific and philosophical ground that we can meet, and logically refute them. No doubt their objections are sophistical, unscientific, and unphilosophical, yet we can show that fact only by means of true science and sound philosophy. We say nothing here of what grace may do; for it works by a method of its own, and by inspiring the will and enlightening the understanding, it enables one, by a single bound, to rise from the lowest deep of infidelity to the sublimest height of faith--to a faith that penetrates within the veil--lays hold of the unseen and the eternal, and conquers the world. We speak now only of the human means of meeting and overcoming the objections of unbelievers to our most holy faith. We can meet and overcome them, and produce what theologians call _fides humana_, only by opposing the true philosophy to their false philosophy--genuine science to their pretended science, real logic to their shallow sophistries.

Is this a work that Catholics can prudently neglect? We think not. Every age has its own special work to perform, its own special enemies to combat, and there is neither wisdom nor utility, nor true courage in turning our backs upon the enemies that assail us, and dealing forth vigorous blows against enemies long since vanquished, and now dead, and ready to be buried. We must face the evil of to-day, the enemy that is actually in front of us, and with the arms that promise to be effective against him. This is not only wisdom, but a necessity, if we would defend the treasure committed to us. Error is constantly changing its forms, and we must attack it under the form it assumes here and now. To-day it apes the form of science and philosophy. It will avail us nothing to denounce philosophy as vain, or science as unreal or valueless. We must accept both, and oppose to the unreal or false the real and the true. We must meet and beat the enemy on his own ground, and with his own weapons. As the enemy chooses to attack us on the ground of science, reason, philosophy, we must meet him on that ground, and show that on that ground, as on every other, Catholicity is invincible, and able to command the victory.

All the great theologians of the church have been great philosophers; St. Athanasius, St. Basil, St. Gregory Nazianzen, St. Augustine, St. Thomas, St. Bonaventura, Suarez, Bossuet, Fénélon, to name no others: and all the glorious ages of the church have been marked by profound and vigorous philosophical and theological studies, as the fourth, the twelfth, the thirteenth, and seventeenth centuries. {683} If the decline of faith marks a decline of science and philosophy, so also does the decline of science and philosophy mark usually a decline of faith. The revival of faith in our century has followed or been accompanied by a revival of the strong masculine philosophy of the fathers and the mediaeval doctors. In proportion as men cast aside the _frivolezza_ of the eighteenth century, engage in serious studies, and learn to think, and think deeply and earnestly, faith revives, and men who as yet are not believers look with reverence and awe on the grandeur and beauty of the Catholic Church, over which time and place have no influence, exempt from human vicissitudes, and on which the storms and tempests of the ages beat in vain. All serious and thinking men turn toward her, and she only is able to give free and full scope to thought, and to satisfy its demands.

We do not, of course, fall into the absurdity of seeking to convert faith into philosophy, nor to substitute philosophy, for faith. Philosophy, strictly taken, is the rational element of faith, or, more strictly still, the preamble to faith. It does not give us supernatural faith, which is the gift of God; it only removes the intellectual _prohibentia_ or obstacles to faith, and establishes those rational or scientific truths or principles which faith or revelation presupposes, which precede faith, and without which faith could have no rational basis or connection with science. All faith in the last analysis is belief and trust in the veracity of God, or the affirmation, _Deus est verax,_ and presupposes that God is. We cannot talk of faith till we have proved from reason with certitude the existence of God. The immortality of the soul brought to light through the Gospel is not the simple existence of the soul in a future life, but the immortal life of the blest in glory, rendered possible and actual through the incarnation, and to which man by his natural powers neither does nor can attain. This immortality presupposes what is commonly meant by the immortality of the soul, an immortality common to the beatified and the reprobate. The immortality or continued existence of the soul is a rational truth, and was held by the heathen in all ages, and must be capable of being proved with certainty by reason prior to faith. Faith reveals to us a state of future rewards and punishments. But rewards and punishments presuppose free agency, or the liberty of man, which is a truth of reason, and to be proved from reason alone. Hence the Holy See required the traditionalists, who seemed disposed to build science on faith, or to found faith on scepticism, to subscribe a declaration that the existence of God, the spirituality of the soul, and the liberty of man are provable with certainty from reason alone prior to faith. These are philosophical truths, and the philosophy that denies them or declares itself unable to prove them is no philosophy at all. It is because these great truths are provable by natural reason that we are morally bound to believe the revelation of God when duly accredited to us as his revelation, and that refusal to believe it when so accredited is a sin.

It is easy to see, therefore, that Christian faith not only leaves a wide field to reason or philosophy, but makes large demands on philosophy, requires of natural reason the very utmost it can do; for the highest victory of reason is precisely in proving with certainty these three great scientific or philosophical truths just named. How little do they understand of our religion, who pretend that it dwarfs the intellect, gives no scope to reason, and appeals only to the external senses and the ignorance and credulity of the people! These considerations show that reason, science, or philosophy has a great and important part in relation to Catholic faith, and must have; for all the theologians agree that grace supposes nature, _gratia supponit naturam._ It is to the rational soul that God speaks.

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Now, it is an undeniable fact, that what passes for philosophy with non-Catholics either denies those great truths which are prior to faith, or fails to prove them with certainty. With what effect, then, can we meet the errors of the age or of our country, and advance the cause of Catholic faith with those who reject it, without entering even deeply into scientific and philosophical discussions? To restore faith, we must restore reason and philosophy, which is its expression; for reason is, at present, more seriously assailed than faith. The controversy to-day is not, as it was a hundred and fifty years ago, between catholicity and heresy, but between catholicity and infidelity, between the church and those who deny all religion deserving the name; and this controversy is precisely in the field of philosophy. In denying the church and rejecting the Christian mysteries, the movement party of the age have lost reason, while professing to rely on it and to be guided by it. They have fallen below reason, and must be brought up to it, and be made to respect it. The so-called advanced party of humanity, the march-of-intellect or the progress-of-the-species party, deny not the faith only, but, in act, reason too. The party has no tolerable appreciation of the powers and capacities of natural reason; and the moment we can get its members to reason, to understand what reason can do, and is called upon to do, controversy is over. We have got their face turned toward the truth, and themselves making their way toward the church. Hence the great work immediately at hand is the defence of reason.

Those Catholics who have not been in a position to learn, or who have no call, in the way of duty, to study the wants and tendencies of the age, may not be aware of any necessity for this defence of reason, and therefore, for the philosophical essays, which, from time to time, we publish, and may well think that we fill with them a space that could be better filled with matter less heavy and more attractive to the bulk of readers. But those who, from their position or vocation, are obliged to study and comprehend the age, whose duty it is to master the literature and science of the non-Catholic world, and who are in habits of daily intercourse with fair-minded and liberal non-Catholics, feel the need of such essays, both for themselves and for those who hold our religion to be illogical, unintellectual, unphilosophical, and hostile to science. The age is earnest, terribly in earnest in the pursuit of material gain, and even in the cultivation of the material or inductive sciences; but, in spiritual matters, in the higher philosophy which is the preamble to faith, it is sadly deficient, and even indifferent; and this defect and this indifference must be overcome. We could not effect our purpose in publishing this magazine, or discharge our duty to our countrymen, if we did not do our best to overcome them; to stimulate those we are able to influence to devote themselves with greater earnestness to the study of the highest and gravest problems of reason now up for solution. Our readers know well that our aim is not simply to amuse or to render ourselves popular. {685} We do not believe it necessary to piety to put on a long face, to speak with a nasal twang, or to go about with the head bowed down like a bulrush. We delight to see the flowers bloom and to hear the birds sing; we love art and all the amenities of social life; but, with all this, we publish our magazine with a serious and earnest purpose. _Ernst ist das Leben_. We aim to serve the cause of faith, morals, intellectual culture, freedom, and civilization; to do what in us lies, God helping us, to restore our countrymen to faith in Christianity, and to Christianity in its unity and integrity; and to make them work with intelligence and zeal for the high destiny to which God, in his providence, is calling our beloved country.

The two letters we publish, among many other evidences that reach us, prove to us that we do not err in devoting a large space to the discussion of the highest and most difficult philosophical questions of the day. These letters are from men of education, culture, and the first order of intellect and intelligence. The first, which the author of the article on _The Cartesian Doubt_ has kindly placed at our disposal, proves that our so-called heavy articles have cleared up the mind, at least, of one soul, and enabled him to see and admit the Catholic truth. The second letter proves equally the part that philosophy plays in bringing men of a high order of intellect to the faith, even when the particular system of philosophy followed is not precisely that which we ourselves defend. His letter shows that its writer takes an interest in philosophy, and believes in its utility. This is enough to justify us in our course.

The writer of this letter appears to be a little startled at our censure of the inductive philosophy, and especially of Sir William Hamilton. We cannot call that eminent and erudite Scottish professor a philosopher, for we understand by philosophy the science of principles and causes. All real principles are ontological, and Sir William Hamilton denies that ontology is or can be any object of human science. The only things pertaining to philosophy he admits are logic and psychology. But how can there be psychology without ontology? a soul without being? or science of the soul without science of being, that is, without ontology? The soul is not self-existent, has not its being in itself, but in God; "for in him we live, and move, and are," or have our being. How, then, construct a real science of the soul, or psychology, without science of being, and of the relation of the soul to real and necessary being, that is, of the divine creative act? Logic is both a science and art. Men may, no doubt, practise the art without a scientific knowledge of its principles; but, to understand logic as a science, he must understand its principles, and these are ontological. No man fully comprehends logic as a science till he has seen its type and origin in the tripersonality of God, and recognized its principle in the divine creative act. Sir William Hamilton, then, by excluding ontology, excludes from our science principles and causes, and leaves both logic and psychology without any scientific basis.

The writer says, "Sir William Hamilton shows that induction, when applied to deity, to the infinite, or to the absolute, (he ought to have said to any spiritual existence also,) fails to yield even apparent truth, because it yields contradictions." We say the same, and therefore, while we admit inductive sciences, we do not admit inductive science or philosophy. {686} Principles are given _à priori_, not obtained, as Kant has amply proved, by induction from the facts of experience, because without them no experience is possible. We agree with the writer, not that this "is a near approach to a true Catholic philosophy," but, "to a definition of the field in which induction is to operate." Induction is restricted to the analysis and classification of facts, which fall or may fall under sensible observation, or experiment, and therefore the inductive sciences are empirical, not apodictic. This is what we said, when we said, "The tendency of all inductive philosophy, as any one may see in the writings of Sir William Hamilton, is to restrict all science to the phenomenal, and therefore to exclude principles and causes, and therefore laws."

The writer says, "I came into the Catholic Church in the spring of 1865, as I supposed by a process of induction," etc., and very legitimately too, we doubt not. We by no means exclude inductive reasoning in its place. We do not depreciate the inductive sciences, but we hold with Bacon that, while the inductive method is the true method of studying the facts of the external world, or of constructing the physical sciences, it is inapplicable in the study of philosophy or metaphysics. Philosophy has been well-nigh banished from the English-speaking world by neglecting the admonition of Bacon, and attempting to construct philosophy by the inductive method very properly adopted in the construction of the physical sciences, thus reducing the philosopher to a simple physicist, and philosophy simply to one of the physical sciences, instead of recognizing her as their queen, the _scientia scientiarum_. The difference between our friend and us is not that we differ from him with regard to induction or the inductive sciences, but that we hold that there is a science above them, which controls them, gives them their law, and renders them possible, and which is not obtainable by induction. This science, which corresponds to the _sophia_ or _sapientia_ of the ancients, and which Aristotle held to be not empirical, and the science of first principles, is what we call, and the only science that we call, philosophy. What our friend understands by inductive philosophy lies below what we call philosophy, and begins where our philosophy ends.

In proving the miracles as historical facts, or the historical identity of the church in all ages, and her commission to teach all men and nations all things whatever our Lord has commanded or revealed to her, we follow the inductive process, and must do so, for no other is possible. But it must be observed that the inductive process would have even here no scientific value without the science of the principles, what we call the preamble to faith, namely, the existence of God, the spirituality of the soul, and human liberty. Without this science, the induction would conclude nothing, and our friend as well as we holds that this science is not attainable by any inductive process. It must also be observed that the inductions we draw from the historical facts in the case do not give us divine faith, but simply a human faith, or rational belief in the Catholic Church, as we have already explained. The Catholic believer is more certain of the truth of what the church teaches than he is of any historical fact; but this higher certainty is not the result of induction, for induction can give no certainty greater than we have of the facts from which it proceeds. {687} The greater certainty is the result of the _donum fidei_, or the supernatural gift of faith, by which the soul is born again or initiated into the order of regeneration, and begins its return to God as its final cause. The soul is thus really joined by grace to Jesus Christ, who is the real head of every man in the order of regeneration, and lives his life, as really as, in the order of generation, we live the life of Adam our progenitor. This certainty or firm persuasion, which St. Paul tells us "is the substance of things to be hoped for, the evidence of things not seen," _rerum substantia sperandarum, argumentum non apparentium_, which is of grace, must not be confounded with the _fides humana_, or certainty which is the product of induction. This latter certainty, which results from the motives of credibility fairly considered, and fully comprehended, and which, after all, leaves us outside the door of the church, is as great as any historical or inductive certainty can be, but it can be no greater.

The writer says he has failed to discover in the writings of Sir William Hamilton the tendency we describe, and that he cannot understand how such a result could be produced by the inductive philosophy; but he himself acknowledges that Sir William shows that induction, applied to the infinite or the absolute, fails to yield even apparent truth, and says he should have added, "or to any spiritual existence." This, with the proposed addendum, excludes from the inductive philosophy all but finite and material or sensible existences, as we asserted. Sir William maintains expressly that the infinite, the absolute, the unconditional cannot even be thought, because, if thought, it would be bounded and conditioned by our thought--an absurd reason, for it supposes that our thought affects the object we think! We think things because they are, not they are because we think them. The object conditions the thought, not the thought the object. Sir William's reason proves not that the object thought is not infinite, absolute, unconditioned, but simply that our thought on its subjective side is finite, or, in other words, that we are not infinite, and cannot think an infinite thought or perform an infinite act--no very novel assertion.

Exclude from philosophy the infinite, the absolute, the unconditional, you exclude God, and deny that the existence of God can be proved with certainty by reason, prior to faith. If you exclude all spiritual existences, you deny all but material existences, and that the spirituality of the soul is provable with certainty from natural reason. If you exclude God from your philosophy, you exclude the _causa causarum_, and therefore all finite or second causes. Unable to assert any cause or causes, your philosophy can recognize only, as we said, sensible phenomena; nay, not so much, but simply affections of the sensibility, without any power to refer them to any external object or cause producing them. We think it very easy, therefore, to understand wherefore the inductive philosophy, as gathered from the school of Sir William Hamilton, should, as we said, "tend to restrict all science to the phenomena, and therefore to exclude principles and causes, and consequently laws." Can our friend name anything more that can be an object of knowledge with Sir William Hamilton and his school? Will he say this is all philosophy can give? that is, all that can be known or proved by natural reason? {688} If so, what answer shall we make to Saint Thomas and all Catholic theologians who, with one accord, maintain that the existence of God, universal, necessary, immutable, real, self-existent and most perfect being, is demonstrable by reason? or to the Holy See who has required the traditionalist to subscribe the declaration we have already mentioned, namely, "Ratiocinatio Dei existentiam, animae spiritualitatem, hominis libertatem cum certitudine probare potest"? or to Saint Paul, who says, (Rom. i. 20,) "The invisible things of God, even his eternal power and divinity, are clearly seen from the creation of the world, being understood by the things that are made, _per ca quae facta sunt intellecta?_

We have dwelt the longer on this point because Sir William Hamilton happens just now to be esteemed by a large class of our countrymen as a great philosopher, and his writings are exerting a bad influence on philosophic thought. He, perhaps, had no contemporary who surpassed him in the literature of philosophy or philosophical erudition; he knew all systems, ancient, mediaeval, and modern, but he lacked the true _ingegno filosofico_, and though a born critic, he cannot as an original and comprehensive genius be compared even with Dr. Thomas Reid, the founder of the Scottish school. His great merit was in completing the doctrine of perception left imperfect by Reid, by proving that we perceive in 'the sensible order things themselves, not merely their phantasms, and that perceiving and perceiving that we perceive are one and the same thing. So far he asserted real objective knowledge, but knowledge only in the external or sensible order. But he undid all this again by maintaining that we see things under the forms of our own understanding; not as they are in themselves, but as we are intellectually constituted to see them. To an intellect constituted differently from ours they would appear different from what they do to us. This has an ugly squint toward the subjectivism of Immanuel Kant, and brings us back to the apparent or purely phenomenal. This supposes that all our knowledge is only knowledge relatively to us, or in relation to the present constitution of our minds. Hence, there is nothing absolute or apodictic in our science. Things may be in reality very different from what we see them, or from what they appear to us. This renders all our knowledge on its objective side uncertain, and opens the door to universal scepticism. We think we have done no injustice to Sir William Hamilton.

We rank Sir William Hamilton with the Positivists, as we do Mr. Herbert Spencer and Mr. J. Stuart Mill, because he restricts our science to the sensible and material order, and denies virtually that we can know principles and causes. We do not pretend that he, Mill, or Spencer agrees in all things with Auguste Comte, the founder of Positivism; we have no reason to suppose that he sympathized knowingly with Comte's avowed atheism, or with his deification and worship of humanity. But the fundamental principle of positivism, that which excludes ontology from the domain of science, is common to them all; and it is impossible to establish the existence of God, the spirituality of the soul, or the liberty of man, or anything else without the aid of ontological principles. Mr. Mansel, the ablest of Sir William Hamilton's disciples, seems well aware of it, and attempts to found science on faith, and faith on--nothing.

We would willingly comply with our friend's request, but we know of no philosophical work in our language such as he wishes us to name. The English-speaking world, since Hobbes and Locke, has had no philosophy, and we are aware of no English treatise on philosophy that has any philosophical value, though some good things may be found in old Ralph Cudworth, Henry More, and in Reid and Beattie. {689} We know nothing within a moderate compass in any other modern tongue that would meet the wishes of our friend much better. Balmes's Fundamental Philosophy, translated from the Spanish by H. F. Brownson, with an introduction by his father, Doctor O. A. Brownson, and published by the Sadliers in this city, is the best that occurs to us. Several Latin text-books, used in our colleges, such as Rothenflue's, Fournier's, Branchereau's, and the Lugdunensis, are, though not free from objection, yet good introductions to the study of philosophy. For ourselves, we collect our philosophy from Plato, Aristotle, the fathers and theologians, more especially from the mediaeval doctors of the church, aided by various modern writers, and our own reflections. We follow no one author, but regard St. Augustine and St. Thomas as the two greatest masters of Catholic philosophy that have yet appeared. As philosophy is the science of reason, we depend on the reason common to all men to confirm or to reject such philosophical views as we from time to time put forth.

Father Lacordaire. [Footnote 65]

[Footnote 65: The Inner Life of the Very Reverend Père Lacordaire, of the Order of Preachers. Translated from the French of the Rev. Père Chocarne, O.P., with the author's permission. By a Religious of the same Order. With preface by the Very Rev. Father Aylward, Prior Provincial of England. Small 8vo, pp. 556. Dublin: William B. Kelly. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.]

A complete biography of the eloquent Dominican whose name is one of the most brilliant in the history of the modern French Church is yet to be looked for. If it is ever adequately written, it will be a work of singular fascination. Rich, however, as Father Lacordaire's life was in materials for such a book, it was a life comparatively poor in striking incidents--a life whose best side lay apart from the world, and whose beauty could be clearly seen only by the light of a genuine religious spirit. In a word, it was his _inner_ life which best merits our notice and awakens our sympathy. We shall hardly be going too far if we say that the history of his soul is a positive romance. This romance Father Chocarne has endeavored to relate in his excellent narrative of "The Inner Life of the Very Rev. Père Lacordaire." As a biography, it is defective; but it does not pretend to be a biography. It is, rather, a description of the mental and spiritual progress of the man, and a picture of his virtues.

Henry Lacordaire was the son of a village doctor of Recey-sur-Ource, in Burgundy, where he was born in 1802. The gentleness of temper for which he was afterward remarkable, distinguished him from his cradle, and the fiery eloquence by which he was to work such wonders may almost be said to have been a gift of his boyhood. As a child, his favorite amusement was to play at being priest, and from his mimic pulpit to inveigh against the sins of the world with an energy which often became alarming. {690} An incident, which he relates himself, and which may be found in his "Letters to Young Men," published by the Abbé Perreyve, illustrates at once the remarkable delicacy of feeling which formed, through life, so important an element of his character, and the piety which distinguished his early youth. At the age of ten he had been sent to school at the Lyceum of Dijon.

"From the very first day," says he, "my schoolfellows selected me as a kind of plaything or victim. I could not take a step without being pursued by their brutality. For several weeks they even deprived me, by violence, of any other food than my soup and bread. In order to escape their ill-treatment, I used, as often as possible, to get away from them during the time of recreation, and, going into the schoolroom, conceal myself under a bench from the eyes alike of my masters and companions. There, alone, without protection, abandoned by every one, I poured out religious tears before God, offering him my childish troubles, as a sacrifice, and striving to raise myself, by tender sentiments of piety, to the cross of his divine Son."

Father Chocarne's remark upon this story, though it may seem not altogether free from French fancifulness, is, after all, a just one.

"This little sufferer, hidden under a bench in the college of which he was afterward to be the honor, and taking refuge at the feet of the Great Victim, gives the key to the entire life of Father Lacordaire. He was not to be raised by God until he had been abased. He was to know glory, but only at the price of hard humiliations and bitter disappointments; and in the hour of success, as in that of trial, his refuge, his resource, his life, his very passion, was to be the cross, the cross of Him who sought the little schoolboy hidden under his bench."

There was nothing at Dijon to keep alive the fervor of his religious sentiments, and it was a time indeed when, in the confusion of the political upheaval which was soon to wreak havoc in the social life of France, faith was an unfashionable weakness, devotion was an exclusively feminine accomplishment, and piety was supplanted by a pinchbeck philosophy. What wonder, therefore, that he left college at the age of seventeen, with his faith practically destroyed--not an open infidel, but only a nominal Christian? At the age of twenty he went to Paris to commence the practice of the law. It may readily be supposed that in the society of the metropolis, which was then seething with political excitement, and intoxicated with dreams of impossible liberty, in the stirring occupations of his career at the bar where he achieved at once a very signal success, his religious impressions would be still further weakened. At first this certainly was the case; yet there was one peculiarity of his disposition which preserved him from a good many of the dangers of his way of life, and probably contributed, under God, to his conversion. He was one who thirsted for love, yet was without a single bosom friend. He never was attracted by the society of women; but he longed for the affection of some congenial companion of his own sex, who could enter into all his hopes and feelings, and share his disappointments and his pleasures. Without this--and his natural reserve long debarred him from it-- Paris was to him a desert. He was forced to withdraw into himself. Solitude and habits of reflection begot an abiding melancholy. "There are in me," he writes at this time, "two contrary principles, which are always at war, and which sometimes make me very unhappy--a cold, calm reason, opposed to a burning imagination--and the first disenchants me of all the illusions which the second presents. {691} Nobody would commit more follies than I should do on one side of my being, were I not withheld by a habit of reflection which presents things to me in all their aspects. I have played the game of the material interests of this world, and, without having much enjoyed its pleasures or been intoxicated with its delights, I have tasted enough to be convinced that all is vain under the sun; and this conviction comes both from my imagination, which has no limits save the Infinite, and from my reason, which analyzes all it touches. I have a most religious heart, and a very incredulous mind; but, as it is in the nature of things that the mind must at last allow itself to be subjugated by the affections, it is most likely that I shall one day become a Christian. I am alike capable of living in solitude, and of plunging into the vortex of human affairs: I love quiet when I think of it, and bustle when I am in it, sometimes making my Castle in the air to consist in the life of a village curé, and then saying good-by to my day-dream as I pass the Pont-Neuf--held in my present position by that force of reason which convinces me that to try everything and to be always changing one's place is not to change one's nature, and that there are wants in the heart which earth is powerless to satisfy."

By what process he was led out of this darkness into the light of religious happiness, we do not know. Probably he never knew himself the precise means by which the grace of God wrought his conversion. "Would you believe it," he wrote in 1824, "I am every day growing more and more a Christian? It is strange, this progressive change in my opinions. I am beginning to believe, and yet I was never more a philosopher. A little philosophy draws us from religion, but a good deal of it brings us back again." His progress toward the truth was rapid. He shunned the society of his acquaintances. Sometimes he was detected on his knees behind the columns of silent churches. Sometimes his friends surprised him wrapt in sorrowful meditation among his books. At length the clouds broke away. The divine light burst upon him in all its magnificence. The loving friend whom he had sought so long he found in the person of his Saviour. The affectionate heart which had yearned for an object upon which to pour out its wealth found one in Jesus Christ. The eloquent lips had at last a theme worthy of their powers. He resolved to become a priest, and at the age of twenty-two accordingly entered the Seminary of St. Sulpice.

The serenity and peace of mind which came upon him in his new life was like the reaction after long restraint. He seemed created for the priesthood, for he had all the natural gifts most fitting the sacred calling; but his life had been forced into the wrong channel, and now that the pressure was removed, his soul rebounded with an elasticity at which his directors now and then stood aghast. The strict formalism of St. Sulpice, with its rigorous rules of propriety, was but little suited to his independent character; yet it was something more than a natural repugnance to unnecessary restraint which inspired him with a gaiety little known in the prim precincts of the seminary.

"It sometimes happened that his lively and original nature, not yet under much control, betrayed itself in sallies which manifested something of the _gallica levitas_, seasoned with Burgundian love of fun. The good directors were astounded, and hastened to repress this boisterous levity. He never could accustom himself to the square cap, that strange head-dress, the shape of which is so grotesque that one dares not call it by its true name. Against these caps Lacordaire declared war, a war at first carried on by epigrams, but which soon became one of extermination. {692} He would snatch them out of the hands of his friends and throw them into the fire. This gave rise to a great commotion, and very lively discussions ensued, some declaring in favor of the square cap, and others for the biretta, which was then a novelty. But novelty and argument were two things which St. Sulpice held in equal abhorrence. In the evening, therefore, at the hour of spiritual reading, the superior addressed them a grave reproof, and order was once more restored.

"The Abbé Lacordaire always displayed perfect submission to his directors; and if they were sometimes puzzled by the contrasts of his singular character, they never had occasion to complain of his want of humility, modesty, or obedience. He was beloved by all his companions: his deep and earnest nature, wholly given up to his new and sacred duties, was adorned with a certain freshness of poetry, with the fragrance of worldly refinement, and the grace of a character long pent up within itself, but now freely poured forth; and all this gave an indescribable charm to his personal intercourse which made him generally loved and sought after. All his masters, however, did not understand him; the singularity of some of his ways, his liberal opinions, and his instinctive repugnance to certain points of ordinary routine, doubtless now and then deceived their observant eyes, and prevented them from at once appreciating at its just value the pure gold which lay hidden at the bottom of the vessel."

The consequence of all this was that his superiors remained a long time in doubt about his vocation, and he was not allowed to receive holy orders at the usual time.

"They felt uneasy when they observed his ardor for debates, and the large claims which he made for reason. When he opened his lips in class to raise any objection, his words took so lively and original a turn, and his conclusions were so bold, that they often proved somewhat embarrassing to the professors. At last, in order to save time, they begged him to put off his difficulties till the end of the lecture. He forgot this sometimes; perhaps it was to relate a story, but the story generally ended in some treacherous question, or some home-thrust at the thesis of the master."

A project which he seriously began to entertain of becoming a Jesuit put an end to this hesitation, and in 1827 he was ordained priest. Very soon afterward an appointment as auditor of the Rota at Rome was offered him. It was an office pretty certain to lead to the episcopacy, but he refused it, and accepted the humble post of chaplain to a convent of visitation nuns in Paris, where his widowed mother came to live with him. The abundant leisure which remained to him in this humble position he diligently employed in study. At one time he had nearly made up his mind to become a missionary in the United States, and he had an interview respecting the project with Bishop Dubois, of New York, when that venerable prelate visited France in 1830. The bishop offered him the post of vicar-general. It would be curious to speculate what effect his acceptance of this proposal would have had upon the history of either the French or the American Church. Had he been vicar-general, he would probably have been the coadjutor and successor of Bishop Dubois, and the brilliant career of Archbishop Hughes would have been missed from our annals. In no other diocese than New York would Archbishop Hughes have found a proper field for the full exercise of his remarkable powers; in no other position than the one he actually occupied could he have done such good service to the church as he effected in this chief city of the new world. On the other hand, there can be no question that Henry Lacordaire was but imperfectly fitted for the hard and laborious work required in those days of an American bishop. It was rough work, and the tools needed to be not delicate but strong. To one who had refused a tempting offer from Rome, the prospect of a vicar-generalship in America cannot be supposed to have held out strong inducements; but there were some reasons why a career in this country presented itself to his mind in a strangely enticing light. {693} He had not forgotten his early aspirations for political independence. He had already given deep thought to the problem which was afterward to bring him into such prominence before the world, of associating society and the church, and breaking the unholy alliance between democracy and infidelity. Politically he was an earnest liberal; religiously he was a devout priest. In France, men did not readily see how the two characters could be united; but in America he believed that Catholicism was placed under conditions of development and action more favorable than in any country of Europe. "Who is there," he exclaimed, "who, at moments when the state of his own country saddens him, has not turned his eyes toward the republic of Washington? Who has not, in fancy, at least, sat down to rest under the shadow of her forests and her laws? Weary with the spectacle I beheld in France, it was on that land that I cast my eyes, and thither I resolved to go to ask a hospitality she has never refused to a traveller or a priest." Having obtained the consent of his archbishop, he went to Burgundy to bid farewell to his family. But while there, he received a letter from his friend, the Abbé Gerbet, which changed his course and determined him to remain in France.

In the spring of 1830, he had become intimate with the Abbé de la Mennais, in whom the hopes of so many of the most zealous of the religious party in France then centred. He was fascinated by the genius of that remarkable man; he believed in many of his theories; he tried, with only incomplete success, to accept his philosophy; but De la Mennais was an absolutist in politics, and Lacordaire was an earnest liberal. The revolution of 1830, however, swept away this barrier which had hitherto kept the two men apart. De la Mennais frankly accepted the great changes which followed the abdication of Charles X., and, in conjunction with some of his disciples, prepared to discuss the same problem of the church and society of which Lacordaire was about to seek the solution in America. In this work Lacordaire was invited to take part. "Nothing," says Father Chocarne, "could have caused him greater joy; it amounted to a sort of intoxication. ... And thus the same enthusiastic love of liberty which was carrying this ardent and generous soul to a country blest with a larger freedom than his own, stopped him at the very moment of his departure, and fixed him for ever to take part in the destinies and struggles of his native land."

The _Avenir_ newspaper, which was to be the vehicle of this discussion, was founded on the 15th of October, 1830. The noise of it had no sooner gone abroad than a young French gentleman of brilliant parts, then in Ireland, hastened home to claim a share of the labor. This was Montalembert, and in him Lacordaire found the friend for whom he had long sought, and a worthy object for the affection which he was burning to bestow. They met for the first time at the house of De la Mennais, and loved each other from the first with a love such as knit together the souls of Jonathan and David. De la Mennais, Lacordaire, and Montalembert were three of the principal editors of the new journal.

{694}

"They declared their object plainly enough: it was to claim back for the church of France every privilege of liberty, whilst rejecting none of its burdens. The revolution had just made a clean sweep of all ancient traditions. Since the restoration of order and public worship at the beginning of the century, the clergy had learnt to their cost the real value of that protection granted by a power which was ill-informed as to the real nature of its relations with the church; they had found out by experience what they had gained in consideration under the empire, under the restoration, and under the recently established _régime_ of the _bourgoisie._ What attitude were they to assume toward the new government? Would the old endeavors to form an alliance between the throne and the altar now recommence? The _Avenir_ was founded to preserve them from this temptation. Its programme was, respect for the charter and for just laws; but for the rest, an absolute independence of the civil government. It consequently advocated liberty of opinion for the press, and war against arbitrary power and privilege; liberty of education, and war against the monopoly of the university; liberty of association, and war against the old anti-monastic laws revived in evil times; the liberty and moral independence of the clergy, and war against the budget of public worship. Very vague and uncertain limits were assigned to these different liberties, and the reserves stipulated for in the declarations of doctrine disappeared often enough when the writers were carried away by the ardor of discussion, and the vehemence of invective. They were more frequently engaged, we must confess, in obtaining the thing they sought than in preventing its abuse. Far too radical in their principles, the polemics of the journal were yet more so in the course of action which they recommended. 'Liberty is not given, it is taken,' was a phrase continually repeated; nor did they scruple to add example to precept. Every morning the charge was sounded, and every day witnessed some new feat of arms. The clergy were addressed as an army drawn up in battle array. Every means was tried to kindle their ardor; the zeal of the tardy was stimulated, and deserters were set in the pillory. The chiefs of the party were harangued, the plan of campaign indicated beforehand, the enemy pointed out and pursued to death. Philosophers, enemies of religion, ministers, miserable pro-consuls, members of the university, citizens, and Gallicans were all attacked at once. Resistance did but rouse the spirit of the combatants; it seemed as though the sun always set too early on their warlike ardor. Patience and discretion were not much regarded in their system of tactics; they wanted to have everything at once, and could not wait for to-morrow, and what was not granted with a good grace was to be snatched by force, and at the point of the sword. This haughty and antagonistic attitude, this want of experience in men and things, more excusable in the young disciples than it was in their master, formed, in our opinion, the greatest fault of the _Avenir_. Its errors and exaggerations of doctrine might have been corrected with time, good advice, and the practical teaching of facts. But those haughty accents, so strange when heard from the lips of priests, alarmed even their friends, and created a certain consternation at Rome--Rome ever calm as truth, and patient as eternity. The responsibility of this false attitude must be charged chiefly on the Abbé de la Mennais and the Abbé Lacordaire. It was the latter who drew up the most incendiary harangues, and opened the most difficult questions.

......

"The philosophic opinions of M. de la Mennais, and the absolute theories of his journal, particularly those which represented the state payment of the clergy as the badge of shame and slavery, had excited a certain feeling of distrust among the episcopacy, which daily increased. The young disciples of M. de la Mennais were never afraid of a combat; but their faith and loyalty could not endure the vague suspicions raised against their orthodoxy. They began to desire a clear, open explanation, and they determined to go and demand it from the judge of all ecclesiastical controversies, the successor of St. Peter."

The first suggestion of this course came from Lacordaire. He reached Rome, with his two companions, about the end of December, 1831, and besought an audience with the Holy Father Gregory XVI. for the purpose of explaining their views and intentions, and, we may suppose, of defending their orthodoxy. But Rome is not readily moved by the dreams of young enthusiasts, and their reception was a cold one. They were denied a personal interview, and were required to put what they had to say into writing. At the end of two months, Cardinal Pacca condescended to notice their memorial, promised that it "should be examined," and courteously bade them go home. {695} The effect of this treatment upon De la Mennais and Lacordaire respectively, is a remarkable illustration of their characters. The one, deeply wounded in his pride, is sullen under the reproof and at last throws away for ever the precious gift of faith. The other acknowledges his errors, bows humbly to the command of God, and, delivered from "the most terrible of all oppressions, that of the intellect," starts afresh upon a more glorious career than the one he is forced to abandon. "When I arrived at Rome," he writes, "at the tomb of the holy apostles, St. Peter and St. Paul, I knelt down and said to God, 'Lord, I begin to feel my weakness, my sight fails me, truth and error alike escape my grasp; have pity on thy servant, who comes to thee with a sincere heart; hear the prayer of the poor.' I know neither the day nor the hour when it took place, but at last I saw what I had not before seen, and I left Rome free and victorious. I had learned from my own experience that the church is the deliverer of the human intellect; and as from freedom of intellect all other freedoms necessarily flow, I perceived the questions which then agitated the world in their true light." "It was at this moment, as I venture to believe," says Montalembert, "that God for ever marked him with the seal of his grace and laid up for him the reward due to his unshaken fidelity, so worthy of a priestly soul."

Lacordaire now resolved to return at once to France, and abandon the _Avenir_ entirely. De la Mennais persisted in remaining at Rome longer and resuming the suspended periodical; but when the pope decided at last in his Encyclical Letter of August 15th, 1832, and decided against him, he made a temporary submission, and withdrew to his country-house at La Chesnaie. In this solitary retreat, where, in the days of his greatness, a knot of favorite disciples used to sit at his feet, he was once more joined by Lacordaire, who had more confidence in the reality of his master's obedience to the Holy See than after events justified. Before long, others of the young school gathered under the roof of the lonely manor-house. De la Mennais chafed daily more and more under the affront to his intellect. He gave signs of rebellion. His heart was torn by passion, and his lips let fall dark threats and alarming murmurs. "The harrowing spectacle," says Lacordaire, "became too much for me to bear." He wrote M. de la Mennais an affecting letter of farewell; and left La Chesnaie alone and on foot. It was not long before the apostasy of De la Mennais brought the sad history to an awful close.

The young priest, who had escaped from the snare, hastened to present himself to the Archbishop of Paris, Mgr. de Quélen. He was received with open arms, as a son who had returned wounded and weary from some dangerous adventure. "You want another baptism," said the archbishop, "and I will give you one." He reappointed him to the chaplaincy of the Visitation, and in the retirement of that peaceful retreat he found rest for his disturbed soul, and girded up his loins for a fresh battle with the world.

He spent about a year in this solitude, and then accepted an invitation from the officers of the Stanislaus College in Paris, to preach a series of conferences to the students. Here, at last, was the vocation for which God had designed him. The pulpit was his proper sphere. After the first day, the pupils had to give up their places to crowds of strangers, and the chapel could not contain the numbers who flocked to listen to his indescribable eloquence. {696} It was an eloquence not restricted by rules. The orator trampled under foot the artificial forms which for centuries had cramped and confined the utterances of the pulpit. He outraged at pleasure all the canons of the schools. His conferences were neither lectures, nor homilies, nor sermons, but rather were brilliant discourses on sacred subjects in which all the sympathies of the audience were by turns engaged. He spoke not merely as a priest, but as a citizen, a poet, a philosopher, as a man of the day, appreciating the spirit and the wants of his own time. But, like all men who strike out in a new path, and are not satisfied to follow exactly in the footsteps of their grandfathers, he encountered bitter opposition from a certain class of purblind formalists. His style, they said, was too human; his rhetoric was too erratic; his disrespect for the text-books of the schools of eloquence was positively appalling. Nay, was he not one of that pestiferous brood which De la Mennais had hatched in the woods of La Chesnaie, and which the Pope had solemnly condemned? Was he not a liberal in politics, a friend of liberty, an admirer of American republicanism? He had recanted his errors; but that was forgotten. He had given the strongest proofs of the steadfastness of his faith and the completeness of his submission to the Holy See; but these were overlooked. He was not merely an orator, but an accomplished theologian, for he had always been a hard student; but to this his opponents resolutely shut their eyes. They denounced him as a dangerous man, a fanatic, an innovator, and a corrupter of youth. Their clamor at last prevailed, and by order of the archbishop the conferences were suspended. This second humiliation, which he accepted with the same docility as the first, was of short duration. M. Affre, afterward Archbishop of Paris, pleaded so earnestly for his reinstatement that he was not only restored to the pulpit but appointed a series of conferences in the great cathedral of Notre Dame. We shall tell in his own words how, after a brief hesitation, he entered upon this important duty:

"The day having come, Notre Dame was filled with a multitude such as had never before been seen within its walls. The liberal and the absolutist youth of Paris, friends and enemies, and that curious crowd which a great capital has always ready for anything new, had all flocked together, and were packed in dense masses within the old cathedral. I mounted the pulpit firmly but not without emotion, and began my discourse with my eye fixed on the archbishop who, after God, but before the public, was to me the first personage in the scene. He listened with his head a little bent down, in a state of absolute impassibility, like a man who was not a mere spectator, nor even a judge, but rather as one who ran a personal risk by the experiment. I soon felt at home with my subject and my audience, and as my breast swelled under the necessity of grasping that vast assembly of men, and the calm of the first opening sentences began to give place to the inspiration of the orator, one of those exclamations escaped from me which, when deep and heartfelt, never fail to move. The archbishop visibly trembled. I watched his countenance change as he raised his head and cast on me a glance of astonishment. I saw that the battle was gained in his mind, and it was so already in that of the audience. Having returned home, he announced that he was going to appoint me honorary canon of the cathedral; and they had some difficulty in inducing him to wait until the end of the station."

The effect of these discourses was irresistible. All Paris came to hear them; and over the young men especially, into whose wants, tastes, feelings, hopes, aspirations, disappointments Father Lacordaire entered so thoroughly, because he had experienced them all himself, his influence was almost unbounded.

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"What above all distinguished his preaching, and marked its providential mission, whilst it formed the chief reason of his success, was its adaptation to social needs. It gave to society what society was hungering and thirsting after; that Living Bread, the long privation of which had brought it to the verge of death; it spoke to the world of God, and of his Son, our Lord and Saviour. Christianity has a social existence, not only in the sense that it is itself a society, the most united, the most universal, the most ancient, the most Catholic, and the most perfect of all societies; but also in this, that all societies depend on and live by it, as the body depends on the soul, and draws its life from thence, and as man depends and lives on God. Now the society which the Abbé Lacordaire addressed was remarkable precisely in this, that it was _without_ God. For the first time, perhaps, since civilized nations have had a history, men were to be seen endeavoring to progress without the aid of any positive commerce with heaven. But if it is with difficulty that an individual can live without religious faith, much more is it impossible for a nation to do so. What, in fact, is a nation but a great community of sufferings, miseries, weaknesses, and maladies of mind and body? Without religion, and above all, without Christianity, where is the remedy for all these evils, the consolation for all these misfortunes? The Abbé Lacordaire, himself brought back to Catholicism by his deep conviction that society could not do without the church, received as his peculiar mission the task of developing this truth to the eyes of his countrymen. 'The old state of society,' he said, 'perished because it had expelled God; the new is suffering, because God has not yet been admitted into it.' His constant aim, the thought which ran through all his instructions, his labors, and his entire career, was to contribute what he could in order that he might reenter into the faith and life of the age."

The conferences went on for two years without interruption, and with constantly increasing success. The archbishop bestowed upon the preacher the title of "the new prophet." All at once, in May, 1836, without any ostensible reason, he resigned his pulpit and went to Rome. The fact was, he had not succeeded in living down the misrepresentations and misconceptions which had embarrassed him before. He was still regarded in many quarters as a dangerous man, whose zeal was too rash, and whose orthodoxy was, at the best, but unfirm. What better could he do than seek refuge from detraction in the very bosom of the church? How could he better prove his devout obedience to the Holy Father than by seating himself at the very foot of the papal throne? In the retirement of the Christian capital, he pondered upon his future career. A life such as he had hitherto led he saw was impossible; whatever good he might effect by his preaching would hardly counterbalance the evil of the opposition he aroused among those who could not or would not understand him. Moreover, the archbishop had kindly intimated to him that there was no line of duty open to him except in the routine of regular parochial duty. For this he had neither fitness nor vocation. His only resource was consequently in one of the religious orders. None of them except the Society of Jesus had yet been restored in France. What a glorious task for him to bring back some of them to his native country! After long deliberation, his choice settled upon the Dominicans. The difficulties to be overcome were enormous; and not the least of the obstacles which he had to place under his foot was his own character, his independence of spirit, his love of liberty, his boldness in stepping out of the beaten path. We have no space to relate in detail how he fought and conquered. He made his novitiate at Viterbo, pronounced his vows in May, 1840, and the next day set out for Rome, where the convent of Santa Sabina had been consigned for his use and that of the six companions who were to join him in his mission.

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His stay here was but brief, for he was eager to get back to France. In December, he reappeared in his native country, wearing the habit which had been banished from the kingdom for half a century.

"Here and there he met with a few marks of astonishment, and sometimes of hostility. At Paris, where he was expected by no one excepting his most intimate friends, many rejoiced to see him. His former enemies had no time to think of their old rancors, nor the lawyers their musty statutes. Everything else gave way before the sentiment of curiosity. All the world wished to see the friar, the spectre of past ages, the son of _Dominic the Inquisitor;_ and especially to know what he was going to do and to say. Mgr. Affre, the new Archbishop of Paris, received Père Lacordaire with delight, saw no difficulty in his preaching at Notre Dame in his new habit, and only begged him to name whatever day he liked. We must leave Père Lacordaire himself to relate the story of this bold adventure.

"'I appeared in the pulpit of Notre Dame with my white tunic, gray-black mantle, and my tonsure. The archbishop presided, the keeper of the seals, and minister of public worship, M. Martin, (du Nord,) was also present, as he wished to observe for himself a scene of which no one could tell the issue. Many other distinguished persons concealed themselves in the assembly, in the midst of the crowd which filled the church from the doors to the sanctuary. I had chosen for the subject of my discourse the _Vocation of the French Nation_, in order to veil the audacity of my presence under the popularity of my theme. In this I succeeded, and next day the keeper of the seals invited me to a dinner-party of forty persons, which he gave at the chancellor's mansion. During the repast, M. Bourdain, formerly minister of justice under Charles X., leant toward one of his neighbors, and said, "What a strange turn of events! If, when I was keeper of the seals, I had invited a Dominican to my table, my house would have been burnt down next day." However, the house was not burnt, and no newspaper ever invoked the secular arm against my _auto-da-fé_.'

"This was, in fact, one of his happiest strokes--one of those surprises which he was fond of, and which suited the adventurous side of his character. The effect of this reappearance was immense; the religious standard had been planted in the very heart of the stronghold; but the victory was not yet completely gained, and many of those who had been dazzled and disconcerted by the brilliancy and unforeseen character of the attack, were not long ere they turned against him, and demanded an explanation of his illegal triumph, in the name of the state."

The establishment of the order in France was not effected without a good many troubles. There was trouble at Rome, where he was suspected and misunderstood until he proved his humility and obedience. There was trouble in France, where the government opposed the introduction of an order which was still forbidden by law, and threatened him with penalties which, after all, they lacked the courage to enforce; and where the timid and short-sighted among the clergy would rather have had him submit to wrong than compromise a sleepy sort of tranquillity by standing up boldly for the right. There was even a tedious controversy which, at this distance of time and place, seems wonderfully trivial, whether he should be permitted to preach in his white habit. But his courage conquered. One or two houses of the order were soon opened; and, when the revolutionary troubles came in 1848, the eloquent Dominican was one of the most popular men in France. With the establishment of the republic, a somewhat embarrassing question presented itself for his decision. It was not easy for him, occupying such a position as he did in the public eye, to stand aloof from the great public questions of the day. The good of religion seemed to require that he should mingle in the turmoil of politics. He tells how his determination was at last effected:

"Whilst I was thus deliberating with myself, the Abbé Maret and Frederic Ozanam called on me. They spoke to me of the trouble and uncertainty that reigned among Catholics; all old rallying-points were disappearing in what seemed likely to become a hopeless anarchy, which might render the new _régime_ hostile to us, and deprive us of all chance of obtaining those liberties which had been refused by preceding governments. {699} 'The republic,' they added, 'is well-disposed toward us; we have no such acts of barbarity and irreligion to charge it with as disgraced the Revolution of 1830. It believes and hopes in us; ought we to discourage it? Moreover, what are we to do?--to what other party can we attach ourselves? What do we see before us but ruin? and what is the republic, but the natural government of a society that has lost all its former anchors and traditions?'

"To these reasons, suggested by the situation of affairs, they added higher and more general views, drawn from the future of European society, and the impossibility that monarchy should ever again find any solid resting-place. On this point I did not go so far as they. Limited monarchy, in spite of its faults, had always seemed to me the most desirable of all forms of government, and I only saw in the republic a momentary necessity until things should naturally take another course. This difference of opinion was serious, and hardly allowed of our working together in concert. Nevertheless, the danger was urgent, and it was absolutely necessary either to abdicate at this solemn moment, or frankly to choose one's party, and bring to the help of society, now shaken to its very foundations, whatever light and strength each one had at his command. Hitherto I had taken a definite position with regard to public events; ought I now to take refuge in a selfish silence because the difficulties were more serious? I might indeed say that I was a religious, and so hide myself under my religious habit; but I was a _religious militant_, a preacher, a writer, surrounded by a sympathy which created very different duties for me from the duties of a Trappist or a Carthusian. These considerations weighed on my conscience. Urged by my friends to decide, I at length yielded to the force of events, and though I felt a strong repugnance to the idea of returning to the career of a journalist, I agreed, in concert with them, to unfurl a standard on which should be inscribed together the names of Religion, the Republic, and Liberty."

This was the origin of a new political journal, the _Ere Nouvelle_, of which he commenced the publication in the spring of 1848. Nor was this all. The city of Marseilles elected him a representative in the constituent assembly; and, in his white Dominican habit, he took his seat there on the extreme left. We need hardly say that his political career was a bitter disappointment to himself, and a disappointment, too, to many of his friends. There was only one party with which his principles permitted him to ally himself; but that party, as he saw it in the assembly, could not enlist his sympathies. "I could not sit there," he said, "apart from democracy, and yet I could not accept democracy as I saw it there displayed." He held his seat only two weeks. On the 15th of May, a mob invaded the hall of meeting, and for three hours held their representatives intimidated. The next day Lacordaire resigned in disgust. "I found out," said he afterward, "that I was nothing but a poor little friar, and in no way a Richelieu; a poor friar, loving nothing but retirement and peace." Very soon afterward he withdrew likewise from the _Ere Nouvelle_, and here it may be said that his public life came to a close. He preached for some time longer in Notre Dame, but the boldness of his language gave offence, and, after the _coup d'état_ of December, 1851, he resisted all entreaties to appear again in the cathedral pulpit. The strengthening and propagation of his order now took up all his attention. He visited his brethren in other countries, and made a short trip to England. Then, at the age of fifty, he resolved to devote himself to the education of the young. He founded houses of the third order of Dominicans for the express purpose of carrying on this important work, and in one of them, at Sorèze, he finally settled down to pass the remainder of his days. Here, with powers yet unimpaired, the man whose eloquence had stirred all France applied himself to teaching the Greek and Latin grammar. He had no fixed system of education, but his personal magnetism made up for other defects; he gathered around him the best instructors; he lived like a father in the bosom of his family; he filled the place with the odor of gentleness and piety. Here, on the 21st of November, 1860, after an illness of nearly a year, he preached his last.

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Important as the labor was in which Father Lacordaire had spent the closing years of his life, we cannot help feeling that it was not the labor for which he had been specially endowed, nor was it that in which his heart was most deeply engaged. It is rather as the preacher of Notre Dame than as the president of Sorèze, rather as the reconciler of religion and society than as a teacher of boys, that he stands before us in the page of history. What a bitter comment is it upon the condition of affairs in France, fifteen or twenty years ago, that such a man could be stopped in such a career! The story of Lacordaire often reminds us of a passage in one of George Eliot's novels, where the life of one who had gone through bitter sorrow and disappointment is described as being "like a spoiled pleasure-day, in which the music and processions are all missed, and nothing is left at evening but the weariness of striving after what has been failed of." It was partly so with his life; not wholly, of course, for the reward of the striving came at evening, though the object of the struggle had been missed. Disappointment and weariness were the burdens which God laid upon him, and he leaves a brighter renown, as well as reaps a brighter reward, for the sweetness with which he bore them.

Sayings Of The Fathers Of The Desert.

Abbot Isaac said: I know a brother who was reaping, and who wished to eat an ear of corn, and he said to the master of the field: Are you willing I should eat one ear of corn? And he, hearing these words, was astonished and said: The field is thine, Father, and dost thou ask me? So scrupulous was the brother.

Abbot Sisois once said in confidence: Believe me, I have been thirty years without praying to God on account of my sins; but when I pray I say this: O Lord Jesus Christ, save me from my tongue. And yet it causes me to fall every day, and be delinquent.

Abbot Pastor said: As the bees are driven from their hives by smoke so that their honey may be obtained, even so does bodily rest banish the fear of the Lord from the soul, and take from it every good work.

A certain old man determined that he would drink nothing for forty days. Whenever he was tormented by burning thirst, he took a vessel, and, having filled it with water, placed it before him. And when his brethren asked why he did this, he answered: In order that, seeing what I greatly desire, and yet not tasting it, my suffering may be the more intense, and hence that the reward which God shall give me may be greater.

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Providence.

When I remember all my days, And note what blessings each displays, What words can speak my grateful praise?

What varied beauty thrills my sight! What sounds my listening soul delight! What joys of touch and appetite!

And, more than any joy of sense, The happiness serene, intense, That comes to me, I know not whence,

Unless it be that He is near, And speaks some words I cannot hear, But which unto my soul are clear.

For there are times--ah! who can tell The gladness inexpressible With which my soul doth overswell!

Ev'n sorrows that once seemed to press My soul to brinks of wretchedness, I know were but his means to bless.

Out of the deeps of pain and fear, He led me to a higher sphere, Where all his purpose is made clear.

Had not such sorrow struck my ways, I had lived out my earthly days, Barren of either prayer or praise.

Wherefore each day, when I recall The blessings which his hands let fall, For _this_ I thank him most of all;

And would not, if I could, forego The sorrow which he made me know, For unto it so much I owe.

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This happy life, this lovely earth, These joys which every day brings forth, Are now to me of tenfold worth.

Such wondrous love all things disclose, Such joy through all my being glows, That in my soul a longing grows

That I might see this One All-Good, And tell him all my gratitude, In words however weak and rude.

But ah! I fear it cannot be That I this loving God can see, For he fills out infinity;

And out of him there is no place Where I can stand to see his face: Enough, I lie in his embrace,

And sometimes, albeit dimly, feel That he is near, and doth reveal Himself in joy unspeakable.

I said, indeed, 'I shall not see Him face to face;' yet it may be That joy of joys awaiteth me.

For when this grossness, that doth fence My being in the bonds of sense, Falls off when I am taken hence,

New powers of which I do not know May be revealed in me, and show The One to whom myself I owe,

And I may see him face to face. Lord, grant it of thy boundless grace, The crown of all my happiness!

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From The Etudes Religieuses, Historiques Et Litteraires, Par Des Peres De La Compagnie De Jesus.

The Pre-historical Congress Of Paris.

An "_International Congress of Anthropology and Pre-historical Archaeology_" assembled in the amphitheatre of the _Ecole de Médecine_, at Paris, on the 17th of last August, and held sessions until the 30th. The meaning of the terms anthropology and archaeology is familiar; but the word _pre-historical_, being of recent origin, requires an explanation. It is used to designate either material objects, or events and epochs, or even men, _anterior_ not only to written history, but also to all oral tradition and to every monument having a certain date and an origin historically determined.

In the lowest strata of the earth which we tread, in caverns unknown for centuries, under the _tumuli_ or heaps of shells and fossils; in the bottom of lakes where formerly dwellings and villages were built on piles; and in cromlechs and raths, are found, with the bones of animals now extinct, arms, instruments, and utensils of stone, evidently fashioned by the hand of man. In the next stratum above, the same stone objects are found; but this time the stone is polished and accompanied with bones of a different character--most frequently the bones and horns of the reindeer. Human remains, skulls, jaw-bones, and teeth, begin to appear in greater quantity. But in these two first layers of the earth no metal is discovered. It is only in the third stratum that brass, then iron, often all the other metals, are met. These singular fossils, and the invariable order of their existence, in France as well as in other countries, are the facts of which the present essay treats.

The epoch in which iron begins to appear in the layers of the earth is one the date of which is known to us either by the relations of historians, or by traditional recollections, or by inscriptions and medals found in the soil. These strata, therefore, and their antiquities, belong to the historical epoch. But the lower strata, of more ancient formation, all the fossils found in them, curious specimens of primitive industry, monuments of the social state and manners of the first men; human remains also which bear testimony to man's physical conformation; all these, anterior to history, belong to _pre-historical_ archaeology and anthropology. These sciences are very young in years and manners, but very old by their object and the age to which they carry back our thoughts.

The Paris Congress met to compare the discoveries of different countries, and thus obtain a more perfect knowledge of the _pre-historical_ period, and draw more general inferences from it.

A first congress assembled in 1866, at Neufchâtel, in Switzerland; the second is that of Paris, last August; the third will meet this year in England. The Congress of Paris was singularly favored by the Universal Exposition. The most eminent representatives of European science were there. Russia alone was not represented. Among the foreign members who spoke were Franks, Squier, Vorsaae, Nilsson, Desor, Clément, Virchow, and especially Carl Vogt, the learned naturalist. {704} It was this outspoken and venturesome _savant_ who at Neufchâtel declared himself a partisan of the _man-monkey_. France had there her Lartet, President, De Mortillet, Secretary, De Longperier, the learned antiquarian of the Louvre, and De Quatrefages, the eminent naturalist of the museum. These two last illustrious members of the French Institute had a preponderating influence in the congress, for the interest of science and the glory of their country. The Abbé Bourgeois, the Marquis de Vibraye, Alexander Bertrand, Alfred Maury, Henry Martin, and Doctor Broca, were also present and addressed the assembly.

If we are to believe certain reports, of which the positivist sheet _La Pensée Nouvelle_ is the organ, it was proposed to prove satisfactorily that the appearance of man on the earth dates from one hundred to sixty, or at least from forty thousand years; that this appearance is not the result of a creation properly so called, but the term of a slow and necessary evolution, as would be, for instance, the progressive transformation of the monkey type into the human; imperceptibly taking place for thousands or rather millions of ages! In this way the authority of the Bible would be set at naught, as being old, and gradually falling to pieces; but more especially because it is revealed and undoubtedly true. We could then do without the _hypothesis_ of a God, Creator of man, since our learned men would show that they could do without the _hypothesis_ of a God, Creator of heaven and earth.

Was this the real aim of the Paris Congress? If so, it was the same as that which well-informed men allege to have been the object of the first hall of the history of labor in the French Exposition. It is certain that, for several years, many books, reviews, journals, and even so-called official discourses which every one may read, have openly tended in this direction.

But let us confine our remarks to the congress. We dislike to affirm that such was the fixed thought of the majority of the foreign and French members. The love of science, the praiseworthy desire of collecting information, or of giving it regarding facts very ancient in themselves, but very new in regard to us; these motives gathered in Paris important strangers, and Frenchmen of different classes and opinions. On the other hand, it seems impossible to deny that an ardent minority had the intention of overthrowing the biblical theory of creation both as to time and character; of this minority all except one were Frenchmen.

Yet--let us hasten to say it--the minority did not succeed. The scandal did not take place. The majority was not convinced of the falsity of the traditional teaching. The new doctrines were not found to be certain. A few affirmations and eccentric theories were expressed. But they were so justly, learnedly, and wittily answered, that the theorists had to doubt their ill-judged systems. This is a very important result, in such an affair.

A programme of all the excursions to be made in common to the Exposition, to the Museum, to the Palace of Saint Germain, to the megalithic monument at Argenteuil, to the environs of Amiens, to the Museum of Artillery, and to the Museum of the Anthropological Society, was traced in advance. Six principal questions occupied the six evening sessions at the _Ecole de Médecine_. {705} The day after these sittings, the members met again in the same place, in free session, each to propose his difficulties, hear the written communications of absent members; examine packages arriving daily, containing new specimens of the primitive works of man, arms, utensils, different instruments in stone, in bone, in bronze, or in iron found in the bowels of the earth, in caverns, or lakes and in Druidical cromlechs, raths, or mounds, in France, Switzerland, Italy, Germany, Great Britain, Denmark--in short, everywhere.

The six fundamental questions formed six theses, comprising the entire domain of _pre-historical knowledge_. "What are the most ancient vestiges of man's existence? In what geological conditions, among what _fauna_ and _flora_ have they been found in the different parts of the globe; and what changes have taken place since then, in divisions of land and water?" This was the first question. Next question: "Has the dwelling of the primitive man in caverns been general? Is it true of one race alone, referable to one and the same epoch?" Third question: "What relations are there between the men to whom we owe the megalithic monuments, and those who formed the lake dwellings?" The fourth was: "Is brass the product of indigenous industry, the result of a violent conquest, or the effect of new commercial relations?" This had reference to the use of brass in the west. Fifth question: "What are, in the different countries of Europe, the chief characteristics of the first epoch of iron? Is this epoch anterior to the historical period?" The sixth and last was the most important question: "What are the notions acquired regarding the anatomical characteristics of man in the pre-historical times, from the most remote times to the appearance of iron? Can the succession of several races, and their traits, be discovered, especially in Western Europe?"

It is easy to see that the five first questions are delicate, difficult, and important, though they all centre in a point of chronology. But chronology in this case is the history of man. It is the Bible and revelation. It is tradition. It is faith. We must assign a reasonable date for those ancient _débris_ of labor, or of the human beings whom we certainly meet in all the strata called _quaternary_; and probably also in the last layers of the _tertiary_ strata, much more ancient than the quaternary. This date must in no wise change the sacred text. This date once found and demonstrated, would settle the dispute which still exists regarding the chronology of the Bible. We know that the Catholic Church gives us full liberty on this point. But the moment has not yet come for pre-historical archaeology to define the limits of the ages or years which it calls _the age of cut stone; the age of polished stone_, or of the _reindeer;_ the age of _brass_, and the _age_ of _iron_. The congress understood this well. Only two or three orators were bold enough to speak of thousands of years or of millions of years. Some _savans_ have wonderful imaginations! But in general, no one ventured to determine or define the time. Almost always the gentlemen used the words _epoch, age, period,_ without wishing to be more precise. They were afraid to compromise their reputations.

Without doubt, for the same reason, no _savant_ or person of consequence wished in the beginning to sign his name to the catalogues of the Exposition, relating to the pre-historical antiquities, or hold himself personally responsible for them. {706} But behold! after five months, when the _Exposition_ was near its close, on Thursday, August 29th, M. de Mortillet offered timidly to the congress a little volume of his composition, entitled, _Pre-historical Promenades in the Universal Exposition_. M. de Mortillet is also the author of an other book, _The Sign of the Cross before Christianity_. He is also collecting materials for the _positive_, or rather _positivist_ and philosophical history of man. For M. de Mortillet imagines that it is necessary for men of genius to astonish others, if not by discoveries in truth, at least by their eccentricities. M. de Mortillet is a man of genius. The world may deny it. But M. de Mortillet is a better authority on the subject than any one else. This learned gentleman concludes his _Promenades_ with these beautiful phrases: "The chronology taught in all our schools is _terribly distanced_. It hardly comprises the historical period. The law of the progress of humanity, the law of the development of races, and the great antiquity of man, are three consequences which follow clearly, distinctly, precisely, and irrefragably from the work which we have made on the Exposition." In these three phrases we perceive the wonderful wit, profundity, brilliancy, and genius of the author. It is astonishing how a gentleman of his extraordinary science, although he was secretary of its deliberations, could not exercise the smallest influence on the congress, either by his speeches or his books!

Pre-historical archaeology was enriched by many new discoveries at the congress. The Abbé Bourgeois, among other important facts, observed that traces of man were found in the tertiary stratum.

The anthropological question came last. Eight days before the close of the congress, M. de Quagrefages proposed that question, in presenting to it the first copy of his fine work, _Rapport sur les Progrès de l'Anthropologie_. With great science, clearness, and modesty, the illustrious naturalist, in rendering an account of his investigations, held the whole assembly attentive. The applause which he received showed the esteem in which the author was held, and the value of his book.

Other incidents formed a prelude to the final thesis; but some in an opposite direction. We cite a single example. It was asked whether the first men had been anthropophagi or not. It is well known that there is a school in France, as well as elsewhere, which deems it no dishonor to be descended from cannibals or monkeys. A member of the congress made a profession of faith on this point. The admitted head of this school (Doctor Broca) asked leave to speak on primitive anthropology. He began by saying that he had long hesitated before adopting the affirmative, and that the proofs so far given did not satisfy him; but a human bone, which he showed to the assembly, had finally convinced him. This bone had scratches at the end of it made by a flint. A man of the age of _cut stone_ had tried to break the bone at this spot. He could not succeed. He had then tried to saw the bone in the middle with a flint, in order to obtain the marrow, with which he wished to regale himself. Some of the members laughed, especially when one, interrupting the orator, remarked that the pretended marks made by the stone saw seemed fresh, and produced by recent rubbing. When the demonstration was finished, the eminent archaeologist, M. de Longpérier showed, from the example of several historical races, and by specimens which are found in public museums, that objects of luxury, as well as utensils, were often made out of human bones. {707} Instances were given of mallets, bodkins, and musical instruments. As to the bone in question, nothing showed that the cuts and scratches on it pointed out by Doctor Broca were not caused by _some one trying to make a whistle!_ The reader may guess the impression left on the congress by this remark, and the expression of the doctor's physiognomy.

In anthropology as in archaeology the celebrities of the congress alleged well-proven facts; either real fossils of the human body, bones, skulls, jaw-bones, teeth; or signs naturally connected with the subject, as hilts of swords, or bracelets fitting hands or arms much smaller than ours. But it was first required to prove the authenticity of these antique objects. Theories could not be established until after the discussion of these facts. So the theorists were not at ease. They may have complained of having been troubled or gagged. By whom? By men too learned to be the slaves of a system. If such complaint were made--and such is the rumor--they are the highest eulogium of those eminent men.

"Si forte virum quem Conspexere, silent." [Footnote 66]

[Footnote 66: The vulgar herd in silence awestruck scan The face of him whom nature marks a man!]

At the closing session some human skulls, very ancient or supposed to be, were ranged on a table. Those heads were remarkable for the extraordinary length of the occiput, by their retreating foreheads, high cheek-bones, and prominent jaw-bones. The object of these skulls was to show the great similarity between the primitive man and the monkey. Doctor Broca, standing before the table, made a speech more than an hour long about those skulls, discussing the authenticity of some and reasoning on the others. He spoke also of a singular jaw-bone. He said a few words about the small hands. He should logically have concluded that the primitive man was a brother of the ape. Every one expected this. But at the decisive moment, he wheeled about, and confessed that there were not yet proofs enough to justify such a conclusion, and that it should not be urged. Was he afraid of ridicule or was he really convinced in making this concession? Let us say that it was conviction on his part. But the doctor's premises were not as inoffensive as his conclusion. M. de Quatrefages made short work of them. He so pulverized the arguments of Doctor Broca, that Carl Vogt, summoned against his will to help the doctor, admitted the conclusion of his colleague.

Vogt began by declaring himself a Darwinian. Although the theory of Darwin cannot satisfy the best naturalists, it knocks the man-monkey completely off his legs. Vogt admitted that it was impossible, in the actual condition of science, to hold the man-monkey opinion; so great is the distance between the lowest human type and the highest ape type. The Genevan Darwinian indeed added, that we might _imagine_, or might discover at some future day a common type of both races; but he was not very sanguine on this point. Only one thing, said he in conclusion, remains indisputable after all our discussions on the capacity of skulls and the shape of the head, namely, the progressive development of the brain and of the human skull, in proportion to the increasing development of intelligences.

We shall not dispute this double progress. It has the sanction of that most eminent naturalist and anthropologist M. de Quatrefages. We even admit a third progress with this _savant_; that made from Congress of Neufchâtel to the Congress of Paris. Even though we the should be accused of optimism, we shall even hope for greater progress in the future congresses. Yes, we expect it. Pre-historical studies will add to the facts already known others more significative still; and the learned will finally and unanimously adopt, in default of certitude, theories more probable and more convincing as they approach nearer to the truth.

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Miscellany.

_Singular Effects of Lightning_.--Sir David Brewster has published an account of the effects of lightning in Forfarshire, which is of much interest. In the summer of 1827, a hay-stack was struck by lightning. The stack was on fire, but before much of the hay was consumed the fire was extinguished by the farm servants. Upon examining the hay-stack, a circular passage was observed in the middle of it, as if it had been cut out with a sharp instrument. This circular passage extended to the bottom of the stack, and terminated in a hole in the ground. Captain Thomson, of Montrose, who had a farm in the neighborhood, examined the stack, and found in the hole a substance which he described as resembling lava. A portion of this substance was sent by Captain Thomson to Sir David's brother, Dr. Brewster, of Craig, who forwarded it to Sir David, with the preceding statement. The substance found in the hole was a mass of silex, obviously formed by the fusion of the silex in the hay. It had a highly greenish tinge, and contained burnt portions of the hay. Sir David presented the specimen to the Museum of St. Andrew's.

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_Ancient Glacier in the Pyrenees_.--M. Charles Martens, who was present at the meeting of the British Association, read a paper on the ancient glacier of the Valley of Argelez. This glacier and its affluents descended from the crest of the Pyrenees, whose summits now reach an altitude varying from 6000 to 9000 feet. The roots of the glacier were in the _cirques_ of Gavarnie, Troumouse, Pragnères, etc., and the glacier extended into the plain as far as the villages of Peyrouse, Loubajac, Ade, Juloz, and Arcisac-les-Angles. Along the valley, polished and striated rocks, scratched pebbles, glacial mud, moraines, and erratic boulders, are the proofs of its existence. At Argelez, the thickness of the glacier was about 2100 feet, and, at the opening of the valley at the foot of the Pic de Geer, near Lourdes, 1290 feet. Between Lourdes and the village of Ade, the railway runs across seven moraines; and the railway from Lourdes to Pau is cut, as far as the village of Peyrouse, through glacial deposits. The Lake of Lourdes is a glacial lake, barred by a moraine, and surrounded by numerous erratic boulders proceeding from the high Pyrenean mountains. Some of the boulders are of large dimensions: thus one of them, between the lake and the village of Poueyferré, is thirty feet in length, twenty-three feet in width, and eleven feet in height. This lake of Lourdes, surrounded by hills covered with briars, reminds one, in many respects, of the small lakes of Scotland.

_A Burning Well_.--While some artisans were engaged in making borings for an artesian well at Narbonne, France, the water rushed forth with great violence, and soon burst into flame. The flame, which arises from the combustion of carburetted hydrogen, is reddish and smoky, and does not emit a smell either of bitumen or sulphuretted hydrogen. {709} The "sinking" for the spring was made on the left branch of the Aude, in a plain situate about two metres above the sea-level, and composed of alluvial mud. The alluvial mud extends to a depth of six metres; then follow tertiary limestones and marls, with the remains of marine shells. At the depth of seventy metres, the spring containing the inflammable gas was met with.

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_Comets and Meteors_.--In a paper on this subject, laid before a late meeting of the Astronomical Society, Mr. G. J. Stony, Secretary to the Queen's University in Ireland, makes the following interesting observations, which tend to show, as Schiaparelli has already pointed out, that there is a very natural relationship between comets and meteors. If interstellar space, external to the solar system, be, as is most probable, peopled with innumerable meteoric bodies independent of one another, a comet while outside the solar system would in the lapse of ages collect a vast cluster of such meteorites within itself. Each meteorite which approached the comet would in general do so in a parabolic orbit; and, if it came near enough to pass through a part of the comet, this parabolic orbit would, by the resistance of the matter of the comet, be converted into an ellipse. The meteor would, therefore, return again and again, and on each occasion that it passed through the comet its orbit would be still further shortened, until at length it would fall in, and add one to whatever cluster had been brought together by the previous repetitions of this process. In this way a comet, while moving in outer space, beyond the reach of the many powerful disturbing influences which prevail within the solar system, would inevitably accumulate within itself just such a globular cluster of meteors as the November meteors must have been before they became associated with the solar system.

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_How the Earth's Rotation affects Gunnery_.--Some may be found to doubt that the movement of the earth affects the direction of a ball expelled from a cannon; nevertheless, the fact is correct. In the _Astronomical Register_, Mr. Kincaid says that a simple illustration of this effect may be made by attaching to the same axis two wheels of different diameters, so that both shall rotate together. If the one have a diameter of three feet, and the other of one foot, it is evident that any point on the circumference of the larger will, during a revolution, move through three times as much space as a similar point on the periphery of the lesser circle, and will, therefore, move with three times the velocity. The figure of the earth may be considered as made up of an infinite number of such wheels, diminishing in size from the equator to the poles, and all revolving in twenty-four hours. Now, if a gun be fired from the equator in the direction of the meridian, which is obviously that of maximum deviation, at an object nearer the pole, it is plain that that object, being situated on a smaller circle than the gun, but revolving in the same interval of time, will move, during the flight of the projectile, through less space eastward than the shot, which will have imparted to it the greater velocity of the larger circle from which it started, and the latter will therefore tend to strike eastward from its butt.

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_Dodo-like Birds of the Mascarene Islands_.--The Committee appointed in 1865 to investigate this group, has produced little result beyond the collection of a number of bones from Rodriguez. Professor Newton made some general remarks upon the specimens collected, and he especially dwelt on an unexpected confirmation of the testimony of Leguat, by the discovery of an extraordinary bony knob near the extremity of the wing. Leguat, whose account of the "Solitaire's" habits was the only one we possessed, mentioned a curious "ball," as big as a "musket-bullet," which the male birds possessed under their wing-feathers. Now, the existence of this ball was proved by the bony knob exhibited, and thus the veracity of old Leguat, on this point, as on so many others, was confirmed. In conclusion, Professor Newton called attention to the fact that at present we only knew of the didine bird of the island of Reunion, _that it was white_. {710} In the course of last year, Mr. Tegetmeier had shown him an old water-color painting of a white dodo, and this, he was inclined to believe, might represent this lost species, of which he trusted the French naturalists in that island would succeed in obtaining actual relics.

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Mr. Foley's model for the O'Connell National Monument in Dublin has been unanimously adopted by the Committee. The work will be forty feet high, executed in bronze and granite. £10,000 is already subscribed toward the cost of its erection.

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_A Slander Refuted_.--A work has lately appeared in England, in which everything Spanish is spoken of with the greatest contempt. In reply to the accusations made against the queen's chaplain, the Reverend Canon Dalton writes thus to the _Athenaeum_: "Will you allow me to _protest_ against the character drawn by Miss Edwards of Padre Claret in her recent work entitled, _Through Spain to the Sahara_, which was reviewed in your last number, December 14th? When I was in Spain last year, I had several interviews with the queen's confessor. The estimate which I was then enabled to form of his character was the very _opposite_ to that drawn by the authoress. I should like to know if Miss Edwards ever spoke a single word to Padre Claret, or even ever saw him. Then there is the testimony of Lady Herbert, in her work entitled _Impressions of Spain_ in 1866, (London, Bentley, 1867,) at pages 211-12; her ladyship draws a very different character of the Padre, taken from a personal interview with the illustrious prelate. Again I should like to know what reasons Miss Edwards has for styling Claret's work, _La Clave de Oro_, a _coarse_ work? All the works which he has published are purely of a devotional or literary character, and I am quite confident that nothing 'coarse' or unbecoming can be found in any one of them. Lastly, I never heard of Padre Claret's coach being driven by _four splendid mules_, because I believe he is not possessed even of a cab! J. Dalton."

New Publications.

Lectures On Reason And Revelation. Delivered in St. Ann's Church, New York, during the Season of Advent, 1867. By the Rev. Thomas S. Preston. New York: The Catholic Publication House, 126 Nassau Street.

The Lectures published in this volume were delivered during the Sunday evenings of Advent, in St. Ann's Church. They are five in number, on the following subjects: The Office of Reason, Relations of Reason and Faith, Conditions of Revelation, Revelation and Protestantism, Revelation and the Catholic Church. The author's thesis may be thus stated: The Catholic Church is proved by reason alone, from the evidences of credibility by which the Christian revelation is demonstrated. The Introduction, which is a distinct essay in itself, disposes of two objections; first, that the evidence of Christianity can be applied to pure Protestantism, and second, that the Catholic Church ought to be proved by miracles occurring in every age of her history, as well as at the outset. The Rev. author has handled his topics with great ability, in a clear, neat, and attractive manner, and with a brevity and simplicity which detract nothing from the force of the reasoning, while they lighten very much the task of the reader. These Lectures will be of great service both, to Catholics and to well-disposed inquirers after truth. The typographical execution of the volume is in the best style. As a specimen of our author's method and style, we extract the following passage from the introduction.

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"In the following lectures it is the aim of the author to set forth, in a clear and concise manner, a simple argument whereby the claims of the Catholic Church are substantiated by reason alone. In the midst of the excitements of our day some of the plainest truths are forgotten, and men hold opinions or pass to conclusions without any logical grounds whatever. They even sometimes contradict the propositions which are self-evident to reason in their zeal for intellectual progress and emancipation from the thraldom of the past. That which is new is sought after, even though it overthrow the belief of truths heretofore generally admitted. We are not believers in total depravity, and have, therefore, great confidence in the good which still remains in human nature. And as we know that God's grace is ever with man to assist him to the knowledge of the truth, and to lead him in the way of virtue, we have great hopes that the intellectual and moral movements of our day will guide the honest and sincere mind to the true light which is its only illumination. It is a great mistake to suppose that the Catholic Church requires of any man that he should do away with his reason, or cease to exercise those powers which God has given him for the proper appreciation of truth and goodness. To man's intelligence revelation is addressed, and every new light from above only serves to enlarge the thirst for knowledge. The divine ways are ever harmonious, and the supernatural truth will never contradict the natural. The argument of these lectures depends upon the force of reason alone. We briefly explain the nature of human reason and the sphere of its operation. We show how the divine revelation gives its unerring evidence, to which a just intelligence must submit. We vindicate all the natural powers, and defend the exercise of their just prerogatives. God, speaking to man, is bound to give him unmistakable signs that he is speaking, and that no deceiver is imposing upon us. When these signs are given, then we are bound to believe the divine testimony, and entirely to accept truths which the veracity of our Maker vouches for. Private judgment has its full scope, as to it are clearly presented the tokens of every supernatural intervention. The extrinsic credibility of doctrines proposed to faith is thus assured to the full conviction of the understanding. If we go on to say that reason assured of a revelation cannot then be the judge of the intrinsic credibility of a dogma clearly revealed, we only say that reason must act in its own sphere, and that the finite must not venture to measure the infinite.

"It seems to us that no logical objection can be made against such a restriction of private judgment. If man, by his unaided powers, could find out all necessary truth, there would be no need of a revelation. Of things beyond the scope of his understanding, man can certainly be no judge, while it is equally certain that the word of God can never deceive.

"It is also a great misunderstanding to suppose that Catholics are not allowed to use their reason, or that faith has taken the place of our ordinary intelligence. So far from the truth is this supposition, that the aim of the present work will be to show that Catholics alone are the followers of true reason, always yielding obedience to its just dictates, and never swerving in any way from its rigid conclusions. The Catholic faith presents all its unanswerable claims before the mind, and then, as it appeals to our natural sense of truth and justice, it cannot contradict itself by doing away with the very faculty which is made the judge of its pretensions. Reason, rightly understood, leads with certainty to the light of revelation, and that light does in no way extinguish the spirit or vitality of nature. There is full scope for the play of the highest intelligence, not in the contradiction of evidence clearly established, nor in doubting truth already manifest, but in the constant and daily increasing appreciation of the beauties of God's revelation whereby all our faculties are brought into perfect harmony. There is neither manliness nor wisdom in the state of perpetual doubt which appears to be chosen by many as the exercise of a precious liberty. The Catholic believes because he has evidence of the divine power and goodness, and in the very highest exercise of reason bows down to God and him only. No human organization has a right to bind our consciences, and no body of men can form or direct our faith. God alone is our master, whose word is a law to our understandings and our hearts. The church is recognized by us because he has established it, and given to it authority to teach in his name, and we are ever ready to give to any honest mind a reason for the faith we hold and profess."

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Poems. By Ellen Clementine Howarth. Newark: Martin R. Dennis & Co. 1868.

Poets are said to deal in fiction, which does not, however, imply that what they sing is false. One may relate a purely fictitious story, and it be "an ower-true tale" for all that. In fact, poetry is the most beautiful form of the expression of truth. Tell the truth in honest plain prose, and the chances are that you tell something very unpalatable. Facts are proverbially hard. On the contrary, poetry (if it deserves the name) is ever charming, winning, and popular. We say without hesitation, few of our living lyric poets have wreathed more charming verses than Mrs. Howarth. Simple and unaffected as they are, every line breathes the purest sentiment, and sends its touching pathos straight to the heart. The reason is plain. She reveals the truth as her own heart has known it. Here she guilelessly tells more of her own life, with all its struggles, toil, and bitter sorrows, than we think she intended. In a word, it is a volume not for the eye of strangers, but for the loving perusal of friends to whom she would wish to speak "eye to eye and soul to soul." We do not wonder, therefore, that, when these poems appeared a few years ago under the title of "The Wind Harp," without any prefatory key to their origin, a few careless critics should have failed to penetrate the hidden depths of their meaning. Our space does not permit us to quote as freely as we could wish. There are some undoubtedly better than others, but there is not one which our readers would not find worthy of particular choice and of special merit.

The first, "The Passion Flower," well deserves its place of honor. We give the opening verse:

"I plucked it in an idle hour, And placed it in my book of prayer; 'Tis not the only passion flower That hath been crushed and hidden there. And now through floods of burning tears My withered bloom once more I see, And I lament the long, long years, The wasted years afar from Thee."

From a poem entitled "Gethsemane" we cull this most beautiful and truly sublime thought.

"'Tis said that every earthly sound Goes trembling through the voiceless spheres, Bearing its endless echoes round The pathway of eternal years. Ah! surely, then, the sighs that He That midnight breathed, the zephyrs bore From thy dim shades, Gethsemane, To thrill the world for evermore!"

And who can read the following without emotion?

My Soldier Comes No More

"Yes, many a heart is light to-day, And bright is many a home, And children dance along the way The soldier heroes come: And bands beneath the floral arch The gladdest music pour; While beats my heart a funeral march-- My soldier comes no more.

One morn from him glad tidings came, Joy to my heart they gave; At night I read my hero's name Amid the fallen brave. I know not where he met the foe, Nor where he sleeps in gore; Enough of woe for me to know, My soldier comes no more.

Now here they come with heavy tramp, And flags and pennons gay, Who were his comrades in the camp, His friends for many a day. The music ceases as they pass Before my cottage door; The flags are lowered; they know, alas! My soldier comes no more.

What care I for the seasons now? The world has lost its light: No spring can clothe my leafless bough, No morn dispel my night; No longer may I hopeful wait For summer to restore: My heart and home are desolate-- My soldier comes no more.

Judging from such poems as "The Tress of Golden Hair," "Adrift," "The Stranger's Grave," and other pieces suggested by some ordinary accident in life, Mrs. Howarth possesses one of those finely strung natures which, like the AEolian harp, are moved to give forth harmony at the slightest breath that passes. The former title of her book, "The Wind Harp," was, to our thinking, singularly appropriate. The present volume is published in first-class style.

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An Epistle Of Jesus Christ To The Faithful Soul. Written in Latin by Joannes Lanspergius, a Charter-House Monk, and translated into English by Lord Philip, XIXth Earl of Arundel. New York: Catholic Publication Society.

This little book will be hailed by the faithful soul who desires to increase very much in the love of God, as if it were, what its title expresses, a letter written by the Saviour of the world himself, and addressed to him personally. It embodies the very, spirit and life of his instructions, and teaches us practically how to carry out in a systematic way the teaching of the Sermon on the Mount. It is easy to read that divine sermon in a sentimental way, to feel somewhat good while reading it, but without gathering much of its meaning, or with any desire to practise it any more than may be convenient. This book will not be very palatable to such persons. It contains the strong meat for vigorous and earnest souls, rather than the light and unsubstantial froth which merely nourishes a sickly sentimentalism. We do not doubt there are thousands of devout persons in this country who would find in this little work an invaluable treasure, and, once possessing it, they would on no account be willing to part with it. They would find its directions plain and simple, and eminently fitted to lift them up out of a low spirituality to the highest state of religious peace and perfection. Would to God this notice may meet their eye, so that they may not be without it. We need just such books now in this country, to serve to make a number of saints and saintly persons, who shall draw down from heaven a benediction on not only themselves, but on the church of God and all our fellow-citizens. May more of them be drawn out of the storehouse of old true Catholic piety and devotion, for our spiritual joy and edification.

It is only necessary to add, that the English of the translation is delightful, while the mechanical getting up of the book, its paper and type, render it most agreeable to read.

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1. Napoleon And The Queen Of Prussia. An Historical Novel, by L. Mühlbach. Translated from the German, by F. Jordan. Complete in one volume, with illustrations. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1867. 8vo, pp. 265.

2. The Daughter Of An Empress. An Historical Novel, by L. Mühlbach; translated from the German by Nathaniel Greene. Complete in one volume, with illustrations. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1867, 8vo, pp. 255.

3. Marie Antoinette And Her Son. An Historical Novel, by L. Mühlbach. Complete in one volume, with illustrations. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1867. 8vo, pp. 301.

On a former occasion we noticed three of the Mühlbach books, all we had then read, as favorably as our conscience would permit; for we wish to be thought capable of recognizing literary merit in books written by others than Catholics. Now, Catholics have at least nature, and, though we do not recognize the sufficiency of nature without grace, we yet do not hold it to be totally corrupt, or count it good for nothing. We are always ready to recognize merit in literary works, by whomsoever written, if able, and true to genuine nature. The Mühlbach novels are written with spirit and ability, a talent almost approaching to genius, with some touches of nature, and with considerable historical information. Having said so much, we have exhausted our praise. The works are true throughout neither to nature nor to history, and their moral tone is low and unwholesome--pagan, not Christian. Their popularity, which can be but short-lived--for it is hardly possible to read one of them a second time--speaks very little in favor of the taste, the knowledge of history, or the moral tone of our American reading public, as far as published. The least faulty, and to us the least repulsive of the series, is _Napoleon and the Queen of Prussia_, though it shows less ability than _Joseph II._ and his Court. We broke down before we got half through _The Daughter of an Empress_, and we have read only a few pages of _Marie Antoinette and her Son_. We have had no desire to have our feelings harrowed up by a fresh recital of the horrors of the French Revolution, especially of the wrongs of the beautiful and lovely Queen of France, and the young Dauphin. _Napoleon and the Queen of Prussia_ is, however, a book we can read, and some portions of it with deep interest; but even this is disfigured by namby-pamby sentiment. {714} Adulterous love, self-murders, and horrors of all sorts, enough both to disgust the Christian reader, and to give even a reader of strong nerves the nightmare for weeks after reading it. The Mühlbach is in ecstasy of delight when Napoleon overcomes the virtue of the Countess Walewski, and has no doubt that the self-murderer has ended all his troubles and rests in peace. She seems, through all her books, not to regard adultery, if prompted by love, or suicide either, if inspired by disappointed patriotism, as a sin. Indeed, throughout she writes as a low-minded pagan, not as a high-minded Christian. She apotheosizes persons who die with imprecations of vengeance on their enemies in their mouths, and by their own hands; and even the beautiful and slandered Queen Louisa has no higher aspirations than those of patriotism.

We have heretofore said of the Mühlbach books that they have too much fiction for history, and too much history for fiction; but even a great part of her history is itself fiction, in the sense of being untrue, which fiction never need be. Scott, in his historical novels, commits a thousand anachronisms, mistakes one person for another, and is rarely accurate in the minuter details; but he never falsifies history, and the impression he gives of an epoch or a historical person is always truthful. The impression the Mühlbach gives, even when historically correct as to details, is unhistorical and untrue. We are no believers in the immaculate virtue or high-mindedness of the royal and imperial courts of the eighteenth century, but no one who reflects a moment can believe that the Mühlbach gives a true picture of them. There is no doubt at all times much illicit love, cunning, intrigue, cruelty, vice, and crime, in the ranks of the great, but our experience proves that there is something else there also. At the time of the French Revolution the nobility were corrupt enough, but were they more so than the people who warred against them? Were the murderers and applauders of the murder of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette superior to them in either public or private virtue? If the great are bad, the little are seldom better; and nothing can have a more unwholesome effect on society than the multitude of novels poured forth by little women and less men, professing to describe the manners and morals, but really traducing the manners and morals of the upper classes. Such novels are untrue in fact, and serve only to gratify the mean curiosity and malice of the envious and the malignant. Whoever reads the late book of the Queen of Great Britain and Ireland will find that she and her husband furnished a model of the domestic virtues and affections. Even when the Mühlbach professes to write history, she does not write it, and perverts it quite unnecessarily when by no means demanded by the aesthetic exigencies of her story. We pass over the calumnies of the Jesuits and the private life of Ganganelli, Pope Clement XIV. They please us better than would her praise. But she represents Charles III., King of Spain, as refusing his consent to the suppression of the Society of Jesus after he had expelled the Jesuits from his own dominions, and when he was most urgent of all the Bourbon princes for their suppression. She represents France as in favor of the suppression, but holding back her formal assent till she could secure that of Spain, when it is well known, that the King, Louis XV. and Choiseul, then at the head of the French government, were rather favorable to the Jesuits than otherwise, and gave them up only after a decree of parliament had been rendered against them, and even then only in order to obtain from the parliament, always their bitter enemies, the registering of certain edicts in which the minister believed France was more interested than in preserving the society. The Spanish, French, Portuguese, and several of the Italian princes, demanded of the pope, under threats of schism, the suppression of the order before the Empress Marie Theresa reluctantly consented, at the order of the pope, to allow the Bull suppressing the society to be published in her dominions, as the Mühlbach has herself described in her _Joseph II. and his Court._ {715} These works are not only not trustworthy in their history, not only in their grouping and coloring falsify it, but they pervert the judgment, prejudice the mind so against the truth that it is able only with great difficulty to recognize it when it comes to be presented by learned and faithful historians.

The real name of the writer of the Mühlbach books is no secret. She is a widow, said to be personally a very estimable lady; and it has been reported that she intends coming to this country and taking up her residence with us, and certainly we would not treat her uncourteously. But if the report be true, it is a good proof that her works are not very popular in Germany, and bring her but small pecuniary remuneration. Her works will not long be popular even in this country; for their popularity here has, to a great extent, been due to their supposed value as truthful pictures of the courts of Berlin, Vienna, St. Petersburg, Paris, and Rome, in the last century, not to their weak and sickly sentimentalism, their low moral tone, their worship of Venus or Anteros, or their cynicism in religion. The American people are excessively fond of reading about courts, kings and queens, emperors and empresses, dukes and duchesses, counts and countesses; and chiefly because they have no such things among themselves, they see them only as shrouded in mystery. But when they find that the Mühlbach books do not, after all, raise the veil, or give any trustworthy account of them, they will drop them; for they adopt as their motto, _Ernst ist das Leben_, and can never be long fascinated by the debased paganism of the Mühlbach. We would by no means do the author the slightest harm in character or purse, but we advise her in the future not to make her novels sermons or moral lectures, but to animate them with a real ethical spirit, so that they will make the reader stronger and better, not weaker and worse even in the natural order.

Two Thousand Miles On Horseback.

Santa Fe And Back.

A Summer Tour Through Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, And New-Mexico, In The Year 1866.

By James F. Meline. New York: Hurd & Houghton. 1867.

Really good books of travel have been found so entertaining and successful in time past, that more recently every quarter of the accessible globe has spawned tourists, and journals, and diaries, and "notes," and "visits," of a thousand varieties of vapidness. England, as usual in matters of _superficial_ mediocrity, has been completely distanced by America. We have dozens of diarists who are promising candidates for the compliment some wicked spirit once paid Bayard Taylor--of having travelled more and seen less than any man living. Singularly enough, our own country has fared the worst at our own hands; singularly, because, full of natural wonders of its own, it has not to send its Winwood Reades to Senegambia for interesting material, and its charming, boy-beloved Captain Mayne to swear at the luckless "closet-naturalist" from all the corners of the world. We could turn all the Royal Societies loose along the Mississippi, and furnish them matter for a quarto to each F.R.S. Yet since Porte Crayon sharpened the lead-pencil into the war-spear, and his charming cousins stepped finally out of the carriage, and "Little Mice" sank to the level of a "man and a brother, and possible Congressman," only one traveller worth following has kept the field--the inimitable, the perennial Ross Browne, in Washoe, or Italy, or St. Petersburg, still the prince and paladin of tourists. Thus there is wondrous great room in the upper story of this literature, with a whole fresh young continent to hold the mirror to. Mr. Meline has challenged boldly and well for a good place in the front rank of our books of travel. He has great advantages and great aptitude for the task. His advantages are that, unless our spectacles and his artifice deceive us, he is a thorough good fellow--the _sine qua non_ of the traveller everywhere--the shibboleth of the brotherhood of cosmopolites. But besides this, _mores hominum multorum vidit et urbes_. {716} If we are not mistaken in remembering Mr. Meline as the same gentleman who was formerly French Consul in Cincinnati, he is a man who has known European capitals and landmarks, and, what is better, galleries and sculptures, and not known them in vain. And apt he certainly is. In the difficult art not to harp on anything, this book displays consummate judgment, and the choice of subjects shows a tact and skill most remarkable in what we understand to be a first book. There is just about enough fact to make the work decently solid, a good deal of fancy and impression, and above all, a light hand. The style as a whole is really good, because it does pretty evenly just what it attempts and professes--sometimes more, seldom less. The descriptions of Denver and Central City, and the account of the Pueblos of New Mexico interested us especially the former for its manner, the latter for its interesting and curious facts. But another reader would call our selection invidious, and cite quite another set of incidents. The fact is, Mr. Meline is everywhere vivid, easy, and suggestive, and we do think we like those two parts best because we have friends in Denver, and take a special interest in the old Poltec question.

Only one thing, barring a little pedantry here and there, we have to growl at in taking a grateful leave of a beguiling book. The author feels it his duty at painfully short intervals to say something funny, and has preserved and dished up the selectest assortment of aged, stale, and stupid jests we ever saw. We suspect him to be one of those terrible people who enjoy a witticism not wisely but too well. The moment he tries humor, his wonted taste and sparkle seem to take flight, and he grows to a dotage of inane merriment. It is hard to say whether the jokes he cracks himself, or those which he rehashes, ready cracked, are the more benumbingly dismal. The most provoking thing is, that the man is not at all wanting in play of wit; there are a hundred good and a few clever little side-hits in his volume. Only he must not force it. The moment he sets out systematically to be jocose, he is flatness itself.

But take him for all in all, Mr. Meline has written no commonplace book on a subject where commonplace has been achieved frequently and fully; and if he will learn to sketch like Ross Browne, or half so well, or else hire one of those private ubiquities, a "special artist," make no more jokes, quote some, if quote he must, that others have made within twenty years, and rely more on his liveliness of style, he has a future before him as a writer of travels.

Golden Truths. Boston: Lee & Shepherd. 1868.

The aim of the above volume is a good one. The purpose of its author is to aid the soul on its way in Christian perfection. The "truths" which it contains are taken from various Protestant authors, and a few from Catholic sources. The selections struck us at first as having been made without any sectarian bias or bigotry. Had we found it so unto the end, we should have given it our approval. But on page 166 we find the following:

"Will the martyrs, who sowed the seed of the church in their blood, have no part in the final harvest? The mighty reformers, who battered down the walls of tyrant error about the ears of wicked priests," etc.

Who G. W. Bethune is, from whose writings the above is extracted, we know not; we would, however, advise him, whoever he may be, when writing for the public, to respect its intelligence more, rant less, and remember there is a commandment which reads as follows,

"Thou shalt not bear false witness."

The aim of this volume was to be acceptable to all readers; the quotations from the above writer omitted, would remove at least what is offensive to some.

It is not often that a neglected catholic truth finds so beautiful an expression as in the following passage by the "Country Parson:"

"There are few who have lived long in this world, and have not stood by the bed of the dying; and let us hope that there are many who have seen a Christian friend or a brother depart--who have looked on such a one as life, but not love, ebbed away as the eye of sense grew dim, but that of faith waxed brighter and brighter. {717} Have you heard such an one, in bidding you farewell, whisper that it was not for ever? have you heard such an one tell you so to live, as that death might only remove you to a place where there is no dying? And as you felt the pressure of that cold hand, and saw the earnest spirit that shone through those glazing eyes, have you not resolved and promised that, God helping you, you would? And ever since have you not felt that, though death has sealed those lips, and that heart is turning back to clay, _that_ voice is speaking yet, _that_ heart is caring for you yet, _that_ soul is remembering yet the words it last spoke to you? From the abode of glory it says, 'Come up hither.' The way is steep, the ascent is toilsome; it knows it well, for it trod it once; but it knows now what it knew not then, how bright the reward, how pleasant the rest that remaineth, after the toil is past. And if we go with interest to the grave of a much-loved friend, who bade us when dying, sometimes to visit the place where he should be laid when dead; if you hold a request like _that_ sacred, tell me, how much more solemnly and earnestly we should seek to go where the conscious spirit lives, than where the senseless body moulders! If day after day sees you come to shed the pensive tear of memory over the narrow bed where that dear one is sleeping; if, amid the hot whirl of your daily engagements, you find a calm impressed as you stand in that still spot where no worldly care ever comes, and think of the heart which no grief vexes now; if the sound of the world melts into distance and fades away on the ear, at that point whence the world looks so little; if the setting sun, as it makes the gravestone glow, reminds you of evening hours and evening scenes long since departed, and the waving grass, through which the wind sighs so softly, speaks of that one who 'faded as a leaf' and left you like 'a wind that passeth away and cometh not again,' oh! how much more should every day see you striving up the way which will conduct you where the living spirit dwells, and whence it is ever calling to you, 'Come up hither!' It was a weak fancy of a dying man that bade you come to his burying-place; but it is the perpetual entreaty of a living seraph that invites you to join it _there._"

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The Layman's Breviary. From the German of Leopold Shefer. By C. T. Brooks. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1868.

Whatever may be the merit of the original German, certain it is, this English version flows like a free rivulet. Mr. Brooks is singularly happy in his versification. It might, however, just as well have been entitled by the author, the "Priest's Breviary" as the "Layman's Breviary," for it is quite plain he thinks both of those terms convertible. We search in vain for any trace of faith in the supernatural, and, considering the beauty of the sentiments, are sorry to find it wanting. The lack of it jars upon our Catholic nerves from the beginning of its perusal to its ending.

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The Young Fur Traders, A Tale Of The Far North;

The Coral Island, A Tale Of The Pacific;

Ungava, A Tale Of Esquimaux Land;

Morgan Rattler; or, A Boy's Adventures in the Forests of Brazil.

By R. M. Ballantyne. New York: Thomas Nelson & Sons.

In these "books for boys" amusement and instruction are admirably combined, the adventures met with being varied and thrilling, while the local descriptions embody so thoroughly the natural features of the regions visited, the productions, atmospheric phenomena, etc., as to render them not unworthy the perusal of children of a larger growth; they are also well got up; good paper, neat binding, numerous illustrations.

Where so much is praiseworthy, we are sorry their universal diffusion should be so seriously impeded, or rather utterly destroyed, by a most wanton display of sectarian rancor. In the _Young Fur Traders_, for instance, we meet with the following definitions, certainly not according to Webster: "Papist, a man who has sold his liberty in religious matters to the pope;" "Protestant, one who protests against such an ineffably silly and unmanly state of slavery." And in _Morgan Rattler_, a virulent attack on the Brazilian clergy, who, we are told, "totally neglected their religious duties; were no better than miscreants in disguise, teaching the people vice instead of virtue a--curse not a blessing to the land," etc.

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We regret this pitiful outpouring the more that, as books of adventures for boys, they are otherwise all that could be desired.

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The Spirit Of St. Vincent De Paul; Or, A Holy Model Worthy Of Being Imitated By Ecclesiastics, Religious, And All The Faithful.

Translated from the work of the learned M. Andre--Joseph Ansart, converted Priest of the Order of Malta, etc. By the Sisters of Charity, Mount St. Vincent, New York. New York: P. O'Shea, 27 Barclay street. 1868.

It is a valuable service to present to the public, as the author of the above translation has done, the pith of other and more compendious lives of the great St. Vincent de Paul. The life of our Saint cannot be read too often by priests, by the people, and by all lovers of their race. His zeal for religion and his love of the poor were unbounded almost; and the extent of his labors, and the good he did to the poor and distressed of humanity, were never perhaps equalled by any other man. To our non-Catholic readers we would say, read the life of this man, great in goodness, if you would obtain a true idea of the genuine and perfect fruit of the catholic faith. No one, whatever may be his creed, can read the life of St. Vincent de Paul without feeling his love for God and his fellow-men increased and inflamed. May it please God to raise up in his holy church in our own country a priest like St. Vincent de Paul!

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Rome And The Popes. Translated from the German of Dr. Karl Brandes, by Rev. W. J. Wiseman, S.T.L. Benziger Brothers. 1868.

This is a volume containing, within a small compass, and in a popular style, suited to the generality of readers, a history of the temporal power of the popes, by an author well acquainted with his subject. The translator has done a service to the public, in giving them the chance of reading it in English. Just at present it is quite appropriate as an offset to the ignorant and silly abuse of the papal sovereignty with which the public ears are filled. We recommend it to all our readers who wish to get some solid information on this subject. We must repeat, once more, in regard to this volume, a criticism we have to make too often, that its generally neat appearance is marred by many typographical errors. Cannot our Catholic publishers wake up to the importance of correcting their proofs properly?

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Selections From Pope, Dryden, And Various Other Catholic Poets, who preceded the Nineteenth Century: with biographical and literary notices of those and other British Catholic Poets of their class, comprising a brief history of British Catholic Poetry, from an early period. Designed not only for general use, but also as a text-book or reader, and a prize-book for the higher classes in Catholic educational institutions. By George Hill, author of the "Ruins of Athens," "Titania's Banquet," and other poems. Examined and approved by competent Catholic authority. New York. 1867.

Mr. Hill expresses so succinctly in this old-fashioned title-page the real character and aim of his useful compilation that he leaves us, in fact, nothing further to say than that he has made his title good.

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The Life Of St. Francis Of Assist, and a sketch of the Franciscan Order. By a Religious of the Order of Poor Clares, (in England.) With emendations and additions, by Very Rev. Pamfilo da Magliani, O.S.F., (Superior of one of the branches of the Franciscan Order in the U. S.) New York: P. O'Shea, 27 Barclay street. 1867.

Many beautiful lives of the Saints have been written in England within the last few years. This one deserves to be classed among them, and is, on the whole, the best history of the romantic and poetic life of St. Francis we have ever read. The sketches of the history of the Order, especially those relating to missions in heathen countries, and the short biographies of distinguished Franciscans, are of great value. The Life of St. Francis has a charm entirely its own, which never wears out, and his pious daughter has narrated it well. Such a book cannot be too warmly recommended in this age of avarice, worldliness, and luxury. We wish, however, that the proofs had been more carefully corrected.

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Claudia. By Amanda M. Douglas, author of "In Trust," "Stephen Dane," etc. Boston: Lee & Shepard.

In this novel, the characters are strongly drawn, the incidents varied and striking, the dialogue well sustained, but the general effect somewhat marred by a vein of moralizing, which, in light literature, unless of absolute necessity and of a high order, always degenerates into prosiness, causing in that vast majority of readers who seek amusement only, weariness, if not disgust.

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The Queens Of American Society. By Mrs. Ellet, author of "The Women of the American Revolution," etc. New York: Charles Scribner & Co.

This volume is a signal illustration of one of the prevailing passions of the nineteenth century; a craving which brushes the bloom from the lives of our lovely young girls, and makes our charming matrons _common_; a passion for notoriety; a morbid desire to peep into other people's windows, or engage them in the improving occupation of looking into ours. Here we have the _entrée_ not only into the _minutiae_ of the drawing-rooms of these _queens_, but into their bedchambers, and stand beside their toilet-tables, and descend into their kitchens; in short, there is no part of the houses of these ladies living and moving in our midst, unransacked by the gossiping pen, save the _nurseries_, and we are left to doubt if these sumptuous homes contain such old-fashioned apartments. But the gossiping spirit of this book is not the only exceptionable feature; it is extremely snobbish. To have descended from the nobility, to have a thick volume of genealogy to fall back upon, (by the way, we may all have even a more ample chronicle than is here given us of these noble scions, if we will look at the records of the garden of Eden for our pedigree,) to be decked in velvets, point-lace, and diamonds, to have given "select dinners," or "lavish and gorgeous suppers," seems to be the most apparent end and aim of the majority of these living "queens." A sprinkling of pietism and charitable deeds is interpolated through the volume, apparently to give an "odor of sanctity" to the otherwise sensuous details. A catechism for the use of the rising generation of queens might be compiled from the pages before us. Here are two or three questions and answers taken at random from the proposed text-book:

"Q. What is the chief end of one aspiring to be a queen in American society?

"A. To be clothed in purple and fine linen, and to fare sumptuously every day.

"Q. How many gods are there in the 'best society'?

"A. Three.

"Q. Which are they?

"A. Genealogy, gold, and good eating.

"Q. What directions are given for dress?

"A. Whose adorning let it be the outward adorning, wearing of gold and pearls, and putting on of apparel."

Other questions and answers will readily suggest themselves.

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The Comedy Of Convocation, in the English Church. In two scenes. Edited by Archdeacon Chasuble, D.D. New York: Catholic Publication Society.

This unique work, of which a notice appeared in the last issue of _The Catholic World_, is without doubt one of the most remarkable satires ever penned. The thorough knowledge it displays of the Anglican establishment, its incisive argumentation, the purity of its style, and its irresistible humor have never been surpassed in any essay of its kind.

{720}

These characteristics have led many critics in England and in this country to attribute its authorship to Dr. Newman; but while we think it in every respect worthy of that great writer, we feel disposed, from a more careful study of it, to believe that it has not emanated from his mind, while at the same time we are obliged to confess that we know of no other man in England who wields such a mighty pen. It has given the Anglican Church an herculean blow, and we cannot see how an honest member of the English Church or of its sister denomination, the "Protestant Episcopal Church of the United States," can rise from its perusal without an utter loss of confidence in the discordant, illogical, and unauthoritative system to which they have hitherto given their adherence. The baseless fabric crumbles at the touch of this literary giant, and sinks to a level where it can hardly elicit the admiration of its most zealous partisans.

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Sadlier's Catholic Directory, Almanac, And Ordo For The Year Of Our Lord 1868: with a full report of the various Dioceses in the United States and British North America, and a list of the Archbishops, Bishops, and Priests in Ireland. New York: D. & J. Sadlier & Co., 31 Barclay street. 1868.

The Catholic Almanac for this year makes its appearance a little earlier than it has for some years past. From a cursory glance at its contents, we think it is more correct in its details than some of its predecessors. It is gotten up with an eye to the strictest kind of economy.

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We have received from THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE, where they are for sale, the following new works just published in England:

_The Monks of the West_, by Count Montalembert, Vols. IV and V.

_Saint Louis, King of France_. The curious and characteristic life of this monarch, by De Joinville, translated from the French.

_The Story of Chevalier Bayard_, from the French of the loyal servant, M. de Berville and others.

_The Life of Las Casas_, by Arthur Helps.

_Learned Women and Studious Women_, by Bishop Dupanloup.

_Cradle Lands: Egypt, Syria, and the Holy Land_. By the Right Hon. Lady Herbert of Lea, illustrated.

_The Round Towers of Ancient Ireland_, by Marcus Keane.

_The History of Irish Periodical Literature_, from the end of the seventeenth century to the middle of the nineteenth century: its Origin, Progress, and Results. By Richard Robert Madden. 2 vols. 8vo.

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Seek And Find; Or, The Adventures Of A Smart Boy. By Oliver Optic.

Tommy Hickup; Or, A Pair Of Black Eyes. By Rosa Abbott. Boston: Lee & Shepard.

Two handsome volumes of pleasantly told though rather marvellous adventure.

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Books Received.

From Leypoldt & Holt, New York:

Nathan the Wise. A dramatic poem, by Gotthold Ephraim Lessing. Translated by Ellen Frothingham, preceded by a brief account of the poet and his works, and followed by an essay on the poem by Kuno Fischer.

La Littérature Française contemporaire, recueil en prose et en vers de morceaux empruntés, aux écrivains les plus renommés du XIXe Siècle.

Histoire d'une Bouchée de Pain: L'Homme, par Jean Macé. With a French and English vocabulary, and a list of idiomatic expressions. A Manual of Anglo-Saxon for Beginners; comprising a grammar, reader, and glossary, with explanatory notes. By Samuel M. Shute, Professor in Columbian College, Washington, D. C.

Condensed French Instruction, consisting of grammar and exercises, with cross references. By C. J. Delille.

From Harper & Brothers, New York:

Lives of the Queens of England, from the Norman Conquest. By Agnes Strickland, author of Lives of the Queens of England. Abridged by the Author. Revised and edited by Caroline G. Parker.

Manual of Physical Exercises. By William Wood, Instructor in Physical Education. With one hundred and twenty-five illustrations.

Home Fairy Tales. By Jean Macé. Translated by Mary L. Booth, with engravings.

Folks and Fairies. Stories for Little Children. By Lucy Randall Comfort. With engravings.

French's First Lessons in Numbers. French's Elementary Arithmetic. By John H. French, LL.D.

The Lover's Dictionary. A Poetical Treasury of Lover's Thoughts, Fancies, Addresses, and Dilemmas, indexed with nearly ten thousand references, and a Dictionary of Compliments, and a Dictionary of the study of the Tender Passion.

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The Catholic World.

Vol. VI., No. 36. March, 1868.

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Canada Thistles.

The accident of a heavy snowstorm detained me, a little while ago, at the house of a friend in the country. It was certainly a pleasant place to be cast away in. My friend was a gentleman-farmer, who united a strong taste for rustic pursuits with an equally strong as well as an intelligent fondness for literature and art. In the matter of books and pictures, philosophy and religion, we were in sympathy with each other; but when he came to milch cows and turnips, my city education got the better of me. I could neither understand his conversation nor appreciate his enthusiasm. It was agreed, therefore, that as soon as he put on his long boots and set out for the barnyard, I should retire into his cheerful library, where a blazing fire of hickory-logs, shelves well stored with all that is best in literature, and a great green-covered table, on which papers, reviews, and magazines were piled in pleasant confusion, kept me in excellent spirits while he was attending to the daily duties of the farm. How I enjoyed those idle hours! Throwing myself back in a wide arm-chair, I passed the winter mornings skimming over the pages of my favorite authors, half reading them and half dreaming; and when my friend returned from his rounds, and stretched himself in another chair on the opposite side of the fire-place, we used to chat over the various subjects that had occupied my mind since breakfast. After dinner, we usually went back to the library with our cigars. The evening we always spent with the rest of the family in the parlor.

My friend read a great deal, and was also something of an author. He contributed essays on agricultural subjects to one or two magazines. He had even published a book or so in the course of his life; and he still amused himself by penning literary criticisms, for a periodical printed in New York. I was not surprised, therefore, to find his table burdened with a good many volumes, newspapers, and pamphlets, which I knew he would never have been at the trouble of ordering.

"Yes," said he, when I made a remark about the worthless character of some of these publications; "there is trash enough here to make a man melancholy. {722} People send me these things for their own purposes, and I read them sometimes for mine. I should be tempted to be sorry for the invention of printing, only if we lost the bane, we should lose the antidote with it. Besides, I have little faith in the negative sort of virtue which is founded on ignorance. We ought to grow wiser, day by day, with the number of our teachers; but what I see here often makes me doubt it. You will find that mankind have the same propensity to use calumny instead of argument that they had two or three hundred years ago. In matters of religion and history, I believe that lies are very much like Canada thistles: let them once take root, and it is next to impossible to get the field clear of them. You may cut them all down to-day, and to-morrow their ugly heads will be as high as ever. Now, here," he continued, picking up a handful of pamphlets and newspapers, "is a crop of Canada thistles. These are all philippics against the Catholic Church. I suppose their authors call them polemical publications; but there is not an argument in one of them. They are nothing whatever but slanders which have been demolished a hundred times; and yet here they are, as bold as ever. It is consoling to be told, as we often are, that 'Truth crushed to earth will rise again;' but if a lie crushed to earth has not an incorrigible habit of rising again, then I am no reader of current literature. You and I may go out into the field of theological controversy, and, being well armed and on the right side, we may cut down every one of the calumnies which are marshalled against the church; but we know that they will jump right up again as soon as our backs are turned, and swear that they never went down. It is rather discouraging to fight against a man who doesn't know when he is dead. To answer these things now, that I hold in my hand, would be like running around the battle-field in chase of a rabble of lively corpses."

"Well," said I, "you are partly right and partly wrong. We have got to cut away at the Canada thistles, as you call them, whether we root them out or not; if we don't, they will stifle the grain. Besides, your lively corpses cannot run for ever. You may galvanize a dead body into spasmodic activity, but you cannot bring it to life again; and I believe that, every time a lie is exposed, there is good done to somebody, though the exposure may have been made a hundred times before. Take the old fiction of a female pope; one of the most preposterous of anti-Catholic calumnies, and one of the easiest to demolish, because the admitted facts of history were so plain against it. That was an incredibly long time dying; but it is dead at last--so dead that even Mr. Murphy, of Birmingham, probably does not believe it. Well, that lie would never have been laid on the shelf if Catholics had not hammered away at it until they forced their enemies to listen to them. Take the St. Bartholomew massacre--"

"I don't know about that," interrupted my friend; "there is a good deal of vitality in that thistle yet. Two things have been proved, and are now admitted by the most candid Protestant historians--that the massacre was the crime of a political, not a religious, party, and that the number of the slain has been frightfully exaggerated. The old story used to be that 100,000 fell, and Lingard has shown that the number, in all probability, did not exceed 1500. {723} Notwithstanding this, I have a volume here, called _Willson's Outlines of History_, which, I learn, is used as a text-book in the College of the City of New York, and which represents the massacre as a rising of the 'Catholics of Paris' against their Huguenot brethren, declares that it lasted in the capital 'eight days and eight nights without any apparent diminution of the fury of the murderers,' and estimates the number of the victims at 50,000. Then the writer goes on to say that the pope caused medals to be struck in commemoration of the auspicious event, and returned public thanks to heaven. A student would never suspect from this that the assassins were not the Catholic inhabitants, but the hirelings of the queen mother. Besides, the massacre lasted, not eight days and nights, but three days and two nights. This fact is of more importance than at first appears. If the slaughter had lasted so long, and so many persons had been killed, it could hardly have been the work of a band of cutthroats; but if we remember that, as all reputable historians admit, it was over on the third day, and that the number of victims, according to Froude, who is the latest Protestant authority, certainly did not exceed 2000 in Paris, and 10,000 in all France, or, according to Lingard, 1500 in the whole kingdom, it is evident that it _could not_ have been shared in by the Catholic inhabitants."

"Froude, you say, puts the number at 10,000?"

"Yes, and admits that the French Catholics cried out with horror at the outrage. Yet Froude is a most unwilling witness in our favor. His bias, as you know, is all the other way. The Calvinistic author of the martyrology of the Huguenots, published only ten years after the massacre, made careful search, and was able to find the names of only 786 persons who perished. Froude's estimate is too high, and Willson's is altogether preposterous. Then about that medal and the _Te Deum_ at Rome; everybody knows that, as soon as the horrible deed was over, the first care of the French king was to justify himself at the other European courts by false accounts of what had taken place. His ambassador informed the pope that his majesty had discovered a Huguenot conspiracy against his life and throne, and had overcome it by promptly executing the criminals. It was in the belief of this lie that the pope caused public thanks to be given for the king's victory. This is a fact as well established as any other of the 16th century. Yet Mr. Willson, and men like him, choose to go on quietly disregarding it. I think it simply a sin that anybody so grossly ignorant or so shamefully perverse should be allowed to deceive the young with what they presume to call 'history.'"

"How does Froude stand in this matter of the rejoicings at Rome?"

"Froude has too melodramatic a mind, if I may use the expression, to be a good historian. He has a dangerous gift of sarcasm and invective, and a fatal knack of putting things together so as to make an effective situation. If an inconvenient truth pops up to mar the scene, he quietly knocks it on the head, and arranges the stage to suit himself. For instance, he wants to paint the duplicity of Charles, so he mentions his lying bulletins to the pope and the other sovereigns; but he also wants to impress us with the heartless bigotry of the pontiff; so, after showing on one page that the pope could not know the truth, he coolly assumes on the next that he did know it."

"I think the best account of the massacre I ever read in a Protestant publication is that in _The New American Cyclopaedia_. Not a perfect book, of course, but upon the whole, very honest."

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"Yes, if you want to get a plain statement of facts, without party coloring, you must go to some work in which many heads and hands have worked together. You know an ordinary refracting telescope of the old sort shows distant objects, not as they really are, but tinged with prismatic colors, because no one lens has the power of transmitting all rays with equal impartiality; but by a combination of lenses we get at the exact truth; one corrects another. So, if you want a thoroughly impartial, achromatic account of anything, let a number of men work at it together For this reason, a good cyclopaedia is better than a volume of history; it is perfectly cold-blooded."

"Our friend Willson," I said, turning over the leaves as I spoke, "is certainly a telescope of the old sort. His book is as gay with prismatic colors as a parlor candelabrum. See here: 'The doctrine of infallibility means _the pope's entire exemption from liability to err;_' 'Indulgences are billets of salvation, professing to remit the punishment due to sins even before the commission of the contemplated crime.' Mr. Willson knows that neither of these definitions is correct."

"No, I don't believe he does. Remember what we said just now about thistles. To you and to me these statements seem--I don't know whether to say ludicrous or shocking. We know, as well as we know the alphabet, that while the church cannot err in defining dogmas, the pope, as a private individual, is as liable to err as Mr. Willson himself; that no sin can be forgiven before it is committed, and no past sin pardoned so long as the culprit purposes committing another; but I dare say Mr. Willson is ignorant of all this. There is a certain class of unfortunate Christians, now happily dying out, who are catechised in their youth into a hatred of the pope and all his works. They look upon his holiness as a superior sort of devil, rather more wicked and dangerous upon the whole than Satan, and not half so much of a gentleman. Willson was crammed full of these sentiments when he was a boy, and now he is trying to cram the coming generation. Here is a specimen of the moral nutriment which men of his stamp are brought up on. I cut it out of an old number of _The Sunday-School Advocate_, where it appeared as a comment on a picture of a Spanish flower-girl. There must be a funny twist in the mind of the writer who could get a lesson against popery out of that.

"'SELLING FLOWERS.

"'You never saw such a flower-seller, did you? You have not unless you have lived in Spain. The picture is meant to show you a Spanish lady, a Spanish flower-dealer, and a Spanish mule.

"'Spain is a beautiful land, but the people are not as happy as they are here. Why? Because they are Roman Catholics. Once they were a brave, powerful, rich, liberty-loving people; but a set of priests, called Jesuits, stole into the country, quenched their love of liberty, put out the lights of learning, trampled upon the true religion, and made the Spaniards boasters, bigots, and almost slaves to their kings and queens. Pity the Spaniards, my children, and pray to your heavenly Father to save this glorious land from ever being ruined by that great enemy to all that is good--the Roman Catholic Church. x. x.'

"How can you wonder that a man who learns such nonsense in his childhood should say foolish things when he grows up? Still, Mr. Willson's ignorance does not excuse him. Any one who undertakes to write history is bound _not_ to be ignorant. He cannot plead the prejudices of education in justification of his blunders. {725} To teach calumny and religious error is as much a crime as to administer medicines without knowing the properties of drugs. We have little tenderness for an ignorant chemist's boy who poisons us by mistake, and I don't know why we should have any more for an ignorant historian who lies out of prejudice. Besides, even if Mr. Willson did not know the truth, he knew there were two sides to the story, and he was bound to study and weigh them both, which he evidently has not done. His ignorance was not invincible."

"I think, however, that the faculty of the College of New York are more to blame for adopting this work as a text-book than the author was for writing it. You know, I suppose, what that college is. It is a part of our common school system, designed for the youth of every faith, and supported by tax on all citizens alike. To allow a word taught there which could offend the religious feelings of either Catholics or Protestants is a gross outrage upon public right. It only shows, what wise men of our church have all along maintained, that Catholics need hope for no good from state education. We must be taxed for what we don't approve, and support our own schools and colleges besides.--But enough of this. Let us see the rest of your thistles."

"Oh!" said he, laughing, "there are enough of them, I can assure you. Here, for example, is _The Free-Will Baptist Quarterly_ for January, 1868. It contains an article on 'The Perversions of the Gospel a Proof of its Divinity,' and in the course of it occurs this sentence about the pope: 'He can remit sins _or permit them_, and _his pardon_ and indulgences have been _purchased with money_.' Now, a quarterly is supposed to be edited with care and deliberation, and when such a periodical states that the holy Father has power 'to permit sins' it is guilty of a misstatement which I hardly know how to distinguish from a deliberate falsehood. The editor of _The Baptist Quarterly_ is utterly inexcusable for not knowing that the doctrine which he attributes to the church is repudiated with horror by every theologian who ever wrote on our side. It has never been either maintained in theory or acted upon in practice. The statement of _The Quarterly_ is one of the most atrocious calumnies ever uttered, and the editor was bound to know it. If he is so ignorant as not to know it, he is criminally presumptuous in undertaking the functions of a popular teacher. Then, again, he says that the pope's 'pardon and indulgences have been purchased with money.' This, too, is a positive falsehood, though we are willing to believe not an intentional one. In no case, and under no color, can pardon be obtained for money. The only price ever required, the only price which can ever suffice, is hearty repentance. After pardon has been granted, there remains, as we all know, a temporal penalty to be exacted by way of satisfaction, and for this the pope may decree the contribution of money for a charitable object or any other good deed. If the editor of _The Baptist Quarterly_ does not know that this is the extent of an indulgence, then he has no business to be an editor. Ignorance does not excuse him. But let this pass. We were speaking just now of education here is an article quite _à propos_ to that subject in _The Churchman_. It is called 'Rome and the Scriptures.' The writer begins by wondering at the insolence of 'Romanists' in denying that the church withholds the Bible from the laity; and how do you think he proceeds to prove that she does withhold it? {726} Why, by showing that she lays some very necessary restrictions upon the _indiscriminate_ circulation of _translations_ of the Bible. But, it is objected, every English-speaking Catholic family has a copy of the Douay Bible in the house. Yes, says _The Churchman_, because the church lets you have it; she could forbid it if she chose. What do you think of that as a specimen of argument? The church forbids the Bible, because she might, if she pleased, only she doesn't. Besides, this writer continues, the English of the Douay version is so bad that it is practically not the vernacular; the book is as much sealed to the comprehension of the common reader as if it remained in the original Hebrew and Greek. Thus, he says, 'in Galatians v. 19-23, we have a list of the "works of the flesh," and the "fruits of the Spirit." In our version occur the words, "lasciviousness, drunkenness, revellings, long-suffering." But in the Douay version instead of such honest English, which any person of ordinary attainments can understand, we have the words, "impudicity, elrieties, [ebrieties?] comessations, and longanimity." In Hebrews ix. 23, our version reads, "the patterns of things in the heavens;" but the Douay has it, "the exemplars of the celestials." Again, in Hebrews xiii. 16, instead of "to do good, and to communicate, forget not; for with such sacrifices God is well pleased," as in our version, the Douay reads, "Beneficence and communication forget not, "for with such hosts God is promerited." Is this what the Romanists call the Bible in the vulgar tongue?' Now, in point of fact, not a single one of the preceding texts is given in the form he quotes in the Catholic Testaments now in use. The passage from Galatians reads, 'immodesty, drunkenness, revellings.' Instead of 'the exemplars of the celestials,' we have 'the patterns of heavenly things;' and the verse from Hebrews xiii. runs thus: 'And do not forget to do good and to impart; for by such sacrifices God's favor is obtained.' In the first edition of the Douay Bible there were many obscure expressions which have since been amended. If the translators knew English but imperfectly, whose fault was it? The English government would not allow Catholics to get an education in their native country--hanged them if they caught them at it. That we have corrected their shortcomings is proof enough that we are anxious to facilitate the study of the sacred books. What would _The Churchman_ say if we accused the Anglican establishment of trying to conceal the Scriptures from the common people, because the translations of Wickliffe and Coverdale contain many antiquated expressions? That would be every whit as just as to found a similar charge against us upon the imperfections of the first editions of Douay and Rheims, (which are older, it should be remarked, than the Bible of King James.)"

"After all," said I, "I cannot regard the authorized English Protestant Bible as a model of what a popular translation ought to be."

"Of course not. Don't you remember what Hallam says about it? Here is the passage: 'It is held to be the perfection of our English language. I shall not dispute this proposition; but one remark as to a matter of fact cannot reasonably be censured, that, in consequence of the principle of adherence to the original versions, which had been kept up ever since the time of Henry VIII., _it is not the language of the reign of James I._ {727} It may, in the eyes of many, be a better English, but it is not the English of Daniel, or Raleigh, or Bacon, as any one may easily perceive. _It abounds, in fact_, especially in the Old Testament, _with obsolete phraseology, and with single words long since abandoned_ or retained only in provincial use.' (_Literature of Europe_, vol. ii. chap. 2.) The early Protestant versions are proof enough of the wisdom of our church in setting bounds to the license of careless or incompetent editors. You know there is one edition which is called by book-collectors '_the Breeches Bible_,' on account of its rendering of a passage in the third chapter of Genesis, where Adam and Eve are said to have 'sewed together fig-leaves and made themselves _breeches._' The king's printers, in 1632, were fined for publishing a Bible in which one of the commandments appeared in this form, 'Thou shalt commit adultery.' During the Commonwealth, a large impression of the Bible was confiscated on account of its corruptions, many of which were the result of design. One edition contained 6000 errors. Archbishop Usher, on his way to preach once, bought a London Bible in a bookseller's shop, and was dismayed to find that the text he had selected was omitted! In one of the English Bibles the first verse of the fourteenth (or in our Bible the thirteenth) Psalm is printed, 'The fool hath said in his heart, there is a God,' instead of 'no God.' Just see what that famous old Protestant divine, Thomas Fuller, says of this matter: 'Considering with myself the causes of the growth and increase of impiety and profaneness in our land, amongst others this seemeth to me not the least, viz., the late many _false_ and _erroneous_ impressions of the Bible. Now know, what is but _carelessness_ in other books is _impiety_ in setting forth of the Bible. As Noah, in all unclean creatures, preserved but two of a kind, so among some hundreds in several editions, we will insist only on two instances. In the Bible printed at London in 1653, we read, "I Corinthians vi. 9, Know ye not that the unrighteous shall inherit the kingdom of God?" for "not inherit." Now, when a reverend doctor in divinity did mildly reprove some libertines for their licentious lives, they did produce this text from the authority of this corrupt edition in justification of their vicious and inordinate conversations. The next instance shall be in the Bible printed at London in quarto (forbearing the name of the printer, because not done wilfully by him) in the singing Psalms, Psalm lxvii. 2:

"That all the earth may know The way to worldly wealth,"

for "godly wealth."' Such blunders too are by no means confined to early impressions. Why, there is an edition of the Anglican Liturgy printed at Oxford, of all places in the world, in 1813, in which occurs this dreadful blunder: 'Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the _Lord_.'"

"After this, it looks well, doesn't it, for _The Churchman_ to blame us for repressing the indiscriminate circulation of wild versions of the Scriptures?"

"My dear friend, if all men were consistent, the whole world would be Catholic. Protestantism from beginning to end is nothing but a huge inconsistency. But come: have we any more weeds to look at?"

"Here is a copy of _The Observer_; if we don't find something startling in it, it will be strange. Yes; here is a letter from the well-known _Irenaeus_ on 'the relics at Aix-la-Chapelle.' Read what he says:

{728}

"'I found that pictures of the relics were for sale in all the shops, and I bought a few as souvenirs of my accidental pilgrimage; particularly I sought for a good representation of that one which is first on the list, and first in the admiration of the people. _As the Virgin Mother Mary is held in higher honor by all good Catholics than the Son of God himself,_ so they likewise venerate, with a deeper reverence, the linen garment that she wore, than the cloth which was around the loins of the Saviour on the cross.'

What do you say to that? For my part, I cannot believe that a man so well informed on most subjects as _Irenaeus_ is really thinks that 'Catholics hold the Virgin Mary in higher honor than the Son of God himself.' If he knows anything at all about the Catholic Church, he must know that this is a downright slander."

"In point of fact, I suppose he does know it; but he belongs to a class of persons who seem to think it no harm to say anything evil of Catholics for the sake of producing a sensation. The church in their eyes is merely a convenient subject for turning an eloquent sentence; a sort of _corpus vile_, upon which it is allowable to try all manner of oratorical experiments. Besides, you know _The Observer_ is nothing but a journalistic stuffed Guy Faux, brought out periodically for the purpose of reminding mankind of the wickedness of the bloody papists."

"Do you know I pity the editor of that paper? he must have such awful nightmares. Just think of perpetually dreaming that the pope sits scowling on your stomach ready to strangle you, and a grand inquisitor lurks under the bed! I suppose _The Observer_ never goes up-stairs in the dark without dread of stumbling over a rack, or running his hand into a thumbscrew, and never falls asleep without apprehensions of a popish massacre before morning. Has he any special bugaboo to-day?"

"'The Confessional.' I will not read the whole article. Some of it is too nasty. But here is a specimen:

"'The confessional in the Roman Catholic Church, and in every church that becomes corrupt enough to introduce it, and slavish enough to submit to it, is an engine of tyranny over the social, domestic, and private life of the people, with an extent, power, and wickedness it is hardly possible to conceive.

"'It operates chiefly through the women. In most of the Roman Catholic countries men have substantially deserted the confessional. They go once a year, at Easter, if at all. Many of them, nominally Catholics, do not take the communion, and therefore do not come under the ecclesiastical necessity of confessing. But women are more religious, more superstitious, and more submissive to priestly domination than men. Men have their business to think about, and often worship mammon. Religion is the highest of all mental occupations for women; their life is in it; it is their life--this and that to come. In Protestant as well as Roman churches women are the most and the best of the members. It has been so from the time they outnumbered the disciples at the cross and the grave of the Saviour. The confessional has its grasp on the women of the Roman Catholic Church; and through them it rules the households where those women are wives, mothers, sisters, children, or servants. It is enough for the purpose of the priests that they have one spy in a house; but the more the better, and the nearer that spy is to the head of the house the more valuable her service. The conduct of servants is carefully watched; and they are changed from time to time by the direction of priests, when the family has not the slightest suspicion of the cause. The priests often select willing and capable agents, who, in the capacity of servants, male and female, act as spies and emissaries in households they wish to supervise. The information thus obtained is recorded, transmitted to higher powers, and used, without scruple, in the secret and constant operations of the church to get control over the political and material interests of the state.'

"There is no excuse for this sort of thing. There is an untruth in almost every line. I don't charge _The Observer_ with deliberate falsehood, but it needs a good deal of charity, in a case like this, to remember the difference between a mistake and a lie. {729} Mark you, the writer does not say: 'I believe the confessional to be used for purposes of oppression,' 'I suspect that the priests keep spies in every household.' 'I dare say the church interferes with our servants,' 'I take it for granted that the priests repeat what is said to them in confession;' but all these vague and ridiculous notions are stated in the broadest manner, as admitted historical facts. That is to say, _The Observer_ makes the most atrocious charges against us without a particle of evidence to support them. 'I guess they are true,' says the writer; 'any way, I will make them.' The less the proof, the more emphatic the assertion. Suppose I have a vague suspicion that my neighbor has stolen money, and on the strength of that suspicion, not knowing whether it is well-founded or not, and having no means of knowing, I proclaim him as a thief all over town. Whether he is one or not, I commit a grave sin by defaming him on mere suspicion; and if he turn out to be an honest man after all, the fact that I believed my own story will not save me from the consequences of uttering slander. The old grannies of Protestantism act upon the principle that it is quite fair to ascribe any imaginable sin either to the pope or the devil. The wickedness of both being infinite, it is impossible to overshoot the mark."

"Even if all priests were demons, I don't see why they must also be described as idiots. 'Spies in the household!' Can you imagine anything more childish than listening to Bridget's and Mary Ann's reports of the daily life of their master and mistress? Can you imagine any use to which such information could be turned by the church? _The Observer_ no doubt supposes that the archbishop of New York has daily morning audiences with his domestic emissaries, who tell him what time _The Observer_ editor got up, how many eggs he ate for breakfast, what remarks he made at family prayers, whether the children were good, and how much butcher's meat was used in the house during the previous week. Then just think of the Roman Catholic Church being a vast intelligence-office, through which servants are changed about from house to house! You flatter yourself that you chose your cook out of a number of applicants for the place. Nothing of the kind she was sent to your house by the priests, and forced on you by a kind of legerdemain, just as a juggler forces a card. You think you discharged your last chambermaid. Oh! no; she went away because the priests had duties for her elsewhere. And the reports of all these spies, _The Observer_ assures us, are actually written out, and transmitted to headquarters! I believe there is no limit to the credulity of a no-popery zealot."

"I am glad to see, however, that some Protestants have recognized the value of the confessional to society, and have spoken warmly of its sacred influence. I suppose you know how much attention has lately been drawn to the great appalling sin of modern American women--the murder of their offspring yet unborn. It is a sin so prevalent that, as I remember reading some time ago in _The Congregationalist_, it is said that in a certain populous district in a large western city, not a single Anglo-American child had been born alive in three years! It has not escaped the notice of physicians that no such practice prevails among the Catholic population. {730} Dr. Storer, of Boston, (a Protestant,) explains this difference in his well-known essay on the subject, by the influence of the confessional; and _The Congregationalist_ took the same view. Indeed, both virtually admit that, if it were not for the confessional, the natural increase of population in the United States would be almost entirely checked."

"That is a good thing for _The Observer_ to meditate upon; but I am afraid the venerable old alarmist is incorrigible. It is hard to reason with a man whose hair perpetually stands on end with fright."

"Yes, or with a professional dealer in bugaboos. But even if he believes all his stories, I don't see what good he can possibly expect to come of telling them. They are only irritating."

"Irritating! they are criminally dangerous. The greatest enemy to a community is the man who stirs up the animosity of religious denominations against each other. The natural effect of such stories is to inspire the ignorant and passionate on the one side with contempt and hatred, on the other with resentment; and how long can society be sure of peace when it is filled with such dangerous elements? Of course, the Catholics are not so silly or so wicked as to fly to arms whenever an insult is uttered against the church, neither are Protestants going to defend Luther and Henry VIII. with fire and riot; but suppose some unforeseen circumstance produces an outbreak, what a terrible responsibility will rest upon those who prepared the materials of combustion! Mr. Froude, speaking of the St. Bartholomew massacre, says, the guilt was the queen's, but her plan could never have been carried out, had not theological frenzy already been heated to the boiling-point. He is wrong in this case, for it is proved that theological frenzy had nothing to do with the slaughter; political frenzy is sometimes quite as dangerous; but I wish those who think he is right would apply his principle to the regulation of their own conduct. The frenzy which instigated the burning of the Charlestown convent, the bloodshed and incendiarism of the Native American movement in Philadelphia, and the Know-Nothing riots in different parts of the country, had been gathered up and nursed long beforehand by preachers like _The Observer_. They did not know what they were doing, I suppose, but others foresaw and predicted the consequences. Rant is always the forerunner of riot. The periodical excitement on the subject of popery which breaks out in the United States, like the cholera or yellow fever, has always been followed by lamentable disturbances. The man who makes his living by thundering at the corruptions of the Church of Rome, is an incendiary in fact, though he may not be in intention. Of course, it is a pity that men should be prone to anger. It is a pity that we are not always meek, and long-suffering, and forgiving; that we do not bear reproaches with patience, and repay calumnies with good deeds. Our Lord tells us to love our enemies, but only a few of us are good enough to obey him. If all Catholics were perfect Christians, _The Observer_ might shout hard names at us until it was black in the face, and there would be no danger; but there is a good deal of human nature in us, after all, and it is better not to go near gunpowder with a lighted candle. I do not mean to say, of course, that there is danger of our deliberately resenting such attacks. We are far too sensible for that. No amount of abuse would, of itself, provoke us to break the peace. {731} But such calumnious harangues tend first to draw a broad line of distinction between Catholics and Protestants, and keep them apart, which, alone, is a social evil; then they inevitably fill the two parties with mutual dislike, and, in time, drive them to antipathy; the bad feeling gets worse and worse; and some day accident brings about a clash, and there is a terrible explosion, nobody knows exactly how, and nobody knows who is most to blame. All we can determine about it is, to use Froude's words, that it could not have happened 'had not theological frenzy already been heated to the boiling-point.' I think it is high time that all decent citizens, all honest theological disputants, should set their faces against the Gospel of Frenzy. I am willing to meet any man in a fair controversy, but there is nothing but danger and aggravation in bandying hard names. The only legitimate object of controversy is to make converts, and you can't do that without good temper and honest argument. The apparent purpose of such tirades as those of _The Observer_, is merely to show the preacher's own party how much better they are than the rest of the world. Nobody but a fool could expect them to do any good to the Catholics; you can't make friends with a man by abusing his mother. It ought to be clearly understood that calm theological discussion over points of discipline or dogma is always in order; but atrocious charges, unsupported by a tittle of evidence, deserve no name but that of sheer calumny, and all good men ought to detest them. If Protestant preachers only carried into the pulpit and the editorial chair the same rules of morality which, I am happy to believe, they generally practise in private life, they would observe this cardinal principle, not to publish infamous accusations against their neighbors unless they have personal knowledge of their truth."

Abscondita.

Flower of the forest, that, unseen, With sweetness fill'st the vernal grove, Where hid'st thou? 'Mid the grasses green, Or those dim boughs that mix above?

Thou bird that, darkling, sing'st a song That shook the bowers of paradise, Thou too art hid thy leaves among: Thou sing'st unseen of mortal eyes.

Of her thou sing'st whose every breath Sweetened a world too blind to heed; Of Him--Death's Conqueror--that from death Alone would take the crown decreed.

Thou sing'st that secret gifts are best; That only like to God are they Who keep God's secret in their breast, And hide, as stars are hid by day.

Aubrey De Vere.

{732}

Translated From The French.

The Story of a Conscript.

XV.

When I returned to myself, I looked around. I was in a long hall, with posts all around. I was in a bed, and beside me was an old gray-mustached soldier, who, when he saw my eyes open, lifted up my head and held a cup to my lips.

"Well," said he cheerfully, "well! we are better."

I could not help smiling as I thought that I was yet among the living. My chest and arm were stiff with bandages; I felt as if a hot iron were burning me there; but no matter, I lived!

I gazed at the heavy rafters crossing the space above me; at the tiles of the roof, through which the daylight entered in more than one spot; I turned and looked to the other side, and saw that I was in one of those vast sheds used by the brewers of the country as a shelter for their casks and wagons. All around, on mattresses and heaps of straw, numbers of wounded lay ranged; and in the middle, on a large kitchen-table, a surgeon-major and his two aids, their shirt-sleeves rolled up, were amputating the leg of a soldier, who was shrieking in agony. Behind them was a mass of legs and arms. I turned away sick and trembling.

Five or six soldiers were walking about, giving drink to the wounded.

But the man who impressed himself most on my memory was a surgeon with sleeves rolled up, who cut and cut without paying the slightest attention to what was going on around; he was a man with a large nose and wrinkled cheeks, and every moment flew into a passion at his assistants, who could not give him his knives, pincers, lint, or linen fast enough, or who were not quick enough sponging up the blood.

They had just laid out on the table a Russian carbineer, six feet in height at least; a ball had pierced his neck near the ear, and while the surgeon was asking for his little knives, a cavalry surgeon passed before the shed. He was short, stout, and badly pitted with the small-pox, and held a portfolio under his arm.

"Ha! Forel!" cried he cheerfully.

"It is Duchêne," said our surgeon, turning around. "How many wounded?"

"Seventeen to eighteen thousand." Our surgeon left the shed to chat with his comrade; they conversed tranquilly, while the assistants sat down to drink a cup of wine, and the Russian rolled his eyes despairingly.

"See, Duchêne; you have only to go down the street, opposite that well, do you see?"

" Very well indeed."

"Just opposite you will see the canteen."

"Very good; thank you; I am off."

He started, and our surgeon called after him--

"A good appetite to you, Duchêne!"

Then he returned to his Russian, whose neck he had laid open. He worked ill-humoredly, constantly scolding his aids.

{733}

The Russian writhed and groaned, but he paid no attention to that, and at last, throwing the bullet upon the ground, he bandaged up the wound, and cried, "Carry him off!"

They lifted the Russian from the table, and stretched him on a mattress beside the others; then they laid his neighbor upon the table.

I could not think that such horrors took place in the world; but I was yet to see worse than this.

At five or six beds from mine was an old corporal with his leg bound up. He closed one eye knowingly, and said to his neighbor, whose arm had just been cut off:

"Conscript, look at that heap! I will bet that you cannot recognize your arm."

The other, who had hitherto shown the greatest courage, looked, and fell back senseless.

Then the corporal began laughing, saying:

"He did recognize it. It always produces that effect."

He looked around self-approvingly, but: no one laughed with him.

Every moment the wounded called for water. When one began, all followed, and the old soldier had certainly conceived a liking for me, for each time he passed, he presented the cup.

I did not remain in the shed more than an hour. A dozen ambulances drew up before the door, and the peasants of the country round, in their velvet jackets and large black, slouched hats, their whips on their shoulders, held the horses by the reins. A picket of hussars arrived soon after, and their officer dismounting, entered and said:

"Excuse me, major, but here is an order to escort twelve wagons of wounded as far as Lutzen. Is it here that we are to receive them?" '"Yes, it is here," replied the surgeon.

The peasants and the ambulance-drivers, after giving us a last draught of wine, began carrying us to the wagons. As one was filled, it departed, and another advanced. They had given us our great-coats; but despite them and the sun, which was shining brightly, we shivered with cold. No one spoke; each was too much occupied thinking of himself.

At moments I was terribly cold; then flashes of heat would dart through me, and flush me as in fever; and indeed it was the beginning of the fever. But as we left Kaya, I was yet well; I saw everything clearly, and it was not till we neared Leipsic that I felt indeed sick. The hussars rode beside us, smoking and chatting, paying no attention to us.

In passing through Kaya, I saw all the horrors of war. The village was but a mass of cinders; the roofs had fallen, and the walls alone remained standing; the rafters were broken; we could see the remnants of rooms, stairs, and doors heaped within. The poor villagers, women, children, and old men, came and went with sorrowful faces. We could see them going up and down in their houses; and in one we saw a mirror yet hanging unbroken, showing where dwelt a young girl in time of peace.

Ah! who of them could foresee that their happiness would so soon be destroyed, not by the fury of the winds or the wrath of heaven, but by the rage of man!

Even the cattle and pigeons seemed seeking their lost homes among the ruins; the oxen and the goats scattered through the streets, lowed and bleated plaintively. At the last house an old man, with flowing white hair, sat at the threshold of what had been his cottage, with a child upon his knees, glaring on us as we passed. His furrowed brow and stony eyes spoke of despair. {734} How many years of labor, of patient economy, had he passed to make sure a quiet old age! Now all was crushed, ruined; the child and he had no longer a roof to cover their heads.

And those great trenches--fully a mile of them--at which the country people were working in such haste, to keep the plague from completing the work war began! I saw them, too, from the top of the hill of Kaya, and turned away my eyes, horror-stricken. Russians, French, Prussians were there heaped pell-mell, as if God had made them to love each other before the invention of arms and uniforms, which divide them for the profit of those who rule them. There they lay, side by side; and those of them who could not die knew no more of war, but cursed the crimes that had for centuries kept them apart.

But what was sadder yet, was the long line of ambulances, bearing the agonized wounded--those of whom they speak so much in the bulletins to make the loss seem less, and who die by thousands in the hospitals, far from all they love; while at their homes cannon are firing, and church-bells are ringing with joyous chimes of victory.

At length we reached Lutzen, but it was so full of wounded that we were obliged to continue on to Leipsic. Fatigue and weariness overpowered me, and I fell asleep, and only awoke when I felt myself lifted from the ambulance. It was night, the sky seemed covered with stars, and innumerable lights shone from an immense edifice before us. It was the hospital of the market-place at Leipsic.

The two men who were carrying me ascended a spiral stairway which led to an immense hall, where beds were laid together in three lines, so close that they touched each other. On one of these beds I was placed, in the midst of oaths, cries for pity, and muttered complaints from hundreds of fever-stricken wounded. The windows were open, and the flames of the lanterns flickered in the gusts of wind. Surgeons, assistants, and nurses came and went, while the groans from the halls below, and the rolling of ambulances, cracking of whips and neighing of horses without, seemed to pierce my very brain. While they were undressing me, they handled me roughly, and my wound pained me so horribly that I could not avoid shrieking. A surgeon came up at once, and scolded them for not being more careful. That is all I remember that night; for I became delirious, and raved constantly of Catharine, Monsieur Goulden, and Aunt Grédel, as my neighbor, an old artilleryman, whom my cries prevented from sleeping, afterward told me. I awoke the next morning at about eight o'clock, and then learned that I had the bone of my left shoulder broken. I lay in the middle of a dozen surgeons; one of them a stout, dark man, whom they called Monsieur the Baron, was opening my bandages, while an assistant at the foot of the bed held a basin of warm water. The baron examined my wound; all the others bent forward to hear what he might say. He spoke a few moments, but all that I could understand was, that the ball had struck from below, breaking the bone and passing out behind. The surgeon, passing to another bed, cried:

"What! You here again, old fellow?"

"Yes; it is I, Monsieur the Baron," replied the artilleryman, proud to be recognized; "the first time was at Austerlitz, the second at Jena, and then I received two thrusts of a lance at Smolensk."

{735}

"Yes, yes," said the surgeon kindly; "and now what is the matter with you?"

"Three sabre-cuts on my left arm while I was defending my piece from the Prussians."

The surgeon unwound the bandage, and asked:

"Have you the cross?"

"No, Monsieur the Baron."

"What is your name?"

"Christian Zunnier, second _artillerie-a-cheval._"

"Very good!"

He dressed the wounds, and went to the next, saying,

"You will soon be well."

The old artilleryman's heart seemed overflowing with joy; and, as I concluded from his name that he came from Alsace, I spoke to him in our language, at which he was still more rejoiced. He called me _Josephel_, and said:

"Josephel, be careful how you swallow the medicines they give you, only take what you know. All that does not taste well is good for nothing. If they would give us a bottle of _Rikevir_ every day, we would soon be well."

When I told him I was afraid of dying of the fever, he laughed long and loud, and said:

"Josephel, you are a fool. Do you think that such tall fellows as you and I were born to die in a hospital? No, no; drive the idea from your head."

But he spoke in vain, for every morning the surgeons, making their rounds, found seven or eight dead. Some died in fevers, some in a deadly chill; so that heat or cold might be the presage of death.

Zunnier said that all this proceeded from the evil drugs which the doctors invented. "Do you see that tall, thin fellow?" he asked. "Well, that man can boast of having killed more men than a field-piece; he is always primed, with his match lighted; and that little brown fellow--I would send him instead of the emperor to the Russians and Prussians; he would kill more of them than a _corps d'armée_."

He would have made me laugh with his jokes if the litters were not constantly passing.

At the end of three weeks my shoulder had begun to heal, and Zunnier's wounds were also doing well, and they allowed us to walk in the large garden, full of elms, behind the hospital. There were benches under the trees, and we walked the paths like millionaires in our gray great-coats and forage-caps. The increasing heat presaged a fine year, and often, when looking at the beautiful scenery around, I thought of Phalsbourg, and the tears came to my eyes.

"I would like to know what makes you cry so," said Zunnier. "Instead of catching a fever in the hospital, or losing a leg or arm, like hundreds of others, here we are quietly seated in the shade; we are well fed, and can smoke when we have any tobacco; and still you cry. What more do you want, Josephel?"

Then I told him of Catharine; of our walks at Quatre-Vents; of our promises; of all my former life, which then seemed a dream. He listened, smoking his pipe.

"Yes, yes," said he; "all this is very sad. Before the conscription of 1798, I too was going to marry a girl of our village, who was named Margrédel, and whom I loved better than all the world beside. We had promised to marry each other; and all through the campaign of Zurich, I never passed a day without thinking of her. But when I first received a furlough and reached home, what did I hear? Margrédel had been three months married to a shoemaker, named Passauf.

{736}

"You may imagine my wrath, Josephel; I could not see clearly; I wanted to demolish everything; and, as they told me that Passauf was at the _Grand-Cerf_ brewery, thither I started, looking neither to the right nor left. There I saw him drinking with three or four other rogues. As I rushed forward, he cried, 'There comes Christian Zunnier! How goes it, Christian! Margrédel sends you her compliments.' I seized a glass which I hurled at his head, and broke to pieces, saying, 'Give her that for my wedding present, you beggar!' The others, seeing their friend thus maltreated, very naturally fell upon me. I knocked two of three of them over with a jug, jumped on a table, sprang through a window, and beat a retreat."

"It was time," I thought

"But that was not all," he continued, "I had scarcely reached my mother's when the gendarmerie arrived, and they arrested me. They put me on a wagon and conducted me from my brigade to my regiment, which was at Strasbourg. I remained six weeks at Finckmatt, and would probably have received the ball and chain, if we did not have to cross the Rhine to Hohenlinden.

"From that day, Josephel, the thought of marriage never troubled me. Don't talk to me of a soldier who has a wife to think of. Look at our generals who are married, do they fight as they used to?"

I could not answer, for I did not know; but day after day I waited anxiously to hear from home, and my joy can be more easily imagined than described when, one day, a large, square letter was handed me. I recognized Monsieur Goulden's handwriting.

"Well," said Zunnier, laughing, "it is come at last."

I did not answer, but thrust the letter in my pocket, to read it at leisure and alone. I went to the end of the garden and opened it. Two or three apple-blossoms dropped upon the ground, with an order for money, on which Monsieur Goulden had written a few words. But what touched me most was the handwriting of Catharine, which I gazed at without reading a word, while my heart beat as if about to burst through my bosom. At last I grew a little calmer and read:

"My Dear Joseph: I write you to tell you I yet love you alone, and that, day by day, I love you more.

"My greatest grief is to know that you are wounded, in a hospital, and that I cannot take care of you. Since the conscripts departed, we have not had a moment's peace of mind. My mother says I am silly to weep night and day, but she weeps as much as I, and her wrath falls heavily on Pinacle, who scarcely now dares come to the market-place. When we heard the battle had taken place, and that thousands of men had fallen, mother ran every morning to the post-office, while I could not move from the house. At last your letter came, thank heaven! to cheer us. We hope now to see you again, but God's will be done.

"Many people talk of peace, but the emperor so loves war, that I fear it is far off.

"Now, Monsieur Goulden wishes to say a few words to you, so I will close. The weather is beautiful here, and the great apple-tree in the garden is full of flowers; I have plucked a few, which I send in this letter. God bless you, Joseph, and farewell!"

{737}

As I finished reading this, Zunnier arrived, and in my joy, I said:

"Sit down, Zunnier, and I will read you my sweetheart's letter. You will see whether she is a Margrédel."

"Let me light my pipe first," he answered; and having done so, he added: "Go on, Josephel, but I warn you that I am an old bird, and do not believe all I hear; women are more cunning than we."

Notwithstanding this bit of philosophy, I read Catharine's letter slowly to him. When I had ended, he took it, and for a long time gazed at it dreamily, and then handed it back, saying:

"There! Josephel. She is a good girl, and a sensible one, and will never marry any one but you."

"Do you really think so?"

"Yes; you may rely upon her; she will never marry a Passauf. I would rather distrust the emperor than such a girl."

I could have embraced Zunnier for these words; but I said:

"I have received a bill for one hundred francs. Now for some white wine of Alsace. Let us try to get out."

"That is well thought of," said he, twisting his mustache and putting his pipe in his pocket. "I do not like to mope in a garden when there are taverns outside. We must get permission."

We arose joyfully and went to the hospital, when the letter-carrier, coming out, stopped Zunnier, saying:

"Are you Christian Zunnier, of the second _artillerie-à-cheval_?"

"I have that honor, monsieur the carrier."

"Well, here is something for you," said the other, handing him a little package and a large letter.

Zunnier was stupified, never having received anything from home or from anywhere else. He opened the packet--a box appeared--then the box--and saw the cross of honor. He became pale; his eyes filled with tears, he staggered against a balustrade, and then shouted "_Vive l'Empereur!_" in such tones that the three halls rang and rang again.

The carrier looked on smiling.

"You are satisfied," said he.

"Satisfied! I need but one thing more."

"And what is that?"

"Permission to go to the city."

"You must ask Monsieur Tardieu, the surgeon in chief."

He went away laughing, while we ascended arm-in-arm, to ask permission of the surgeon-major, an old man, who had heard the "_Vive l'Empereur!_" and demanded gravely:

"What is the matter?"

Zunnier showed his cross and replied:

"Pardon, major; but I am more than usually merry."

"I can easily believe you," said Monsieur Tardieu; "you want a pass to the city?"

"If you will be so good; for myself and my comrade, Joseph Bertha."

The surgeon had examined my wound the day before. He took out his portfolio and gave us passes. We sallied forth as proud as kings--Zunnier of his cross, I, of my letter.

XVI.

I walked dreamily through the streets, led by Zunnier, who recognized every corner, and kept repeating:

"There--there is the church of Saint Nicholas; that large building is the university; that on yonder is the _Hôtel de Ville_."

He seemed to remember every stone, having been there in 1807, before the battle of Friedland, and continued:

{738}

"We are the same here as if we were in Metz, or Strasbourg, or any other city in France. The people wish us well. After the campaign of 1806, they used to do all they could for us. The citizens would take three or four of us at a time to dinner with them. They even gave us balls, and called us the heroes of Jena. Let us go in somewhere and see how they will treat us. We named their elector King of Saxony, and gave him a good slice of Poland."

Suddenly he stopped before a little, low door, and cried:

"Hold! Here is the Golden Sheep Brewery. The front is on the other street, but we can enter here. Come!"

I followed him into a narrow, winding passage, which led to an old court, surrounded by rubble walls. To the right was the brewery, and in a corner a great wheel, turned by an enormous dog, which pumped the beer to every story of the house.

The clinking of glasses was heard coming from a room which opened on the Rue de Tilly. The sweet smell of the new March beer filled the air, and Zunnier, with a look of satisfaction, cried:

"Yes, here I came six years ago with Ferré and Rousillon. Poor Rousillon! he left his bones at Smolensk; and Ferré must now be at home in his village, for he lost a leg at Wagram."

At the same time he pushed open the door, and we entered a lofty hall, full of smoke. I saw, through the thick, gray atmosphere, a long row of tables, surrounded by men drinking--the greater number in short coats and little caps, the remainder in the Saxon uniform. They were mostly students, and the oldest of them--a tall, withered-looking man, with a red nose and long flaxen beard, stained with beer--was standing upon a table, reading the gazette aloud. He held the paper in one hand, and in the other a long porcelain pipe. His comrades, with their long, light hair falling upon their shoulders, were listening with the deepest interest; and as we entered, they shouted "_Vaterland! Vaterland!_"

They touched glasses with the Saxon soldiers, while the tall student bent over to take up his glass, and the round, fat brewer cried:

"_Gesundheit! Gesundheit!_"

Scarcely had we made half a dozen steps toward them, when they became silent.

"Come, come, comrades!" cried Zunnier, "don't disturb yourselves. Go on reading. We do not object to hear the news."

But they did not seem inclined to profit by our invitation, and the reader descended from the table, folding up his paper, which he put in his pocket.

"It is finished," said he, "it is finished."

"Yes; it is finished," repeated the others, looking at each other with a peculiar expression.

Two or three of the soldiers rose and left the room, and the fat landlord said:

"You do not perhaps know that the large hall is on the Rue de Tilly?"

"Yes; we know it very well," replied Zunnier; "but I like this little hall better. Here I used to come, long ago, with two old comrades, to empty a few glasses in honor of Jena and Auerstaedt. I know this room of old."

"Ah! as you please, as you please," returned the landlord. "Do you wish some March beer?"

"Yes; two glasses and the gazette."

"Very good."

{739}

The glasses were handed us, and Zunnier, who observed nothing, tried to open a conversation with the students; but they excused themselves, and, one after another, went out. I saw that they hated us, but dared not show it.

The gazette spoke of an armistice, after two new victories at Bautzen and Wurtschen. This armistice commenced on the sixth of June, and a conference was then being held at Prague, in Bohemia, to arrange on terms of peace. All this naturally gave me pleasure. I thought of again seeing home. But Zunnier, with his habit of thinking aloud, filled the hall with his reflections, and interrupted me at every line.

"An armistice!" he cried. "Do we want an armistice, after having beaten those Prussians and Russians three times? We should annihilate them! Would they give us an armistice if they had beaten us? There, Joseph, you see the emperor's character--he is too good. It is his only fault. He did the same thing after Austerlitz, and we had to begin over again. I tell you, he is too good and if he were not so, we should have been masters of Europe."

As he spoke, he looked around as if seeking assent; but the students scowled, and no one replied.

At last Zunnier rose.

"Come, Joseph," said he; "I know nothing of politics, but I insist that we should give no armistice to those beggars. When they are down, we should keep them there."

After we had paid our reckoning, and were once more in the street, he continued:

"I do not know what was the matter with those people to-day. We must have disturbed them in something."

"It is very possible," I replied. "They certainly did not seem like the good-natured folks you were speaking of."

"No," said he. "The students, long ago, used to pass their time drinking with us. We sang _Fanfan la Tulipe_ and 'King Dagobert' together, which are not political songs, you know. But these fellows are good for nothing."

I knew, afterward, that those students were members of the _Tugend-Bund_. No wonder they hated Frenchmen!

On returning to the hospital, we learned that we were to go, that same evening, to the barracks of _Rosenthal_--a sort of depot for wounded, near Lutzen, where the roll was called morning and evening, but where, at all other times, we were at liberty to do as we pleased. We often strolled through the town; but the citizens now slammed their doors in our faces, and the tavern-keepers not only refused to give us credit, but attempted to charge double and triple for what we got. But my comrade could not be cheated. He knew the price of everything as well as any Saxon among them. Often we stood on the bridge and gazed at the thousand branches of the Pleisse and the Elster, glowing red in the light of the setting sun, little thinking that we should one day cross those rivers after losing the bloodiest of battles, and that whole regiments would be submerged in the glittering waters beneath us.

But the ill-feeling of the people toward us was shown in a thousand forms. The day after the conclusion of the armistice, we went together to bathe in the Elster, and Zunnier, seeing a peasant approaching, cried:

"Holloa! comrade! Is there any danger here?"

"No. Go in boldly," replied the man.

{740}

Zunnier, mistrusting nothing, walked fifteen or eighteen feet out. He was a good swimmer, but his left arm was yet weak, and the strength of the current carried him away so quickly that he could not even catch the branches of the willows which hung over him; and were it not that he was carried to a ford, where he gained a footing, he would have been swept between two muddy islands, and certainly lost.

The peasant stood to see the effect of his advice. I rushed at him, but he laughed, and ran, quicker than I could follow him, to the city. Zunnier was wild with wrath, and wished to pursue him to Counewitz; but how could we find him among four or five hundred houses?

Returning to Leipsic, we saw joy painted on the countenances of the inhabitants. It did not display itself openly; but the citizens, meeting, would shake hands with an air of huge satisfaction, and the general rejoicing glistened even in the eyes of servants and the poorest workmen.

Zunnier said: "These Germans seem to be merry about something. They do not always look so good-natured."

"Yes," I replied; "their good humor comes from the fine weather and good harvest."

But when we reached the barracks, we found some of our officers at the gate, talking eagerly together, and then we learned the cause of so much joy. The conference at Prague was broken off, and Austria, too, was about to declare war against us, which gave us two hundred thousand more men to take care of.

The day after, twelve hundred wounded were ordered to rejoin their corps. Zunnier was of the number--I accompanied him to the gates. My arm was yet too weak for duty. My existence was them sad enough, for I formed no more close friendships, and when, on the first of October, the old surgeon, Tardieu, gave me my orders to march, telling me I was fully recovered, I felt almost relived.

XVII.

It was about five o'clock in the evening, and we were approaching the village of Risa, when we descried an old mill, with its wooden bridge, over which a bridle-path ran. We struck off from the road and took this path, to make a short cut to the village, when we heard cries and shrieks for help, and, at the same moment, two women, one old, and the other somewhat younger, ran across a garden, dragging two children with them. They were trying to gain a little wood which bordered the road, and, at the same moment, we saw several of our soldiers come out of the mill with sacks, while others came up from a cellar with little casks, which they hastened to place on a cart standing near; still others were driving cows and horses from a stable, while an old man stood at the door, with uplifted hands, as if imprecating Heaven's malison upon them.

"There," cried the quartermaster, who commanded our party, an old soldier named Poitevin, "there are fellows pillaging. We are not far from the army."

"But that is horrible!" I cried. "They are robbers."

"Yes," returned the quartermaster coolly; "it is contrary to discipline, and if the emperor knew of it, they would be shot like dogs."

We crossed the little bridge, and found the thieves crowded around a cask which they had pierced, passing around the cup. This sight roused the quartermaster's indignation, and he cried:

{741}

"On what authority do you commit this pillage?"

Several turned their heads, but seeing that we were but three, for the rest of our party had gone on, one of them replied:

"Ha! what do you want, old joker? A little of the spoil, I suppose. But you need not curl up your mustaches on that account. Here, drink a drop."

The speaker held out the cup, and the quartermaster took it and drank, looking at me as he did so.

"Well, young man," said he., "will you have some, too? It is famous wine, this."

"No, I thank you," I replied.

Several of the pillaging party now cried:

"Hurry, there it is time to get back to camp."

"No, no," replied others; "there is more to be had here."

"Comrades," said the quartermaster, in a tone of gentle reproof and warning, "you know, comrades, you must go gently about it."

"Yes, yes, old fellow," replied a drum-major, with half-closed eyes, and a mocking smile; "do not be alarmed; we will pluck the chicken according to rule. We will take care; we will take care."

The quartermaster said no more, but seemed ashamed on my account. He remained in a meditative mood for some time after we started to overtake our companions, and, at length, said deprecatingly:

"What would you have, young man? War is war. One cannot see himself starving, with food at hand."

He was afraid I would report him; he would have remained with the pillagers but for the fear of being captured. I replied, to relieve his mind:

"Those are probably good fellows, but the sight of a cup of wine makes them forget everything."

At length, about ten o'clock, we saw the bivouac fires, on a gloomy hill-side. Further on, in the plain, a great number of other fires were burning. The night was clear, and as we approached the bivouac, the sentry challenged:

"Who goes there?"

"France!" replied the quartermaster.

My heart beat, as I thought that, in a few moments, I should again meet my old comrades, if they were yet in the world.

Two men of the guard came forward to reconnoitre us. The commandant of the post, a gray-haired _sous-lieutenant_, his arm in a sling under his cloak, asked us whence we came, whither we were going, and whether we had met any parties of Cossacks on our route. The quartermaster answered. The lieutenant informed us that Sonham's division had that morning left them, and ordered us to follow him, that he might examine our marching-papers, which we did in silence, passing among the bivouac fires, around which men, covered with dried mud, were sleeping, in groups of twenty. Not one moved.

We arrived at the officers' quarters. It was an old brick-kiln, with an immense roof, resting on posts driven into the ground. A large fire was burning in it, and the air was agreeably warm. Around it soldiers were sleeping, with happy faces, and near the posts stacks of arms shone in the light of the flames. One bronzed old veteran watched alone, seated on the ground, and mending a shoe with a needle and thread.

The officer handed me back my paper first, saying:

"You will rejoin your battalion tomorrow, two leagues hence, near Torgau."

{742}

Then the old soldier, looking at me, placed his hand upon the ground, to show that there was room beside him, and I seated myself. I opened my knapsack, and put on new stockings and shoes which I had brought from Leipsic, after which I felt much better.

The old man asked:

"You are rejoining your corps?"

"Yes; the sixth at Torgau."

"And you came from--"

"The hospital at Leipsic."

"That is easily seen," said he; "you are fat as a beadle. They fed you on chickens down there, while we were eating cow-beef."

I looked around at my sleeping neighbors. He was right; the poor conscripts were mere skin and bone. They were bronzed as veterans, and scarcely seemed able to stand.

The old man, in a moment, continued his train of questions:

"You were wounded?"

"Yes; at Lutzen."

"Four months in the hospital!" said he whistling; "what luck! I have just returned from Spain, flattering myself that I was going to meet the _Kaiserliks_ of 1807 once more--sheep, regular sheep--but they have become worse than guerrillas. Things are spoiling."

He said the most of this to himself, without according me much of his attention, all the while sewing his shoe, which from time to time he tried on, to be sure that the sewn part would not hurt his foot. At last he put the thread in his knapsack and the shoe upon his foot, and stretched himself upon a truss of straw.

I was too fatigued to sleep at once, and for an hour lay awake.

In the morning I set out again with the quartermaster Poitevin, and three other soldiers of Sonham's division. Our route lay along the bank of the Elbe; the weather was wet and the wind swept fiercely over the river, throwing the spray far on the land.

We hastened on for an hour, when suddenly the quartermaster cried:

"Attention!"

He had halted suddenly, and stood listening. We could hear nothing but the sighing of the wind through the trees, and the splash of the waves; but his ear was finer than ours.

"They are skirmishing yonder," said he, pointing to a wood on our right. "The enemy may be toward us, and the best thing we can do is to enter the wood and pursue our route cautiously. We can see at the other end of it what is going on; and if the Prussians or Russians are there, we can beat a retreat without their perceiving us."

We all thought the quartermaster was right; and, in my heart, I admired the shrewdness of the old drunkard, for such he was. We kept on toward the wood, Poitevin leading, and the others following, with our pieces cocked. We marched slowly, stopping every hundred paces to listen. The shots grew nearer; they were fired at intervals, and the quartermaster said:

"They are sharp-shooters reconnoitering a body of cavalry, for the firing is all on one side."

It was true. In a few moments we perceived, through the trees, a battalion of French infantry, about to make their soup, and in the distance, on the plain beyond, platoons of Cossacks defiling from one village to another. A few skirmishers along the edge of the wood were firing on them, but they were almost beyond musket-range.

"There are your people, young man," said Poitevin. "You are at home."

{743}

He had good eyes to read the number of a regiment at such a distance. I could only see ragged soldiers with their cheeks and famine-glistening eyes. Their great-coats were twice too large for them, and fell in folds along their bodies like cloaks. I say nothing of the mud; it was everywhere. No wonder the Germans were gleeful, even after our victories.

We went toward a couple of little tents, before which three or four horses were nibbling the scanty grass. I saw Colonel Lorain, who now commanded the third battalion--a tall, thin man, with brown mustaches and a fierce air. He looked at me frowningly, and when I showed my papers, only said:

"Go and rejoin your company."

I started off, thinking that I would recognize some of the Fourth; but, since Lutzen, companies had been so mingled with companies, regiments with regiments, and divisions with divisions, that, on arriving at the camp of the grenadiers, I knew no one. The men seeing me approach, looked distrustfully at me, as if to say:

"Does _he_ want some of our beef? Let us see what he brings to the pot!"

I was almost ashamed to ask for my company, when a bony veteran, with a nose long and pointed like an eagle's beak, and a worn-out coat hanging from his shoulders, lifting his head, and gazing at me, said quietly:

"Hold! It is Joseph. I thought he was buried four months ago."

Then I recognized my poor Zébédé. My appearance seemed to affect him, for, without rising, he squeezed my hand, crying: "Klipfel! here is Joseph!" Another soldier, seated near a pot, turned his head, saying:

"It is you, Joseph, is it? Then you were not killed."

This was all my welcome. Misery had made them so selfish that they thought only of themselves. But Zébédé was always good-hearted; he made me sit near him, throwing a glance at the others that commanded respect, and offered me his spoon, which he had fastened to the button-hole of his coat. I thanked him, and produced from my knapsack a dozen sausages, a good loaf of bread, and a flask of _eau-de-vie_, which I had the foresight to purchase at Risa. I handed a couple of the sausages to Zébédé, who took them with tears in his eyes. I was also going to offer some to the others; but he put his hand on my arm, saying:

"What is good to eat is good to keep."

We retired from the circle and ate, drinking at the same time; the rest of the soldiers said nothing, but looked wistfully at us. Klipfel, smelling the sausages, turned and said:

"Hollo! Joseph! Come and eat with us. Comrades are always comrades, you know."

"That is all very well," said Zébédé; "but I find meat and drink the best comrades."

He shut up my knapsack himself, saying:

"Keep that, Joseph. I have not been so well regaled for more than a month. You shall not lose it."

A half-hour after, the recall was beaten; the skirmishers came in, and Sergeant Pinto, who was among the number, recognized me, and said:

"Well; so you have escaped! But you came back in an evil moment! Things go wrong--wrong!"

{744}

The colonel and commandants mounted, and we began moving. The Cossacks withdrew. We marched with arms at will; Zébédé was at my side and related all that passed since Lutzen; the great victories of Bautzen and Wurtzen; the forced marches to overtake the retreating enemy; the march on Berlin; then the armistice, the arrival of the veterans of Spain--men accustomed to pillaging and living on the peasantry.

Unfortunately, at the close of the armistice, all were against us. The country people looked on us with horror; they cut the bridges down, and kept the Russians and Prussians informed of all our movements. It rained almost constantly, and the day of the battle of Dresden, it fell so heavily that the emperor's hat hung down upon his shoulders. But when victorious, we only laughed at these things. Zébédé told me all this in detail; how after the victory at Dresden, General Vandamme, who was to cut off the retreat of the Austrians, had penetrated to Kulm in his ardor; and how those whom we had beaten the day before fell upon him on all sides, front, flank, and rear, and captured him and several other generals, utterly destroying his _corps d'armée_. Two days before, owing to a false movement of Marshal Macdonald, the enemy had surprised our division, and the fifth, sixth, and eleventh corps on the heights of Luwenberg, and in the _mélée_ Zébédé received two blows from the butt of a grenadier's musket, and was thrown into the river Katzbach. Luckily he seized the over-hanging branch of a tree, and managed to regain the bank. He told me how all that night, despite the blood that flowed from his nose and ears, he had marched to the village of Goldberg, almost dead with hunger, fatigue, and his wounds, and how a joiner had taken pity upon him and given him bread, onions, and water. He told me how, on the day following, they had marched across the fields, each one taking his own course, without orders, because the marshals, generals, and all mounted officers had fled as far as possible, in the fear of being captured. He assured me that fifty hussars could have captured them, one after another; but that by good fortune, Blücher could not cross the river, so that they finally rallied at Wolda, and further on at Buntzlau their officers met them, surprised at yet having troops to lead. He told me how Marshal Oudinot and Marshal Ney had been beaten; the first at Gross-Beeren, and the other at Dennewitz.

We were between three armies, who were uniting to crush us; that of the north, commanded by Bernadotte; that of Silesia, commanded by Blücher; and the army of Bohemia, commanded by Schwartzenberg. We marched in turn against each of them; they feared the emperor and retreated before us; but we could not be at once in Silesia and Bohemia, so march followed march, and countermarch, countermarch. All the men asked was to fight; they wanted their misery to end. A sort of guerrilla, named Thielmann, raised the peasantry against us, and the Bavarians and Wurtemburgers declared against us. We had all Europe on our hands.

On the fourteenth of October, our battalion was detached to reconnoitre the village of Aken. The enemy were in force there and received us with a scattering artillery fire, and we remained all night without being able to light a fire, on account of the pouring rain. The next day we set out to rejoin our division by forced marches. Every one said, I know not why:

"The battle is approaching! the fight is coming on!"

{745}

Sergeant Pinto declared that he felt the emperor in the air. I felt nothing, but I knew that we were marching on Leipsic. The night following, the weather cleared up a little, millions of stars shone out, and we still kept on. The next day, about ten o'clock, near a little village whose name I cannot recollect, we were ordered to halt, and then we heard a trembling in the air. The colonel and Sergeant Pinto said:

"The battle has begun!" and at the same moment, the colonel, waving his sword, cried:

"Forward!"

We started at a run, and half an hour after saw, at a few thousand paces ahead, a long column, in which followed artillery, cavalry, and infantry, one upon the other; behind us, on the road to Duben, we saw another, all pushing forward at their utmost speed. Regiments were even hastening across the fields.

At the end of the road we could see the two spires of the churches of Saint Nicholas and Saint Thomas in Leipsic, rising amidst great clouds of smoke through which broad flashes were darting. The noise increased; we were yet more than a league from the city, but were forced to almost shout to hear each other, and men gazed around, pale as death, seeming by their looks to say:

"This is indeed a battle!"

Sergeant Pinto cried that it was worse than Eylau. He laughed no more, nor did Zébédé; but on, on we rushed, officers incessantly urging us forward. We seemed to grow delirious; the love of country was indeed striving within us, but still greater was the furious eagerness for the fight.

At eleven o'clock, we descried the battle-field, about a league in front of Leipsic. We saw the steeples and roofs of the city crowded with people, and the old ramparts on which I had walked so often, thinking of Catharine. Opposite us, twelve or fifteen hundred yards distant, two regiments of red lancers were drawn up, and a little to the left, two or three regiments of _chasseurs-à-cheval_, and between them filed the long column from Duben. Further on, along a slope, were the divisions Ricard, Dombrowski, Sonham, and several others, with their rear to the city; and far behind, on a hill, around one of those old farm-houses with flat roofs and immense outlying sheds, so often seen in that country, glittered the brilliant uniforms of the staff.

It was the army of reserve, commanded by Ney. His left wing communicated with Marmont, who was posted on the road to Halle, and his right with the grand army, commanded by the emperor in person. In this manner our troops formed an immense circle around Leipsic; and the enemy, arriving from all points, sought to join their divisions so as to form a yet larger circle around us, and to inclose us in Leipsic as in a trap.

While we waited thus, three fearful battles were going on at once; one against the Austrians and Russians at Wachau; another against the Prussians at Mockern on the road to Halle; and the third on the road to Lutzen, to defend the bridge of Lindenau, attacked by General Giulay.

XVIII.

The battalion was commencing to descend the hill, opposite Leipsic, when we saw a staff-officer crossing the plain beneath, and coming at full gallop toward us. In two minutes he was with us; Colonel Lorain had spurred forward to meet him; they exchanged a few words, and the officer returned. Hundreds of others were rushing over the plain in the same manner, bearing orders.

{746}

"Head of column to the right!" shouted the colonel.

We took the direction of a wood, which skirts the Duben road some half a league. Once at its borders, we were ordered to re-prime our guns, and the battalion was deployed through the wood as skirmishers. We advanced, twenty-five paces apart, and each of us kept his eyes well opened, as may be imagined. Every minute Sergeant Pinto would cry out:

"Get under cover!"

But he did not need to warn us; each one hastened to take his post behind a stout tree, to reconnoitre well before proceeding to another. We kept on in this manner some ten minutes, and, as we saw nothing, began to grow confident, when suddenly, one, two, three shots rang out. Then they came from all sides, and rattled from end to end of our line. At the same instant I saw my comrade on the left fall, trying, as he sank to the earth, to support himself by the trunk of the tree behind which he was standing. This roused me. I looked to the right and saw, fifty or sixty paces off, an old Prussian soldier, with his long red mustaches covering the lock of his piece; he was aiming deliberately at me. I fell at once to the ground, and at the same moment heard the report. It was a close escape, for the comb, brush, and handkerchief in my shako were broken and torn by the bullet. A cold shiver ran through me.

"Well done! a miss is as good as a mile!" cried the old sergeant, starting forward at a run, and I, who had no wish to remain longer in such a place, followed with right good-will.

Lieutenant Bretonville, waving his sabre, cried, "Forward!" while, to the right, the firing still continued. We soon arrived at a clearing, where lay five or six trunks of felled trees, but not one standing, that might serve us for a cover. Nevertheless, five or six of our men advanced boldly, when the sergeant called out:

"Halt! The Prussians are in ambush around. Look sharp!"

Scarcely had he spoken, when a dozen bullets whistled through the branches, and, at the same time, a number of Prussians rose, and plunged deeper into the forest opposite.

"There they go! Forward!" cried Pinto.

But the bullet in my shako had rendered me cautious; it seemed as if I could almost see through the trees, and, as the sergeant started forth into the clearing, I held his arm, pointing out to him the muzzle of a musket peeping out from a bush, not a hundred paces before us. The others, clustering around, saw it too, and Pinto whispered,

"Stay, Bertha; remain here, and do not lose sight of him, while we turn the position."

They set off to the right and left, and I, behind my tree, my piece at my shoulder, waited like a hunter for his game. At the end of two or three minutes, the Prussian, hearing nothing, rose slowly. He was quite a boy, with little blonde mustaches, and a tall, slight, but well-knit figure. I could have killed him as he stood, but the thought of thus slaying a defenceless man froze my blood. Suddenly he saw me, and bounded aside. Then I fired, and breathed more freely as I saw him running, like a stag, toward the wood.

At the same moment, five or six reports rang out to the right and left; the sergeant, Zébédé, Klipfel, and the rest appeared, and a hundred paces further on, we found the young Prussian upon the ground, blood gushing from his mouth. He gazed at us with a scared expression, raising his arms, as if to parry bayonet-thrusts, but the sergeant called gleefully to him:

{747}

"Fear nothing! Your account is settled."

No one offered to injure him further but Klipfel took a beautiful pipe, which was hanging out of his pocket, saying:

"For a long time I have wanted a pipe, and here is a fine one."

"Fusilier Klipfel!" cried Pinto indignantly, "will you be good enough to put back that pipe? Leave it to the Cossacks to rob the wounded! A French soldier knows only honor!"

Klipfel threw down the pipe, and we departed, not one caring to look back at the wounded Prussian. We arrived at the edge of the forest, outside which, among tufted bushes, the Prussians we pursued had taken refuge. We saw them rise to fire upon us, but they immediately lay down again. We might have remained there tranquilly, since we had orders to occupy the wood, and the shots of the Prussians could not hurt us, protected as we were by the trees. On the other side of the slope we heard a terrific battle going on; the thunder of cannon was increasing, it filled the air with one continuous roar. But our officers held a council, and decided that the bushes were part of the forest, and that the Prussians must be driven from them. This determination cost many a life.

We received orders, then, to drive in the enemy's tirailleurs, and as they fired as we came on, we started at a run, so as to be upon them before they could reload. Our officers ran, also, full of ardor. We thought the bushes ended at the top of the hill, and that then we could sweep off the Prussians by dozens. But scarcely had we arrived, out of breath, upon the ridge, when old Pinto cried:

"Hussars!"

I looked up, and saw the _Colbacks_ rushing down upon us like a tempest. Scarcely had I seen them, when I began to spring down the hill, going, I verily believe, in spite of weariness and my knapsack, fifteen feet at a bound. I saw before me, Pinto, Zébédé, and the others, making their best speed. Behind, on came the hussars, their officers shouting orders in German, their scabbards clanking and horses neighing. The earth shook beneath them.

I took the shortest road to the wood, and had almost reached it, when I came upon one of the trenches where the peasants were in the habit of digging clay for their houses. It was more than twenty feet wide, and forty or fifty long, and the rain had made the sides very slippery; but as I heard the very breathing of the horses behind me, without thinking of aught else, I sprang forward, and fell upon my face; another fusilier of my company was already there. We arose as soon as we could, and at the same instant two hussars glided down the slippery side of the trench. The first, cursing like a fiend, aimed a sabre-stroke at my poor comrade's head, but as he rose in his stirrups to give force to the blow, I buried my bayonet in his side, while the other brought down his blade upon my shoulder with such force, that, were it not for my epaulette, I believe that I had been well-nigh cloven in two. Then he lunged, but as his point touched my breast, a bullet from above crashed through his skull. I looked around, and saw one of our men, up to his knees in the clay. He had heard the oaths of the hussars and the neighing of the horses, and had come to the edge of the trench to see what was going on.

"Well, comrade," said he, laughing, "it was about time."

{748}

I had not strength to reply, but stood trembling like an aspen leaf. He unfixed his bayonet, and stretched the muzzle of his piece to me to help me out. Then I squeezed his hand, saying:

"You saved my life! What is your name?"

He told me that his name was Jean Pierre Vincent. I have often since thought that I should be only too happy to render that man any service in my power; but two days after, the second battle of Leipsic took place; then the retreat from Hanau began, and I never saw him again.

Sergeant Pinto and Zébédé came up a moment after. Zébédé said:

"We have escaped once more, Joseph, and now we are the only Phalsbourg men in the battalion. Klipfel was sabred by the hussars."

"Did you see?" I cried.

"Yes; he received over twenty wounds, and kept calling to me for aid." Then, after a moment's pause, he added, "O Joseph! it is terrible to hear the companion of your childhood calling for help, and not be able to give it! But they were too many. They surrounded him on ail sides."

The thoughts of home rushed upon both our minds. I thought I could see grandmother Klipfel when she would learn the news, and this made me think too of Catharine.

From the time of the charge of the hussars until night, the battalion remained in the same position, skirmishing with the Prussians. We kept them from occupying the wood; but they prevented us from ascending to the ridge. The next day we knew why. The hill commanded the entire course of the Partha, and the fierce cannonade we heard came from Dombrowski's division, which was attacking the Prussian left wing, in order to aid General Marmont at Mockern, where twenty thousand French, posted in a ravine, were holding eighty thousand of Blücher's troops in check; while toward Wachau a hundred and fifteen thousand French were engaged with two hundred thousand Austrians and Russians. More than fifteen hundred cannon were thundering at once. Our poor little fusilade was like the humming of a bee in a storm, and we sometimes ceased firing, on both sides, to listen. It seemed as if some supernatural, infernal battle were going on; the air was filled with smoke; the earth trembled beneath our feet; old soldiers like Pinto declared they had never seen anything like it.

About six o'clock, a staff-officer brought orders to Colonel Lorain, and immediately after a retreat was sounded. The battalion had lost sixty men.

It was night when we left the forest, and on the banks of the Partha among caissons, wagons, retreating divisions, ambulances filled with wounded, all defiling over the two bridges--we had to wait more than two hours for our turn to cross. The heavens were black; the artillery still growled afar off, but the three battles were ended. We heard that we had beaten the Austrians and the Russians at Wachau, on the other side of Leipsic; but our men returning from Mockern were downcast and gloomy; not a voice cried _Vive l'Empereur!_ as after a victory.

Once on the other side of the river, we marched on amid the din of the retreat from Mockern, and at length reached a burial-ground, where we were ordered to stack arms and break ranks.

{749}

By this time the sky had cleared, and I recognized Schoenfeld in the moonlight. How often had I eaten bread and drank white wine with Zunnier there at the Golden Sheaf when the sun shone brightly and the leaves were green around? But those times had passed! I sat against the cemetery wall, and at length fell asleep. About three o'clock in the morning, I was awakened.

It was Zébédé. "Joseph," said he, "come to the fire. If you remain here, you run the risk of catching the fever."

I arose, sick with fatigue and suffering. A fine rain filled the air. My comrade drew me toward the fire which smoked in the drizzling atmosphere; it seemed to give out no heat; but Zébédé having made me drink a draught of brandy, I felt at least less cold, and gazed at the bivouac fires on the other side of the Partha.

"The Prussians are warming themselves in our wood," said Zébédé.

"Yes," I replied; "and poor Klipfel is there too, but he no longer feels the cold."

My teeth chattered. These words saddened us both. A few moments after, Zébédé resumed:

"Do you remember, Joseph, the black ribbon he wore the day of the conscription, and how he cried that we were all condemned to death, like those who had gone to Russia?"

I thought how Pinacle had held out the black ribbon for me; and the remembrance, together with the cold, which seemed to freeze the very marrow in our bones, made me shudder. I thought Pinacle was right; that I had seen the last of home, and I cursed those who had forced me from it.

At day-break, wagons arrived with food and brandy for us. The rain had ceased; we made soup, but nothing could warm me; I had caught the fever. I was not the only one in the battalion in that condition; three fourths of the men were suffering from it; and, for a month before, those who could no longer march had lain down by the roadside weeping and calling upon their mothers like little children. Hunger, forced marches, the rain, and grief had done their work, and happy was it for the parents that they could not see the miserable end of their cherished sons.

As the light increased, we saw to the left, on the other side of the river, burnt villages, heaps of dead, abandoned wagons, and broken cannon, stretching as far as the eye could reach. It was worse than at Lutzen. We saw the Prussians deploy, and advance their thousands over the battle-field. They were to join with the Russians and Austrians and close the great circle around us, and we could not prevent them, especially as Bernadotte and the Russian General Benningsen had come up with twenty thousand fresh troops. Thus, after fighting three battles in one day, were we, only one hundred thousand strong, seemingly about to be entrapped in the midst of three hundred thousand bayonets, not to speak of fifty thousand horse and twelve hundred cannon.

From Schoenfeld, the battalion started to rejoin the division at Kohlgarten. All the roads were lined with slow-moving ambulances, filled with wounded; all the wagons of the country around had been impressed for this service; and, in the intervals between them, marched hundreds of poor fellows with their arms in slings, or their heads bandaged--pale, crestfallen, half dead.

We made our way, with a thousand difficulties, through this mass, when, near Kohlgarten, twenty hussars, galloping at full speed, and with levelled pistols, drove back the crowd, right and left, into the fields, shouting as they pressed on:

{750}

"The emperor! the emperor!"

The battalion drew up, and presented arms; and a few moments after, the _grenadiers-à-cheval_ of the guard--veritable giants, with their great boots, their immense bear-skin hats, descending to their shoulders and only allowing their mustaches, nose, and eyes to remain visible--passed at a gallop. Our men looked joyfully at them, glad that such robust warriors were on our side.

Scarcely had they passed, when the staff tore after. Imagine a hundred and fifty to two hundred marshals, generals, and other superior officers, mounted on magnificent steeds, and so covered with embroidery that the color of their uniforms was scarcely visible; some tall, thin, and haughty; others short, thick-set, and red-faced; others again young and handsome, sitting like statues in their saddles; all with eager look and flashing eyes. It was a magnificent and terrible sight. But the most striking figure among those captains, who for twenty years had made Europe tremble, was Napoleon himself, with his old hat and gray over-coat; his large, determined chin and neck buried between his shoulders. All shouted, "_Vive l'Empereur!_" but he heard nothing of it. He paid no more attention to us than to the drizzling rain which filled the air, but gazed with contracted brows at the Prussian army stretching along the Partha to join the Austrians.

"Did you see him, Joseph?" asked Zébédé.

"I did," I replied; "I saw him well, and I will remember the sight all my life."

"It is strange," said my comrade; "he does not seem to be pleased. At Wurzen, the day after the battle, he seemed rejoiced to hear our "_Vive l'Empereur!_' and the generals all wore merry faces too. To-day they seem savage, and nevertheless the captain said that we bore off the victory on the other side of Leipsic."

Others thought the same thing without speaking of it, but there was a growing uneasiness among all.

We found the regiment bivouacked near Kohlgarten. In every direction camp-fires were rolling their smoke to the sky. A drizzling rain continued to fall, and the men, seated on their knapsacks around the fires, seemed depressed and gloomy. The officers formed groups of their own. On all sides it was whispered that such a war had never before been seen; it was one of extermination; that it did not help us to defeat the enemy, for they only desired to kill us off, knowing that they had four or five times our number of men, and would finally remain masters.

Toward evening of the next day, we discovered the army of the north on the plateau of Breitenfeld. This was sixty thousand more men for the enemy. I can yet hear the maledictions levelled at Bernadotte--the cries of indignation of those who knew him as a simple officer in the army of the republic, who cried out that he owed us all--that we made him a king with our blood, and that he now came to give us the finishing blow.

That night, as we drew our lines still closer around Leipsic, I gazed at the circle of fires which surrounded us, and it seemed as if the whole world was bent on our extermination. But I remembered that we had the honor of bearing the name of Frenchmen, and must conquer or die.

To Be Concluded In Our Next.

{751}

The Old Roman World. [Footnote 67]

[Footnote 67: _The Old Roman World: the Grandeur and Failure of its Civilization._ By John Lord, LL.D. New York: Charles Scribner & Co. 1867.]

Did Doctor Lord dream that the world would pronounce him immortal for having formed an ill-assorted museum of effete ideas gathered from all the kingdoms of thought? While he was writing the sheets of _The Old Roman World_, was he thinking of a political world, or an ecclesiastical world, or a literary world, or a military world, or conjuring up a visionary world? Did he base his claims to an imperishable name on his faculty to extract philosophical truth from historical facts, or on his powers of describing facts and communicating truths so as to be useful to his fellow-man, or on his irrepressible fluency in saying again and again, what had been better said again and again by others before? Did he intend to write a book; or are the sixteen chapters of his volume sixteen independent and unrelated pamphlets, or sixteen stump speeches, or sixteen lectures, or sixteen spiritualistic effusions in a meandering mood of mind?

Did he write to instruct the student, or amuse the indolent, or delight the world, or add to the lore of the learned? Did he ever read, in the original languages, the historians, the philosophers, the critics, the poets, the scientific writers on whose minds and merits he wrote; or has he seen them only as in a mirror, by means of encyclopedian dissertations, hand-books, and such second-hand depositories? Did he think that the world would regard his compilations as a faithful reflector of ancient minds and ancient life?

There is, however, in Dr. Lord's _Old Roman World_ food for thought. No one denies the importance of the high and momentous questions connected with the Roman name. It is an unquestionable fact that, in the history of the human race, the Romans occupy the most prominent position. To the eyes of the historian, the Roman world is, amongst the nations of bygone centuries, what, to the eyes of the astronomer, the sun is amongst the heavenly bodies. The generative causes of that outshining social edifice have occupied the most splendid intellects in past ages, and have been analyzed anew in our day, according to his generalization, by Dr. Lord. To his mind it seems that the nations of the earth were welded into one body by the superior military mechanism of the Romans, and that the impaired efficiency of this military machinery, together with a certain mysterious fatality, produced the disintegration of the Roman empire, by destroying the cohesive qualities of Roman rule. Such is the pervading idea of his chapters. We know that vast empires have been born of the sword; but we have yet to learn that an empire embracing the nations, religions, and languages of the earth, could have been founded on, and conserved for centuries by, military mechanism. The Romans, like Attila, or Genghis Khan, or Alexander, or Sesostris, might have gone forth, and, either by bravery, or superior tactics, or vast levied armies, have overrun the nations of the earth; but military mechanism could never have raised and sustained through a long lapse of ages a mighty empire built on vanquished peoples. {752} And yet Rome not only conquered and incorporated independent races, but glued them to the centre Rome; so much so, that they lost animosity, language, institutions, and nationality to become Romans. Rome not only romanized Italy, but italianized the then known world. In the days of Hadrian and Trajan, the waves of the Mediterranean knew no lord but the Roman; from the margin of those seas were wafted the wealth and the produce of the world toward Rome; and far beyond that margin, through hundreds of miles, the genius and power of Rome were transforming the nations, building roads and palaces, founding cities, subdividing provinces, spreading the Latin language, and stamping the mind of Latium on the human race. From the Padus to Japugium the names of the Italian tribes were merged into the name of Rome. The men of Mesraim bowed before the Roman eagle, and saw the traditions of two thousand years vanish away before the institutions of Rome. The Asiatic cities renounced their pride of birth, and Greece yielded up a rich heritage of literary and military glory. The fiery valor of the Gauls and the martial memories of western nations were surmounted by the unconquerable energy of the Roman mind. To Rome the known nations of the world became as handmaids, and paid homage through a dozen generations. Whatever had been great in the world, whatever powerful, whatever beautiful, whatever renowned, whatever ennobling, was swallowed up in the mighty name of Rome. And when, amid the upheaving of humanity and the undulations of races, Rome sank as a ship in a troubled ocean, her spirit lived to elevate the Italian, the Frank, the Spaniard, the Norman, to be the princes of the families of mankind. Could military mechanism have accomplished such results? Could military mechanism, when it was no more, possess a renovating influence? Does not Sallust assert the superiority of the Gauls to the Romans in war? Besides, it is a questionable point whether the military systems of the Greeks are not preferable to the war tactics of the Romans. The Thessalian cavalry, and the Macedonian phalanx with its adaptability to evolutions, can stand a strict critical comparison with the Roman equites and Roman legion. The variety of movements in the phalanx, despite its inflexible and inseparable character, may well compensate for the individual and displayed energy of the Roman combination. That Polybius judges the mechanism of the Roman superior to that of the Greek, may be ascribable to the fact that he preferred attributing the subjugation of his countrymen, not to a superiority of valor, but of military manoeuvres. Does any one suppose that the army of Pompey, twice as numerous as that of Caesar, was worsted through the defect of theoretic military mechanism, rather than through the deficiency of the qualities which make a soldier? If any one will take the trouble of writing, in parallel columns, the organization, the sub-organizations, the war habiliments, the aggressive and defensive weapons, the laws of army management in sieges, in march, in battle, and in the tent, as they existed in Italy and Greece, we would leave to his candid judgment the decision on the speculative excellence of Grecian and Roman war systems, considered as a whole. And on the sea, the Romans were tyros when the Greeks had attained considerable perfection. The Romans defeated the Carthaginians, not on a system indigenously reared on the waters of Latium, but with a fleet formed after the fashion of an inimical craft wrecked on the Italian shore. {753} In the progressive days of Rome, the nomenclature of the parts and naval acts of a Roman vessel was suggested by, or adopted from, the preexisting terminology of Greece. What thence? Do we depreciate the military mechanism of Rome? By no means. But we unhesitatingly object to placing it as the primary cause of the elevation of Rome to the pinnacle of power. Where Doctor Lord placed Roman military mechanism, he should have mentioned Roman character and Roman institutions. In no place did character and institutions more powerfully concur to elevate the individual than in the city of old Rome, in the state of Latium, on the banks of the Tiber. The kings imparted a multifold and vigorous development to the martial, the religious, the aesthetical, the governmental, the utilitarian tendencies of the people. These fountains of grandeur poured their united streams of glory during the five centuries of the republic into a magnificent reservoir, to empty which there was demanded the lapse of five hundred years of enfeebling despotism. It would be long to trace the single developments. But we can see, and might explain by facts that, in as far as Rome incorporated with an equalization other powers, so far did she strengthen and aggrandize herself; whereas, incorporations subject to inequality were co-causes of her destruction. In the books of the Machabees we see that the Jews, in their emergency, called in the Romans as the justest amongst the Gentiles. In his preface Livy says: "Caeterum aut me amor negotii suscepti fallit, aut nulla unquam respublica nec major, nec sanctior, nec bonis exemplis ditior fuit; nec in quam tam serae avaritia luxuriaque immigraverint: nec ubi tantus tamdiuque paupertati ac parsimoniae honos fuerit: adeo quanto rerum minus tanto minus cupiditatis erat. Nuper divitiae avaritiam at abundantes voluptates desiderium per luxum atque libidinem pereundi perdendique omnia invexere." It is always safer to accuse those that are dead than those with whom we live; and surely, the historian that did not dread to attack the living, would not have failed to arraign the dead, had the dead deserved it. The expulsion and cause of expelling Tarquin, consecrated an individual self-respect which evermore remained an important element in the Roman character. This self-respect is the bulwark of individual freedom, and the most indestructible foundation of a social edifice. From it arose the acquisition by the populace of the _jus suffragii, jus commercii, jus connubii, jus honorum_. It was the mine which blew up, first, the patricians, and then the nobles. Where did Dr. Lord learn that patricians and nobles are synonymous terms? This self-respect imparted fortitude to the soldier, wisdom to the statesman, honor to the merchant. The individual was clothed with the majesty of his country. To uphold that majesty was the first duty of the Roman. Allied with self-respect, unchangeableness of purpose appears as a trait of the Roman character. Athens might have been a Rome, had the Athenian spirit the persistency of the Roman. There was, perhaps, no formative element of the Roman character so prominent as the practical common sense which made them learners in all the departments of life. The Romans admitted the perfectibility of their institutions and practices, so as to adopt from foreigners whatever they deemed an improvement. {754} The Spartan loved his country as intensely and as devotedly as the Roman, but Sparta, rejecting the eclecticism of Rome, remained cramped and undeveloped in its exclusiveness. These qualities of the mind, together with a physical strength, such as appears from the saying of Pyrrhus, "Had I the Romans for soldiers, I could conquer the world," led Rome along the highway of glory and power.

It would be folly to follow Dr. Lord through the many subjects on which he speaks. We take the first chapter of his work as a specimen of the wild, thoughtless, rambling manner in which he writes. It is headed "The Conquests of the Romans;" but in it one finds a paragraph on "the lawfulness of war," a paragraph on "the evils of war," a few pages on "Providence," a disquisition on the immediate and ultimate consequences of the Crusades, a paragraph on Providence again, something on the aspirations of the South, a paragraph to show "how petty legends indicate the existence of great virtues," a paragraph to show "how petty wars with neighboring states develop patriotism," something on morals and Cato, whom he characterizes as "a _hard, narrow_ statesman," a _chronicon Romanum_, the history of the helepolis, a paragraph to show the necessity for the empire. Would any one imagine that the same man wrote of Rome under the emperors the following passages: "The real (page 13) grandeur of Rome is associated with the emperors. Great works of art appear, and they become historical. The city is changed from brick to marble, and palaces, and theatres, and temples become colossal. There are more marble busts than living men. A liberal patronage is extended to artists. Medicine, law, and science flourish. ... The _highest state of prosperity is reached_ that the ancient world knew." Again "Rome (p. 69) yields her liberties, and imperial despotism begins its reign--hard, immovable, resolute-- under which genius is crushed. Empire is added, _but prosperity is undermined_. The _machinery is perfect_, but life is fled." Dr. Lord tells us that he loves to ponder on the sacred geese, but we would respectfully direct his pondering to the inconsistencies, contradictions, and false pronouncements with which his volume teems. He considers the Crusades the worst wars in history, uncalled for, unscrupulous, fanatical; but, though they were uncalled for, unscrupulous, and fanatical, he styles Bernard, Urban, Philip, and Richard, great men, far-sighted statesmen, and asserts that "the hand which guided that warfare between Europe and Asia was the hand that led the Israelites out of Egypt across the Red Sea;" and those wars which he pronounces worst he declares to have developed the resources of Europe, built free cities, opened the horizon of knowledge, and given a new stimulus to all the energies of the European nations. There are few who will agree with Dr. Lord when he says that the Romans "despised literature, art, philosophy, agriculture, and even luxury when they were making their grand conquests." He need only read his own description of the heroes who made the conquests to see the falsehood of his statements. There are few, too, who will say that he describes the characters of the ancients with accuracy. We would especially notice his defect of appreciation in the case of Homer, of Sophocles, and of the Latin historians. The grand excellence of Homer remains unseen by him. {755} The raising up of hero after and over hero, and the transference of a collective glory to Achilles may be said to constitute the greatest marvel of the Iliad. This generates the oneness which has been noticed and praised by all the ancients. The Doctor praises extravagantly Virgil's epic, but every candid reader will confess that he feels unconcerned, and, it may be, weary, as he wades though the last half of the AEneid, whereas he becomes more and more enraptured as he advances through the books of the Iliad. Diomedes is as grand a warrior as AEneas, and we doubt very much whether Virgil could have raised a higher model than AEneas, whereas Homer has worked the climax through four or five to Achilles. Who believes, or has believed, that Demosthenes' Philippics are more brilliant than his De Corona? To us Dr. Lord seems, in judging of the ancients, to have acted as a compiler rather than to stand boldly before the extant originals and pronounce his own judgment. When he does speak for himself, he seems to be more anxious to make himself singular than to see and tell the truth with accuracy. Speaking of "the solitary grandeur of the Jewish muse and the _mythological myths_ of the ante-Homeric songsters," he looks rather in the light of a _foolish fool_ than a serious writer communicating truth to a criticising world.

It is curious, touchy, and, we might say, laughable, to read over Dr. Lord's notions of the connection of the old Roman world with the church. Bossuet's idea of the old Roman empire being an instrument in the hands of God to propagate Christianity, has a deep fascination for our author; but Bossuet never gets the credit of it. We err very much if, in writing _The Old Roman World_, Dr. Lord did not intend to elaborate this conception in a work which the world would recognize as the rival of Gibbon's _Decline and Fall_. How does he do it? He discovers that there had existed an ineffable fatalism, according to which the Roman empire was doomed to die. What was old and heathen should disappear, that what was new and Christian might arise. The fading away of the Roman reign was unworthy to be compared with the glories about to be manifested. What were they? Were they the beauties of a grand society whose teaching authority as to the things of eternity was to be the Holy Spirit, whose head and sanctifier was to be Christ--of a society to be sustained by the hand of God, elevated above all societies, extended and visible through the world such as Bossuet conceived? Dr. Lord opines that, when Christianity is embraced by all, it is corrupted, and may be said to be dead except with a few chosen spirits; and when Christianity is embraced only by a few and is pure, it is valueless for the mass of mankind, being limited and uninfluential. On either horn of the dilemma, Christianity may be regarded as an unimportant and unprofitable school for the multitude. Yet he says that the world marches on in Christian progress. There are always some revivalists, some believers, as the Puritans, in a pure and personal God; and Providence, which "grandly and mournfully" eliminates the Roman world, consoles the human race by casting up, here and there, some select ones, some pure ones, some godly ones. But, if Dr. Lord merely wished to act the part of a noonday somnambulist or a dreamy rhapsodist, we would fain permit him to revel undisturbed in his reveries. We have, however, a right, as Catholics, to object to misrepresentations of Catholic doctrine. There are many honest and righteous Protestant minds whose vision may become jaundiced by the assertions of this writer. {756} Where has he learned that the Virgin has been made the object of absolute worship? When he speaks of ceremonies, and festivals, and pomps, he ought to look upon them as those do who use them. We have always been at a loss to understand what special enmity some people have against a special sense. If the senses are channels for communicating thought, why decry the legitimate use of any one of them performing its own function? Why instruct through the ear and not through the eye? Does not a map surpass all language in communicating geographical knowledge? Logically, one ought to praise God through the intuition of spirit _vis-a-vis_ spirit and disown corporeal agents, eyes, tongue, ears, hands, physical actions; or recognize all, provided they be means of communicating thought. There is not and there never has been in the church, any imposing altar typical of Jewish sacrifices. As to the monks, either Lord admits the truth of what are called evangelical counsels, or he does not; if he does, he should not be at war with the monks for actuating what is true; if he does not, how does he get rid of the texts of the Bible which contain them? Did the monks effect nothing for the good of humanity? Were all the monks in pursuit of a purely contemplative life? Were there no teachers, no benefactors of the poor, no cultivators of deserts, and woods, and wildernesses amongst them? Were there no founders of cities, no evangelizers of savages? Surely, the disciples of Columbanus, of Benedict, of Basil, deserve something better than the following turgid rigmarole of a visionary _fanfaron_: "Monastic life (p. 559) ripened also in a grand system of penance and expiatory rights, such as characterized oriental asceticism. Armies of monks retired to gloomy and isolated places, and abandoned themselves to rhapsodies, and fastings, and self-expiations in opposition to the grand doctrine of Christ's expiation. They despaired of society and abandoned the world to its fate--a dismal and fanatical set of men overlooking the practical aims of life. They lived more like beasts and savages than enlightened Christians--wild, fierce, solitary, superstitious, ignorant, fanatical, filthy, clothed in rags, eating the coarsest food, practising gloomy austerities, introducing a false standard of virtue, regardless of the comforts of civilization, and careless of those great interests which were entrusted to them to guard. ...

The monks and hermits sought to save themselves by climbing to heaven by the same ladder that had been sought by the soofis and fakirs, which delusion had an immense influence in undermining the doctrines of grace. Christianity was fast merging itself into an oriental theosophy." It is a sad thing to see, and a tormenting thing to have to follow, through over six hundred pages, a man, rushing madly from subject to subject. We have no interest, except in the cause of truth and right, to censure Dr. Lord; and could we fairly, in the capacity of critic, have awarded him praise, we should have, without reluctance, and with warmth, performed the task. We should say that he must have labored long to compile his work; but if anything distinguishes that work, it is an unlikeness to the sources from which it is presumed to have been gotten up. The ancients conceived of a whole, and elaborated the natural component parts to form that whole; in the work before us the formative materials produce as grotesque a union as that in the minotaur, or centaur, or gorgon, or chimaera, or hydra, or sphinx. In the ancients, we are pleased with a modesty which dreads alike the overstatement or the withholding of the truth; Dr. Lord astounds us with an unblushing and unthinking recklessness of assertion. In presenting their thoughts to the world, the Greeks and Romans were scrupulous down to the collocation of a particle; Dr. Lord's production is overgrown with expletives, ambiguities, redundancies, and repetitions. To any one accustomed to gaze on the chaste, crystal, and refreshing pages of classic lore, his volume is an unendurable eyesore.

{757}

The Divine Loadstone.

"And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all things to myself."

The Disciple.

"Ah me! what doth my feet restrain, That I thy cross behold-- A loadstone all divine-- Drawing men's hearts with mystic chain As misers lured by gold, And yet it draws not mine?"

The Master.

"My word is very truth, my son; All hearts to me should freely run; And if I draw not thee As sweetly as the rest, 'Tis thou who wouldst the loadstone be, And draw the hearts of men to thee-- Their love doth mine contest."

The Disciple.

"Nay, Lord; 'tis only for thy heart I pine."

The Master.

"Say'st so? Then give me, also, all of thine."

{758}

Translated From The German.

The Rival Composers.

Late one afternoon, in the autumn of the year 1779, a gentleman, walking in the garden of the Tuileries, was observed by the guard near the gate of the palace private grounds, gesticulating in a manner to excite suspicion. He was plainly dressed, and advanced in years. When the sentinel saw him, after walking briskly to and fro, and muttering half aloud, stop and lift his hand in a threatening manner toward the royal abode, he promptly arrested him. Calling two _gens d'armes_, he put the suspected man, supposed guilty of designs against the king, into their hands, to be conveyed to prison.

At the gate they met a richly gilded open carriage, in which sat two ladies, with a child and nurse. The taller of the ladies wore a hat of dark velvet, with drooping plumes, and a mantle of the same, with a flowing dress of satin, the sleeves trimmed with rich lace. The soldiers stopped to salute the young Queen Marie Antoinette, and the prisoner removed his hat and bowed low. At the same instant the lady leaned from the carriage, exclaiming, "Ah! Master Gluck!"

The queen laughed heartily when she heard her old music-master had just been arrested for disloyal practices near the palace; when he was only declaiming a passionate recitative out of his new opera! She insisted on his entering the carriage and going to the palace with her; while the astonished guards went to report their mistake.

Not unfrequently had the celebrated composer been the guest of the royal lady. He was wont to visit her in the garden of the Trianon, talking German with her, and exchanging reminiscences of Vienna. When the opera-house in Paris had resounded with the applause called forth by the representation of one of his operas, and he was sent for to the royal box, the queen's own hand had crowned him with the chaplet his genius had won.

At this period the music-loving population of Paris was divided into partisans of the two rival composers, Gluck and Piccini. The merits of each were discussed in every circle, and comparisons were made, often with a confused war of tongues; the dispute being, to whom the palm of superior greatness should be awarded. Each had composed a piece on the same subject, which was shortly to be represented; the success deciding which of the two should keep the field.

Late the same evening a number of the Parisian connoisseurs and artists were assembled in the brilliantly illuminated _salon_ of the Café du Feu. Many of the _noblesse_ were to be seen, surrounded by critics, amateurs, etc., and the company was in a Babel of declamation and argument; the battle-cries all over Paris being "Gluck" and "Piccini." Three young men, who had just entered, secured a place in a quiet side-room, where three others were seated; one in a corner, deep in the shadow of a pillar. Comfortably ensconced in an arm-chair, this man sat with head leaning back, drumming with the fingers of one hand on the table, and taking no notice of anything that passed. {759} Another occupant of the room was a handsome young Frenchman, with deep blue eyes shaded with heavy brown lashes, and complexion of the rich brown of Provence; he was poorly dressed, but his manner was graceful and spirited. His companion at the table was a long, thin, middle-aged man, with an air of discontent and spite in his whole demeanor. He wore a rough brown peruke; his features were heavy, and he had a pair of keen, squinting eyes, with a peevish, sinister twist about the mouth. He spoke French badly, his accent betraying the Saxon. He was speaking of Gluck, and ended his remarks by saying: "I cannot understand what a people of so much judgment and taste as the French find so great in this man!"

"Are you speaking," cried the young Frenchman, "of the creator of _Armida_, of _Orpheus_, of _Iphigenia?_"

"Ahem! yes. He is not esteemed highly among us in Germany, for he knows little or nothing of art-rules, as the learned Herr Forhel in Göttingen and other distinguished critics have proved."

"And you, a musician, a composer, a German, speak thus!" exclaimed the young man. "I know little of art-rules; but one thing I know and feel, the Chevalier Gluck has a grand and noble spirit. His music awakens elevated feeling; no low or common thought can approach me while I listen to it; even when spiritless and dejected, my despondency takes flight before the lofty joy I feel in Gluck's creations."

"And think you," cried young Arnaut, who belonged to the other faction, "that the great Piccini would enter into a contest with your chevalier, did he not know he was to strive with a worthy adversary!"

The German, nettled at the question, shuffled a little as he answered, "Hem! I suppose not; I only maintain that M. Gluck is not the best composer, as the learned Herr Forhel has proved. With regard to a church style--"

"Who is talking of church styles!" interrupted the brown youth, with vivacity. "The point is, a grand opera style! Would your learned critics change Gluck's _Armida_ into a nun's hymn, or have his wild motets of _Tauris_ sung in the style of Palestrina?"

The squinting man moved in his seat, sipped his orangeade, and muttered: "The learned Herr Forhel has proved that the Chevalier Gluck understands nothing of songs."

"Nothing of songs!" echoed all the company, in surprise. The German continued: "He cannot carry through an ordinary melody according to rule; his song is but an extravagant declamation."

The brown youth started to his feet in glowing indignation. "You are not worthy to be a German, sir," he cried, "thus to speak of your great countryman. All Paris acknowledges in Gluck a mighty artist; the dispute is only whether he or Piccini is the greater. Gluck's music is the true expression of feeling, alike removed from the cold constraint of rules and from capricious innovation! Whether he would excel in church or concert music--or would attempt it--we cannot tell! He has set himself one glorious task, and pursues that with all the strength of a great spirit!"

"What is your name, young man?" sounded a sonorous voice from the corner behind him.

The stranger, whom all turned to look at, had risen from his seat, and the light of the candles shone full upon his face.

{760}

"The Chevalier Gluck!" exclaimed several voices. Gluck smiled and bowed; then turning to the brown youth, he repeated his question.

"My name is Etienne Mehul," was the modest reply.

"You are a musician, I perceive," said Gluck. "Will you call at my house? Here is my address."

Handing him the card, he turned to the squinting German, who sat embarrassed, and spoke to him with undisguised contempt:

"Mr. Elias Hegrin! It is an unexpected pleasure to see you in Paris; yet a pleasure--for I like to tell you honestly what a miserable rascal you are! You think I understand nothing of the rules of music or of songs--eh! You thought differently in Vienna, when you almost lived at my house, and received instructions in music from me, and took what I procured for you from patrons, and what I gave you out of my own pocket! You became my enemy because I candidly told you you could master only the lifeless form, not the spirit. You seek what you can never obtain--not for the sake of art, but for your own temporary advantage. You would do better as an honest tailor or shoemaker, than a mean musician! You could not forgive my telling you this! and so you go and abuse me in Göttingen! Go and do better, if you can; but I think that will be difficult; for he who belies art because he cannot compass her, will be likely to remain the rascal he has shown himself! Adieu, Messieurs!"

Gluck nodded to young Mehul, and went out.

Queen Marie Antoinette had a private morning reception of her friends at her favorite Trianon. Comte d'Artois, just returned to Paris from his hunting castle, had come with his brother, the Comte de Provence, to pay his respects to his beautiful sister-in-law. They talked of the latest news in the capital, the balls, flirtations, witticisms, spectacles, etc., and of the new entertainment expected in the contest between Gluck and Piccini; the anticipations of which kept all Paris in dispute.

D'Artois declared himself for Gluck. "Your countryman," he cried to the queen, "is a splendid fellow! He went on the chase with me, and made five shots one after the other. As to the Italians, they do not know how to hold a gun!"

"I like the Italian music best," said the Comte de Provence. "You cannot well sing or dance to the German, as Noverre justly observes."

"Noverre had to dance to German music, though!" cried the queen, laughing. Then she told the story of the great dancing-master's visit to Gluck, and how he had ventured to tell him that no dancer in the grand opera could dance to his music in the Scythian ballets; and how Gluck, enraged, had seized the little man, and danced him through the whole house, up-stairs and down-stairs, singing the Scythian ballets; and had asked him, when the breath was nearly knocked out of Noverre, "Well, sir, think you, now, a dancer in the grand opera can dance to my music?" to which the poor panting victim had gasped out an eager affirmative! The story was much laughed at, and the arrogance of the opera artists commented on.

A page entered and announced, "The Chevalier Gluck, come to give the queen a lesson on the piano."

Marie Antoinette ordered him to be admitted.

"We were talking of you, M. Gluck," said the Princess Elizabeth; "and her majesty praised you for an excellent dancing-master."

"And my brother thinks you an expert in hunting, and on that account he belongs to your party," remarked the Comte de Provence.

{761}

"Come," cried the queen, "you must not tease my good master! Leave him to save all his patience for his pupil--myself! He will have need of it, I assure you!"

"Because, Antoinette," said Gluck gravely, speaking in German, "you do not play half so well as queen, as when you were archduchess."

The queen laughed as she answered in the same language, "Wait but a little, Christophe! your ears shall ring presently. Ladies and gentlemen, will you be quiet?" She spoke to them in French, as she went to open the piano.

She inserted the key and turned it, perhaps too hastily; for she could not open the instrument. After several vain attempts, she called impatiently:

"Come hither, Gluck, and help me!"

Gluck tried, but with no better success; the others took their turn; but the lock resisted all their efforts. The queen looked vexed.

"What fool can have made such a lock?" exclaimed Gluck.

"Take care, chevalier, what you say," said the Comte de Provence; "the lock is of the king's own making--of a new sort, I believe."

D'Artois went out, and in a few moments returned with the king. Louis XVI. wore a short jacket, his head covered with an unsightly leathern cap, his face glowing and begrimed with soot, his hands were rough as those of a locksmith, and a bundle of keys and picklocks were fastened to his belt. He went up to the piano, and examined the lock with the earnest manner of an artisan, tried several keys without success, shook his head dissatisfied, and tried others. Finding the right one at last, the lock yielded, and with an air of triumph, as if he had won a battle, he said, smiling on his wife,

"There, the piano is open! Now, madame, you can play!"

But so long a time had passed, that the queen had lost the inclination. As she would not take her lesson, the Princess Elizabeth asked Gluck to play them something from his _Iphigenia_. He played the frenzy scene of Orestes. When he had finished it, the king exclaimed: "Excellent, chevalier! I am delighted. I will have your opera produced first, with all the care you like; and I hope the success will gratify you."

Two more visitors were announced--Signor Piccini and the Chevalier Noverre, who started and colored in some embarrassment when he saw Gluck. The king commanded the two composers to salute each other, which they did with dignity, cordiality, and easy grace. After the queen had spoken to them, the Chevalier Noverre reminded her majesty that she had been pleased to grant permission to Signor Piccini to play some new airs from his _Iphigenia_ before her.

Marie Antoinette assented, and asked Piccini what selection he had made; to which he replied that Noverre had wished him to play the first Scythian dance.

D'Artois burst into a laugh; but the others restrained their mirth. At the queen's command, Piccini seated himself at the piano, the Comte de Provence and Noverre beating time to his music. All the company thought Piccini's Scythian dance more pleasing and better adapted to the grace of motion than that of Gluck. But D'Artois whispered to the king that the dance, though admirable and full of melody, was better suited for a masked ball in the _salon_ of the grand opera than for a private abode in Tauris. {762} Gluck listened with earnest attention, evidently appreciating the merits of his opponent; but a light curl of his lips was seen, when Piccini indulged too freely in his pretty quaverings and tinklings. There was great applause when it was ended. Noverre praised the performance as displaying the inspiriting rhythmus which alone would enable the dancer to give true expression to his _pirouettes_ and _enterchats_.

"I agree with you, Monsieur Noverre," interrupted Louis, "that Signor Piccini's music is admirable; but I hope you will also make yourself acquainted with the music of the Chevalier Gluck."

Noverre replied timidly, that the Chevalier Gluck and he _were_ on the most friendly terms.

After the artists had left the royal abode, Gluck and Piccini took a courteous leave of each other. As Gluck stepped into his carriage, he said to Noverre: "Do not, chevavalier, forget his majesty's command. If I made you dance against your will, it was to introduce you to my music. I regret I am not a proficient in the art of dancing; yet I am, like yourself, chevalier of the order _de l'Esprit_, and in that character I wish you a good morning."

Piccini laughed at this, but Noverre looked vexed as Gluck drove away.

The rehearsals and preparations for the representation of the two _Iphigenias_ were nearly complete, and the day was appointed when the masterpiece of Gluck was to receive the sentence of the Parisians. It was to be performed first; the preference having been yielded to him as the oldest of the two composers. He was at that time sixty-five.

Treatises, learned and superficial, were published, upon Gluck and Piccini, the differences in their style and in the two operas; all tinctured with party spirit, and many showing gross ignorance of music. The performers, too, fell into dissension. Piccini had hard work to propitiate, by attentions and favors, some who were opposed to him, that his work might not be spoiled by their perversity. Gluck resorted to threats, and made his enemies afraid of him. He trusted to the excellence of his motto, "Truth makes its way through all things;" and reflected that the worst success would not make a good work a bad one.

On the morning of the final rehearsal, the day before the first representation, young Mehul was announced. Gluck cordially welcomed him, and asked why he had not seen him before.

"I feared to disturb you," answered the young man. "But to-day my anxiety brings me."

"Anxiety?" questioned Gluck.

"You have enemies; your opera is to be produced to-morrow! Should the success fall short of its merits--"

"Then be it so," said the master, smiling.

"You can say that so calmly?"

"Why not? Do you think of devoting yourself to dramatic composition?"

"It is my wish to do so."

"Work, then, with bold heart! Lay hold on what glowing inspiration brings you, and mould it with earnest heed! The great thing is, to stand firm, and go on with spirit and strength. The world makes this hard for the artist, and many fall in the conflict."

"You have won!"

"If I have gone through life neither a fool nor a knave, still I have my faults. To some the All-Benevolent has granted to know but little, till what they have attained is wasted, or in danger of being lost. Happy he who apprehends the better part, and holds it fast, though his heart be torn in the struggle! {763} What will you say when I confess to you, that perception of the highest--the _only_ good, came late--fearfully late to me! Music was all to me from earliest youth. When a boy, in lovely Bohemia, I heard her voice in the dense forest, the gloomy ravine, or the romantic valley; on the bold, stark cliff; in the cheerful hunter's call, or the hoarse song of stream and torrent. I thought there was nothing so great and glorious, that man, impotent man, could not achieve it. Too soon I learned that something was impossible. How soon are the spirit's wings clipped! Then come harassing doubts, false ambition, thirst of gain, envy, disappointed vanity, worldly cares; the hateful gnomes of earth, that cling to you and drag you downward, when you would soar like the eagle toward the sun. Thus it is in youth, in manhood, in old age. One among many, redeemed from folly, discerns and appreciates the right, and might create the beautiful. But by that time the ardor and vigor of youth are gone; and to his enthusiasm, his newly acquired knowledge, there remains a grave!"

"More--much more--to you!" cried Mehul in deep emotion.

"Perhaps it is true; for when I burst the fetters of the unworthy and the base, there came to me a radiant vision from the pure, bright Grecian age. The work of holding it fast, and shaping it in the external world, is my last. And melancholy it is that a whole vigorous lifetime could not be consecrated alone to such a theme--or to yet higher ones. But I must submit in repentance and humility, for my shortcomings! I will bear it, whether these Parisians adjudge me fame and wealth, or hiss down my work."

The hour struck for the rehearsal, and Gluck, accompanied by his young friend, went to the Royal Academy of Music.

Nicolo Piccini, morose and out of humor, was walking up and down his room, glancing now and then at the manuscript of his opera that lay upon his writing-desk. At times he would go to the desk as if a happy thought had struck him, to add something to the notes; but the next instant he would let fall the pen, shake his head with a dissatisfied and melancholy air, and resume his walk through the room.

A knocking was heard; and after it was repeated twice, Piccini opened the door. Elias Hegrin came in. The composer seemed disturbed at his presence, and gloomily asked what he wanted. Hegrin answered that the Chevalier Noverre had informed him Signor Piccini wished to see him.

After a pause, Piccini admitted that he had sent for him.

"And in what can I serve my honored patron?" asked Elias.

"By speaking the _truth!_" sternly answered Piccini. "Confess that you spoke falsely, when you told me Gluck stirred up all his friends to make a party against me!"

Elias Hegrin changed color, but he collected himself, and answered, "I spoke the truth."

"It is _false_, Elias! It was the same when you told me you had read the manuscript of my adversary, and that the work hardly deserved the honors of mediocrity."

"It was the truth, Signor Piccini, and I repeat my opinion of the opera of the Chevalier Gluck."

"So much the worse for your judgment! I have heard five rehearsals, and I must--ay, and _will_ declare before all the world, that Gluck's _Iphigenia_ is the greatest opera I know, and that in its author I acknowledge my master."

{764}

Elias stared in amazement.

"I believed I had accomplished something worthy in my own work," continued Piccini; "and, indeed, my design was pure; nor is my work altogether without merit; but oh! how void and cold, how weak and insignificant does it seem to me, compared with Gluck's gigantic creation! Yes, creation! mine is only a work! a work that will vanish without a trace; while Gluck's _Iphigenia_ will endure as long as feeling for the grand and the beautiful is not dead in the hearts of men!"

"But, Signor Piccini," stammered Elias.

"Silence!" interrupted Piccini. "Why have you slandered the noble chevalier, and striven to bring down his works and his character to your own level? Are you not ashamed of such pitiful behavior? In spite of Noverre's recommendation, I have never fully trusted you; for I know that Noverre hated Gluck for having wounded his ridiculous vanity. But I never thought you capable of such meanness as I find you guilty of. Gluck stir up his friends to make a party against me! Look at these letters in Gluck's own hand, written to Arnaud, Rollet, Maurepas, wherein he judges my work thoroughly, dwelling upon the best parts, and entreats them to listen impartially to my opera as to his own, and to give an impartial judgment, as he is anxious only for the truth! My patron, the Comte de Provence, persuaded those gentlemen to send me these letters, to remove my groundless suspicions. I am deeply mortified that I ever condescended to make common cause with you! You have deceived me! Now, tell me, what induced you to act in this dishonorable manner toward your benefactor?"

Elias, shrunk into himself, replied in a lachrymose tone, "Ah! I am an unhappy man, and deserve your sympathy! From boyhood I heard it said at home that I had extraordinary talent for music, and would become a great composer, and win both wealth and fame. I studied zealously; my first work was praised in the town where I lived; but when I went to Vienna, I could do nothing."

"Gluck took you by the hand in Vienna, supported you, gave you instruction, and corrected your works."

"He did so; but he likewise told me I had no genius, and that I never could be a great composer."

"And did he deceive you? What have you proved yourself? You hate and slander him, then, because he honestly advised you to desist from useless efforts?"

Elias squinted sullenly, and shrugged his shoulders.

"Yes, I hate him!" he exclaimed fiercely. "Confound him! All the fame and gold are for him, and none for me! I will do him all the harm I can! I will embitter his life!"

"Begone!" cried Piccini, full of horror. "We have nothing more in common. Honor, religion, guide the true man; your divinities are vanity, envy, cowardly malice! Such as you deserve no sympathy!"

Full of spite and vexation, Elias Hegrin left the house.

Piccini's opera was admired, but that of Gluck obtained the victory, awakening universal enthusiasm. After its third representation, Gluck left the opera-house, followed by the acclamations of the enraptured multitude. Mehul was with him, going to sup at his house.

When they entered Gluck's drawing-room, both started with surprise to see a man wrapped in his mantle standing at the window and looking out. As they came in, he turned round and faced them.

{765}

"Signor Piccini!" exclaimed Gluck in surprise.

"I am not an unwelcome guest, I hope?" said the composer, with a smile.

"Most welcome!" cried Gluck cordially, taking the offered hand and warmly pressing it, "I esteem and honor so noble an adversary!"

"We are no longer adversaries!" exclaimed Piccini. "Our strife is at an end. I acknowledge you as my master, and shall be happy and proud to call you my friend! Let the Gluckists and Piccinists dispute as they like; Gluck and Piccini understand each other!"

"And love each other, too!" cried Gluck, with vivacity. "Indeed it shall be so!"

The supper was enjoyed by the whole party.

The Irish In America. [Footnote 68]

[Footnote 68: _The Irish in America_. London: Longman, Rees & Co. New York, Boston, and Montreal: D. & J. Sadlier & Co. 1868.]

This is the title of a book recently published simultaneously in London and New York, and which bids fair to excite considerable attention east and west of the Atlantic. The author, Mr. John Francis Maguire, M.P., has long since attained to honorable distinction not only in Ireland, his own country, but in the British House of Commons. His visit to this country during the past year strengthened the favorable impression already made on those who had known him only through his published speeches and the prominent part he has taken for many years in the affairs of his native country. Heart and soul devoted to the best interests of that country, and of the Irish race everywhere; thoroughly acquainted with the Celtic nature, its capabilities for progress and improvement, and fervently devoted to the faith which is the richest inheritance of Catholic Ireland, Mr. Maguire felt anxious to see with his own eyes the actual condition of the Irish in America, what advantages they had gained by emigration, and how far they had retained and carried out in their new country the Christian traditions of the old. He accordingly visited America, availing himself of the interval between the sessions of parliament, and, in so far as his limited time permitted, took personal observations on the state of "the Irish in America." The book before us is the result of these observations.

In the main, Mr. Maguire has given his readers a fair and correct view of his subject, vast and comprehensive as it is; he has taken pains to find out the exact condition of the people of whom he writes, in the new home across the wave to which they have carried their broken fortunes as a race. The opening paragraph of the first chapter is well adapted to interest the general reader. It is as follows:

"Crossing the Atlantic, and landing at any city of the American seaboard, one is enabled, almost at a glance, to recognize the marked difference between the position of the Irish race in the old country and in the new. Nor is the condition of the Irish at both sides of the ocean more marked in its dissimilarity than are the circumstances and characteristics of the country from which they emigrated and the country to which they have come. {766} In the old country, stagnation, retrogression, if not actual decay--in the new, life, movement, progress; in the one oppression, want of confidence, dark apprehension of the future--in the other, energy, self-reliance, and a perpetual looking forward to a grander development and a more glorious destiny. That the tone of the public mind of America should be self-reliant and even boastful, is natural in a country of brief but pregnant history--a country still in its infancy, when compared with European states, but possessing, in the fullest sense, the strength and vigor of manhood--manhood in all its freshness of youth and buoyancy of hope. In such a country man is most conscious of his value: he is the architect of his country's greatness, the author of her civilization, the miracle-worker by whom all has been or can be accomplished. Where a few years since a forest waved in mournful grandeur, there are cultivated fields, blooming orchards, comfortable homesteads, cheerful hamlets--churches, schools, civilization; where but the other day a few huts stood on the river's bank, by the shore of a lake, or on some estuary of the sea, swelling domes and lofty spires and broad porticoes now meet the eye; and the waters but recently skimmed by the light bark of the Indian are ploughed into foam by countless steamers. And the same man who performed these miracles of a few years since--of yesterday--has the same power of to-morrow achieving the same wondrous results of patience and energy, courage and skill. But for him, and his hands to toil and his brains to plan, the vast country whose commerce is on every sea, and whose influence is felt in every court, would be still the abode of savage tribes, dwelling in perpetual conflict, and steeped in the grossest ignorance. Labor is thus a thing to be honored, not a badge of inferiority."

Mr. Maguire commences his American _tour_ at Halifax, which, he says, "an enthusiastic Hibernian once described as 'the wharf of the Atlantic.'" He finds that, in that city, and indeed, throughout the provinces generally, the Irish form an important and influential element in the population. Of Halifax he says in particular:

"This Irish element is everywhere discernible; in every description of business and in all branches of industry, in every class and in every condition of life, from the highest to the lowest. There are in other cities larger masses of Irish, some in which they are five times and even ten times as numerous as the whole population of Halifax; but it may be doubted if there are many cities of the entire continent of America in which they afford themselves fuller play for the exercise of their higher qualities than in the capital of Nova Scotia, where their moral worth keeps pace with their material prosperity."--P. 3.

Speaking of the progress of the faith in Nova Scotia, and of the arduous labors of the devoted missionaries of years past and present, our author relates some facts that will no doubt astonish his European readers. In America they are neither new nor strange; for what is told of Nova Scotia either applies, or has applied, within the memory of some living, in a greater or less degree, to every part of the new world.

"Within the last ten years a Nova Scotia priest has discharged the duties of a district extending considerably over one hundred miles in length; and while I was in Halifax, the archbishop appointed a clergyman to the charge of a mission which would necessitate his making journeys of more than that many miles in extent. And when a missionary priest, in 1842, the archbishop would make a three months' tour from Halifax to Dartmouth, a distance, going and returning, of 450 miles; and would frequently diverge ten or even twenty miles from the main line into the bush on either side, thus doing duty for a population of 10,000 Catholics who had no spiritual resource save in him and a decrepit fellow-laborer on the brink of the grave.

"It is not three years since a young Irish priest, then in the first year of his mission, received what, to him, was literally a death-summons. He was lying ill in bed when the 'sick call' reached his house, the pastor of the district being absent. The poor young man did not hesitate a moment; no matter what the consequence to himself, the dying Catholic should not be without the consolations of religion. To the dismay of those who knew of his intention, and who remonstrated in vain against what to them appeared to be an act of insanity, he started on his journey, a distance of thirty-six miles, which he accomplished on foot, in the midst of incessant rain. {767} It is not possible to tell how often he paused involuntarily on that terrible march, or how he reeled and staggered as he approached its termination; but this much is well ascertained-- that scarcely had he reached the sick man's bed, and performed the functions of his ministry, when he was conscious of his own approaching dissolution; and there being no brother priest to minister to him in his last hour, he administered the viaticum to himself, and died on the floor of what was then, indeed, a chamber of death. Here was a glorious ending of a life only well begun.

"Bermuda is included within the jurisdiction of the Archbishop of Halifax, and to this fact is owing one of the most extraordinary instances of a 'sick call' on record. A Catholic lady in Bermuda was dying of a lingering disease, and knowing that further delay might be attended with consequences which she regarded as worse than death, she availed herself of the opportunity of a vessel then about to sail for Halifax to send for a clergyman of that city. The day the message was delivered to the clergyman, a vessel was to sail from Halifax to Bermuda, and he went on board at once, arrived in due course at the latter place, found the dying lady still alive, administered to her the rites of the church, and returned as soon as possible to his duties in Halifax; having, in obedience to this remarkable 'sick call, 'accomplished a journey of 1600 miles."--P. 16.

Not quite so interesting as this is the somewhat prolix account Mr. Maguire gives of his visit to Pictou, N. S., where he took passage for Prince Edward's Island. We do not think his readers would have sustained any loss by his omission of several pages in which a certain "Peter," resident in those parts, acted as his _cicerone_. "Peter" may have interested Mr. Maguire, but he will not interest his readers. There is one paragraph, however, in connection with the visit to Prince Edward's Island that we may not pass over here, for the reason that it, too, is of general application. Mr. Maguire is speaking of St. Dunstan's College in Charlottetown:

"This college is supplied with every modern requirement and appliance, and is under the able presidency of the Rev. Angus McDonald, a man well qualified for his important task, and whose title of 'Father Angus' is as affectionately pronounced by the most Irish of the Irish as if it were 'Father Larry,' or 'Father Pat.' The Irish love their own priests; but let the priest of any other nationality--English, Scotch, French, Belgian, or American--only exhibit sympathy with them, or treat them with kindness and affection, and at once he is as thoroughly 'their priest' as if he had been born on the banks of the Boyne or the Shannon. 'Father Dan' McDonald, the vicar-general, is a striking instance of the attachment borne by an Irish congregation to a good and kindly priest; and I now the more dwell on this thorough fusion of priest and people in love and sympathy, because of having witnessed with pain and sorrow the injurious results, alike to my countrymen and to the church, of forcing upon almost exclusively Irish congregations clergymen who, from their imperfect knowledge of the Irish tongue, could not for a long time make themselves understood by those over whom it was essential they should acquire a beneficial influence."--Pp. 46, 47.

Very interesting is our author's account of the Irish settlements in Prince Edward's Island and New Brunswick; one of the latter, Johnville, commenced within a few years, under the auspices of Right Rev. Dr. Sweeny, Bishop of New Brunswick, furnishes a striking proof of the advantages to be gained by settling on the land, instead of congregating in the over-crowded cities. The beneficent effect on their morals, the cultivation of kind feeling and fraternal charity amongst the settlers by the formation of these rural colonies is happily described in the following passage:

"The settlers of Johnville are invariably kind to each other, freely lending to a neighbor the aid which they may have the next day to solicit for themselves. By this mutual and ungrudging assistance, the construction of a dwelling, or the rolling of logs and piling them in a heap for future burning, has been quickly and easily accomplished; and crops have been cut and gathered in safety, which, without such neighborly aid, might have been irrecoverably lost. This necessary dependence on each other for mutual help in the hour of difficulty draws the scattered settlers together by ties of sympathy and friendship; and while none envy the progress of a neighbor, whose success is rather a subject for general congratulation, the affliction of one of these humble families brings a common sorrow to every home. {768} I witnessed a touching illustration of this fraternal and Christian sympathy. Even in the heart of the primitive forest we have sickness, and death, and frenzied grief, just as in cities with histories that go back a thousand years. A few days previous to my visit a poor fellow had become mad, his insanity being attributed to the loss of his young wife, whose death left him a despairing widower with four infant children. He had just been conveyed to the lunatic asylum, and his orphans were already taken by the neighbors, and made part of their families."--P. 68.

"On our return to St. John," says Mr. Maguire, "we met the postmaster-general--a Scotchman--who had recently paid an official visit to the settlement; and he was loud in the expression of his astonishment at the progress which the people had made in so short a time, and at the unmistakable evidences of comfort he beheld in every direction. The settlement of Johnville," he goes on, "is but one of four which Dr. Sweeny has established within a recent time. He has thus succeeded in establishing, as settlers, between 700 and 800 families, or, at an average of five persons to each family, between 3500 and 4000 individuals."

This one fact shows what might be done in that way for the social and moral improvement of many, many thousands of "the Irish in America," who need some favorable change in their condition, if they are to be saved from total destruction. If the vast superfluous populations of the cities could only be induced to scatter abroad through the rural districts, and work as laborers until they could afford to purchase land, much misery and degradation would be avoided. The Irish are chiefly an agricultural people at home; why will they not understand that those who were farmers or laborers "in the old country" would be most likely to succeed by following the same pursuits here? All the portions of Mr. Maguire's book relating to these Irish settlements are both useful and interesting. Of the progress of the Irish and their cherished faith in St. John's, the capital of New Brunswick, our author says:

"Forty years since, an ordinary room would have afforded sufficient accommodation to the Catholic worshippers of that day: now congregations of two thousand or three thousand pour out on Sundays and holidays through the sculptured portals of the Church of the Immaculate Conception. On All Saints' Day I beheld such a congregation issuing from an early mass, filling the street in front of the splendid building; and from the appearance of the thousands of well-dressed, respectable-looking people, who passed before me, I could appreciate not only the material progress of the Irish in St. John, but the marvellous development of the Catholic Church in that city."--P. 89.

Passing on into the Canadas, Mr. Maguire finds the Irish occupying as prominent a position as in any of the Lower Provinces. "Entering Canada at Quebec," he says, "the presence of a strong and even influential Irish element is at once observable. In the staple industry of this fine old city--the lumber trade--the Irish take a prominent part. . . . It is pleasant to hear that not only are the Irish in Quebec, and indeed along the St. Lawrence, among the most industrious and energetic portion of the population, but that they are thrifty and saving, and have acquired considerable property. Thus, along the harbor, from the Champlain market westward to the limits of the city, an extent of two miles, the property, including wharves, warehouses, and dwelling-houses, belongs principally to the Irish, who form the bulk of the population in that quarter. And by Irish I here mean Catholic Irish."

Following the course of the St. Lawrence, he reaches Montreal, and he thus describes the position of the Irish there:

{769}

"In no part of the British Provinces of North America does the Catholic Irishman feel himself so thoroughly at home as in the beautiful and flourishing city of Montreal. He is in a Catholic city, where his religion is respected, and his church is surrounded with dignity and splendor. In whichever direction he turns, he beholds some magnificent temple--some college, or convent, or hospital--everywhere the cross, whether reared aloft on the spire of a noble church, or on the porch or gable of an asylum or a school. In fact, the atmosphere he breathes is Catholic. Therefore he finds himself at home in the thriving commercial capital of Lower Canada. In no part of the world is he more perfectly free and independent than in this prosperous seat of industry and enterprise, in which, it may be remarked, there is more apparent life and energy than in any other portion of the British Provinces. It is not, then, to be wondered at that the Catholic Irish are equal in number to the entire of the English-speaking Protestant population, including English, Scotch, and Irish. It is estimated that the Irish Catholics are now not less than thirty thousand. Of these a large proportion necessarily belong to the working classes, and find employment in various branches of local industry. Their increase has been rapid and striking. Fifty years since, there were not fifty Irish Catholic families in Montreal. It is about that time since Father Richards, an American, took compassion upon the handful of exiles who were then friendless and unknown, and gathered them into a small sacristy attached to one of the minor churches, to speak to them in a language which they understood. In thirty years afterward their number had increased to eight thousand, and now they are not under thirty thousand."--P. 96.

Much more than he has said, Mr. Maguire might have said about the Irish in Montreal, and the positions of honor and emolument to which many of them have attained. Of the city itself, he digresses to speak as follows:

"It is foreign to the purpose of this book to describe the public institutions and buildings of any place; but I cannot refrain from expressing my admiration of Montreal, which is in every respect worthy of its high reputation. It has an air at once elegant and solid, many of its streets spacious and alive with traffic and bustle, its places of doing business substantial and handsome; its public buildings really imposing, and its churches generally splendid, and not a few of them positively superb. This description of the churches of Montreal is not limited to the Jesuits' Church, the stately _Paroisse_, and the grand church of St. Patrick, of which the Irish are deservedly proud; it applies with equal propriety to the Episcopalian Cathedral, and more than one church belonging to the dissenting bodies. Montreal is rich in all kinds of charitable, educational, and religious institutions; and such is the influence and power of the Catholic element, that this beautiful city, which is every day advancing in prosperity and population, is naturally regarded by the Catholic Irishman as a home. The humble man sees his coreligionists advancing in every walk of life, filling positions of distinction--honored and respected; and, instead of mere toleration for his faith, he witnesses, in the magnificent procession of Corpus Christi, which annually pours its solemn splendor through the streets, a spectacle consoling alike to his religious feeling and his personal pride."

Although it is not exactly germane to our subject, we must be pardoned for giving in this connection Mr. Maguire's observations on the admirable system of education, of which Catholic Lower Canada may well be proud.

"Education in Lower Canada is entirely free. Each denomination enjoys the most complete liberty, there being no compulsion or restriction of any kind whatever. And the magnificent Laval University, so called after a French bishop, enjoys and exercises every right and privilege possessed by the great universities of England. This university, which is eminently Catholic, obtained a charter conferring upon it all the powers that were requisite for its fullest educational development.

"The rights of the Protestant minority are protected in the amplest manner, as well by law as by the natural tendency and feeling of the majority; for there are no people more liberal and tolerant, or more averse to any kind of aggression on the faith or opinions of others, than the French Canadians; and the Irish Catholics too well remember the bitterness caused by religious strife in the old country, to desire its introduction, in any shape or form, or under any guise or pretence, into their adopted home. There are abundant means of education within every man's reach; and it is his own fault if his children do not receive its full advantage. {770} But the Irishman, whatever may be his own deficiencies as to early training, rarely neglects that of his children; and in Canada, as in the States, the fault attributed to him is not that he neglects to educate them at all, but that he is tempted to educate them rather too highly, or too ambitiously, than otherwise."--Pp. 95, 96.

Following the widely-scattered Irish race along the rivers and through the forests of the great northern countries, Mr. Maguire happily describes what they have done and are doing in Upper Canada, as Protestant, nearly, as Lower Canada is Catholic. Even there, he shows us, Catholicity is making as rapid progress as in any part of America, and there, as in many other parts of the world, its marvellous growth corresponds with that of the Irish race. Mr. Maguire's account of his travels in Upper or Western Canada is, indeed, highly interesting. It was his good fortune to meet in Hamilton, C. W., a well-known and much-honored patriarch-priest, Very Rev. Mr. Gordon, vicar-general of that diocese, from whom he obtained much valuable information concerning the Irish Catholic people of Western Canada. Mr. Maguire says in this connection:

"There is still living in Hamilton, Western Canada, as vicar-general of the diocese, an Irish priest--Father Gordon, from Wexford--who has witnessed astonishing changes in his time. He has seen the city founded, and the town spring up, the forest cleared, and the settlement created; the rude log chapel, in which a handful of the faithful knelt in the midst of a wood, replaced by the spacious brick church in which many hundreds now worship. And not only has he witnessed astonishing changes, but has himself done much to effect the changes which he has lived to see accomplished. ... Father Gordon had charge of the back townships, twenty-four in number. We must appreciate the extent of his spiritual jurisdiction when we learn that a township comprised an area of twelve miles square and Father Gordon had to attend twenty-four of these. ... Father Gordon spent half his time in the saddle; and though he spared neither himself nor his horse--but himself much less than his horse--it was with the utmost difficulty that he could visit the more distant portions of his mission oftener than twice or thrice a year; many a time did the active missionary lose his way in the midst of the woods, and after hours of weary riding find himself, in the dusk of the evening, in the very same spot from which he set out in the morning!"--Pp. 112, 117.

Some of Father Gordon's early adventures in the wild Canadian forests, are extremely interesting, but for them we must refer the reader to the book itself. Father Edward Gordon is nearly the last of the noble band of Irish missionaries who went to those remote regions with the first instalments of the Irish exodus that reached there. Another, his friend and fellow-laborer, Very Rev. Mr. McDonagh, died but a year or two ago at Perth, in the diocese of Kingston, of which diocese he was vicar-general. A third, if we mistake not, is still living, namely, Father Brennan, of Bellville, C. W. These are the men who laid the foundations of the Catholic Church in those parts of Upper Canada. In the Scotch settlements farther east, there are still a very few of the old Scotch missionaries remaining, chiefly McDonalds. One of the most thrillingly interesting portions of the book is that devoted to the account of the terrible ship-fever brought to Canada by the Irish emigrants in the ever-memorable years of 1847-8. Our author's description of its ravages at Grosse Isle, the quarantine station of Quebec, at Point St. Charles, Montreal, and in the cities of Upper Canada, is of deep and painful interest. The adoption of the orphan children of the poor Irish emigrants--of whom twelve thousand perished at Grosse Isle alone--by the friendly French Canadians, is beyond expression touching. How the good Canadian priests and bishops took charge, and induced their people to take charge of these "children of the faithful Catholic Irish," as they expressively called the poor orphans, is told by Mr. Maguire with the grace of a poet and the skill of a dramatist. {771} Yet the picture is nothing overdrawn, as the writer of this, and many others yet living, can bear witness from their own sad memories of those sorrowful days.

Outside the Catholic Church no such spectacle of charity was ever seen as that which met the eyes of the Canadian people in Montreal and their other cities in those two disastrous years, but especially the first. The following passage will give some idea of the extent to which Christian heroism was carried then and there:

"The horrors of Grosse Isle had their counterpart in Montreal.

"As in Quebec, the mortality was greater in 1847 than in the year following; but it was not till the close of 1848 that the plague might be said to be extinguished, not without fearful sacrifice of life. During the months of June, July, August, and September, the season when nature wears her most glorious garb of loveliness, as many as eleven hundred of 'the faithful Irish,' as the Canadian priest truly described them, were lying at one time in the fever-sheds at Point St. Charles, in which rough wooden beds were placed in rows, and so close as scarcely to admit of room to pass. In these miserable cribs the patients lay, sometimes two together, looking, as a Sister of Charity wrote, 'as if they were in their coffins,' from the box-like appearance of their wretched beds. Throughout those glorious months, while the sun shone brightly, and the majestic river rolled along in golden waves, hundreds of the poor Irish were dying daily. The world outside was gay and glad, but death was rioting in the fever-sheds. It was a moment to try the devotion which religion inspires, to test the courage with which it animates the gentlest breast. First came the Grey Nuns, strong in love and faith; but so malignant was the disease, that thirty of their number were stricken down, and thirteen died the death of martyrs. There was no faltering, no holding back; no sooner were the ranks thinned by death than the gaps were quickly filled; and when the Grey Nuns were driven to the last extremity, the Sisters of Providence came to their assistance, and took their place by the side of the dying strangers. But when even their aid did not suffice to meet the emergency, the Sisters of St. Joseph, though cloistered nuns, received the permission of the bishop to share with their sister religious the hardships and dangers of labor by day and night.

"'I am the only one left,' were the thrilling words in which the surviving priest announced from the pulpit the ravages that the 'ocean plague' had made in the ranks of the clergy. With a single exception, the local priests were either sick or dead. Eight of the number fell at their posts, true to their duty. The good Bishop, Monseigneur Bourget, then went himself, to take his turn in the lazar-house; but the enemy was too mighty for his zeal, and having remained in the discharge of his self-imposed task for a day and a night, he contracted the fever, and was carried home to a sick-bed, where he lay for weeks, hovering between life and death, amid the tears and prayers of his people, to whom Providence restored him after a period of intense anxiety to them, and long and weary suffering to him.

"When the city priests were found inadequate to the discharge of their pressing duties, the country priests cheerfully responded to the call of their bishop, and came to the assistance of their brethren; and of the country priests not a few found the grave and the crown of the martyr."--Pp. 145, 146, 148.

After a glance at the Irish in Newfoundland, where, in proportion to their numbers, and the extent of the island, they have done fully as much for their own advancement and that of religion, as in any other part of America, Mr. Maguire, before crossing the great waters that separate British America from the United States makes these pertinent remarks on the Irish exodus generally:

"There are few sadder episodes in the history of the world than the story of the Irish exodus. Impelled, to a certain degree, by a spirit of adventure, but mainly driven from their native land by the operation of laws which, if not opposed to the genius of the people, were unsuited to the special circumstances of their country, millions of the Irish race have braved the dangers of an unknown element, and faced the perils of a new existence, in search of a home across the Atlantic. At times, this European life-stream flowed toward the new world in a broad and steady current; at others, it assumed the character of a resistless rush, breaking on the shores of America with so formidable a tide as to baffle every anticipation, and render the ordinary means of humane or sanitary precaution altogether inadequate and unavailing."--P. 179

{772}

Having crossed into the territory of the United States, Mr. Maguire very judiciously prefaces his account of what he saw amongst the Irish there, by a long and carefully written account of the dangers to which emigrants and their pockets are exposed in New York, the great centre of emigration. This is one of the most useful portions of the work, and should be read, if possible, by every intending emigrant to the United States. The greater part of Chapter X. is devoted to it, comprising some amusing and characteristic anecdotes and some very important directions for the guidance of newly-arrived emigrants.

Mr. Maguire next turns his attention to the tenement-houses of New York, and the sanitary condition of their inhabitants. He devotes much space to this, and his remarks are clear, practical, and judicious. He evidently examined the condition even of the poorest and most wretched of the Irish in this metropolis. He speaks, in this connection, earnestly and feelingly on the great mistake, the terrible mistake made by those emigrants who, being farmers or country people at home, remain huddled together in the great cities here, instead of spreading abroad over the fertile regions of America, where land is to be had cheap, in some places almost for the asking.

"Let it not be supposed that, in my earnest desire to direct the practical attention of my countrymen, at both sides of the Atlantic, to an evil of universally admitted magnitude, I desire to exaggerate in the least. From the very nature of things, the great cities of America--and, in a special degree, New York--must be the refuge of the unfortunate, the home of the helpless, the hiding-place of the broken-down, even of the criminal; and these, while crowding the dwelling-places of the poor, and straining the resources and preying on the charity of their communities, multiply their existing evils, and add to their vices. Still, in spite of the dangers and temptations by which they are perpetually surrounded--dangers and temptations springing even from the very freedom of republican institutions, no less than from the generous social habits of the American people--there are thousands, hundreds of thousands, of Irish-born citizens of the United States, residing in New York and in other great cities of the Union, who are, in every respect, the equals of the best of American population--honorable and upright in their dealings; industrious, energetic, and enterprising in business; intelligent and quick of capacity; progressive and go-ahead; and as loyally devoted to the institutions of their adopted country as if they had been born under its flag. Nevertheless, I repeat the assertion, justified by innumerable authorities--authorities beyond the faintest shadow of suspicion--that the city is not the right place for the Irish peasant, and that it is the worst place which he could select as his home."--Pp. 235-236.

Mr. Maguire's limited time did not permit him to travel much in the interior of any State; he could but visit the principal cities. His account of the Middle, Southern, and great Western States, is written in general terms; he speaks at some length of the Irish settlements in the new States and territories, of the vast resources of the country, and the enormous quantity of public lands at the disposal of the United States government. After describing the progress of the Irish in the West and North-west, he adds:

"It is not at all necessary that an Irish immigrant should go West, whatever and how great the inducements it offers to the enterprising. There is land to be had, under certain circumstances and conditions, in almost every State in the Union. And there is no State in which the Irish peasant who is living from hand to mouth in one of the great cities as a day-laborer, may not improve his condition by betaking himself to his natural and legitimate avocation--the cultivation of the soil. Nor is the vast region of the South unfavorable to the laborious and energetic Irishman. On the contrary, there is no portion of the American continent in which he would receive a more cordial welcome, or meet with more favorable terms. This would not have been so before the war, or the abolition of slavery, and the upset of the land system, which was based upon the compulsory labor of the negro. {773} Before the war, the land was held in mass by large proprietors, and, whatever its quantity, there was no dividing or selling it--that is, willingly; for, when land was brought to the hammer, the convenience of the purchaser had to be consulted. But there was no voluntary division of the soil, no cutting it up into parcels, to be occupied by small proprietors. Now, the state of things is totally different."--P. 252.

Our author seems much impressed with the advantages offered by the "magnificent State of California" to Irish emigrants. Of it he says:

"There is not a State in the Union in which the Irish have taken deeper and stronger root, or thriven more successfully, than California, in whose amazing progress--material, social, and intellectual--they have had a conspicuous share. For nearly twenty years past, this region has been associated in the popular mind with visions of boundless wealth and marvellous fortunes; and it may be interesting to learn under what circumstances the Irish became connected with a country of such universal repute, and of whose population they form a most important and valuable portion."--P. 262.

Mr. Maguire waxes eloquent over the benefits conferred on his countrymen, in all the cities of America, by temperance societies. He deplores, over and over again, the fatal propensity to spirituous liquors, of which he everywhere saw lamentable instances amongst his countrymen in America. He says, in many places, that drink, and drink alone, is the cause why so many of the Irish do not find in the new world that success which crowns the efforts of so many thousands and even millions of their race. "Drink, accursed drink," he says, "is the cause why so many of the Irish in America fail, and fail miserably." On the other hand, he saw, wherever he went, east, west, north, and south, that those among them who attained to wealth and position were all sober men, many of them "teetotalers."

The love of home and kindred, which is one of the most beautiful as it is one of the strongest traits in the Irish character, is duly noted by Mr. Maguire as distinguishing them in America. The many and great sacrifices made by Irish emigrants here, and especially by servant-girls, are thus described by our author:

"The great ambition of the Irish girl is to send 'something' to her people, as soon as possible after she has landed in America; and, in innumerable instances, the first tidings of her arrival in the new world are accompanied with a remittance, the fruits of her first earnings in her first place. Loving a bit of finery dearly, she will resolutely shut her eyes to the attractions of some enticing article of dress, to prove to the loved ones at home that she has not forgotten them; and she will risk the danger of insufficient clothing, or boots not proof against rain or snow, rather than diminish the amount of the little hoard to which she is weekly adding, and which she intends as a delightful surprise to parents who, possibly, did not altogether approve of her hazardous enterprise. To send money to her people, she will deny herself innocent enjoyments, womanly indulgences, and the gratifications of legitimate vanity; and such is the generous and affectionate nature of these young girls, that they regard the sacrifices they make as the most ordinary matter in the world, for which they merit neither praise nor approval. To assist their relatives, whether parents, or brothers and sisters, is with them a matter of imperative duty, which they do not and cannot think of disobeying, and which, on the contrary, they delight in performing. And the money destined to that purpose is regarded as sacred, and must not be diverted to any object less worthy."--P. 315.

A very important and deeply interesting portion of Mr. Maguire's book is that which treats of the share the Irish have had in building up and sustaining the church in America. In all the checkered history of the Irish race, there is no page more glorious than that which records their fidelity to the faith, in foreign lands as well as at home; their heart-warm attachment to, and profound reverence for, their clergy; the mighty sacrifices they make, and have made to promote the interests of religion, and the important part they have played in the propagation of the faith:

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"It has been confidently stated, that the moment the Irish touch the free soil of America, they lose the old faith--that there is something in the very nature of republican institutions fatal to the Church of Rome. Admitting, as a fact which cannot be denied, and which Catholics are themselves the first to proclaim, that there has been some, even considerable, falling off from the church, and no little indifferentism, it must be acknowledged that there has been less of both than, from the circumstances of the country, might have been reasonably expected; and that the same Irish, whose alleged defection _en masse_ has been the theme of ungenerous triumph to those whose 'wish was father to the thought,' have done more to develop the Church, and extend her dominion throughout the wide continent of North America, than even the most devoted of the children of any other of the various races who, with them, are merged in the great American nation. This much may be freely conceded to them, even by those who are most sensitively and justly proud of what their own nationality has done to promote the glory of the Universal Church. Fortified by suffering and trial at home, and inheritors of memories which intensify devotion rather than weaken fidelity, the Irish brought with them a strong faith, the power to resist as well as the courage to persevere, and that generosity of spirit which has ever prompted mankind to make large sacrifices for the promotion of their religious belief."--P. 346.

In order to give a more correct idea to his European readers of the services rendered by the Irish in America to the cause of religion, our author gives a retrospective view of the rise and progress of Catholicity in the United States. This he illustrates by extracts from the writings and correspondence of various bishops and priests of the elder time, and also the later, and with interesting data from other sources. He dwells at some length on the foundation or introduction into these countries of the two great orders of Charity and Mercy, the one founded in Dublin by Mrs. McAuley, the other at Emmettsburg, Maryland, by Mrs. Seton, an American lady and a convert. _A propos_ to the latter, he relates the following:

"It may be remarked, that this holy woman, this model wife and daughter, was deeply impressed with the religious demeanor of the poor Irish emigrants of that day--the opening of the present century--who were detained in quarantine at Staten Island, and attended by her father, as Health Physician to the port of New York. 'The first thing,' she says, 'these poor people did, when they got their tents, was to assemble on the grass, and all kneeling, adored our Maker for his mercy; and every morning sun finds them repeating their praises.' The scenes then witnessed at Staten Island remind one of those which were so fatally frequent in subsequent years. Even at that time--1800, and the years following--large numbers of emigrants arrived at the port of New York, suffering from the dreadful scourge of fever, so calamitous to the Irish race."--P. 363.

For all that relates to the illustrious prelates, Bishop England and Archbishop Hughes, their lives and their works, we must refer the reader to the book itself. An anecdote, in which Bishop England and one of his zealous priests were actors, will be found peculiarly interesting:

"One evening the bishop, who was on this occasion accompanied by one of his few priests--Father O'Neill; it need scarcely be added, a countryman of his own--drew up at a house of rather moderate dimensions, whose master was a marked specimen of the species surly. Negotiations were entered into for a dinner, which the liberal host was willing to give on certain conditions, somewhat exorbitant in their nature; but there was to be no further accommodation. 'You cannot stop the night, nohow,' said the agreeable owner of the mansion; and his look of dogged dislike was quite as emphatic as his words. After dinner, Dr. England sat on a chair in the piazza, and read his 'office;' while Father O'Neill, having no desire to enjoy the company of his unwilling entertainer, sauntered toward the carriage, a little distance off, where the boy was feeding the horses; and taking his flute from his portmanteau, he sat on a log, and commenced his favorite air, 'The Last Rose of Summer,' into which he seemed to breathe the very soul of tenderness. {775} From one exquisite melody to another the player wandered, while the negro boy grinned with delight, and the horses enjoyed their food with a keener relish. That

'Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,'

was here exemplified. As the sweet notes stole on the soft night air of the South, and reached the inhospitable mansion, a head was eagerly thrust forth, and the projecting ears thereof appeared eagerly to drink in the flood of melody. Another lovely air, one of those which bring involuntary tears to the eyes, and fill the heart with balm, was played with lingering sweetness, when a voice, husky with emotion, was heard uttering these words, 'Strangers! don't go! do stay all night! don't go; we'll fix you somehow.' It was the voice of the charmed host! That evening the two guests enjoyed the snuggest seats at the hearth, Father O'Neill playing for the family till a late hour. Next morning the master of the house would not accept of the least compensation. 'No, no, bishop! no, no, Mr. O'Neill! not a cent! You're heartily welcome to it. Come as often as you please, and stay as long as you can. We'll be always glad to see you; but,' specially addressing Father O'Neill, 'be sure and don't forget the flute!'"--P. 323.

Mr. Maguire's account of the Irish in the late civil war is long and interesting. He tells many interesting anecdotes of their heroism, their fidelity to their flag, whether Confederate or Federal, and also of the influence they, their religion, and its ministers exercised on the non-Catholics with whom they were brought in immediate contact. Here are one or two extracts:

"A Southern general said to me, 'The war has worn away many a prejudice against Catholics, such was the exemplary conduct of the priests in the camp and the hospital, and the Christian attitude of the church during the whole of the struggle. Many kind and generous acts were done by the priests to persecuted ladies, who now tell with gratitude of their services. Wherever an asylum was required, they found it for them. I wish all ministers had been like the priests, and we might never have had this war, or it would not have been so bitter as it was.'"--P. 480.

Exceedingly honorable to the Irish soldiers of the Union is the following testimony:

"The Irish displayed a still nobler quality than courage, though theirs was of the most exalted nature; they displayed magnanimity, generosity--Christian chivalry. From one end of the South to the other, even where the feeling was yet sore, and the wound of defeat still rankled in the breast, there was no anger against the Irish soldiers of the Union. Whenever the feeble or the defenceless required a protector, or woman a champion, or an endangered church a defender, the protector, the champion, and the defender were to be found in the Irishman, who fought for a principle, not for vengeance or desolation. The evil deeds, the nameless horrors, perpetrated in the fury of passion and in the license of victory whatever these were, they are not laid at the door of the Irish. On the contrary, from every quarter are to be heard praises of the Irish for their forbearance, their gallantry, and _chivalry_--than which no word more fitly represents their bearing at a time when wanton outrages and the most horrible cruelties were too frequently excused or palliated on the absolving plea of stern necessity."--Pp. 552, 553.

Of the Philadelphia riots and church-burning, and of the memorable struggle for the freedom of Catholic education in New York, Mr. Maguire gives interesting accounts. From this portion of the work we select the following. The author has been speaking of the beneficent effects exercised by convent schools; he goes on to say:

"What is true of convent schools is equally true of schools and colleges under the care of the great educational orders--Jesuits, Sulpicians, Vincentians, Redemptorists, Brothers and Sisters of the Holy Cross, Christian Brothers, Franciscans, and others."--P. 504.

When Mr. Maguire comes to speak of the Fenians, he generally takes a fair and impartial view of the subject. We must, however, object _in toto_ to one remark of his. He says, on page 592:

"So far as I have been able to learn, my belief is, that among the Fenians in almost every State of the Union there are many thousands of the very cream of the Irish population."

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So far is this from being the case, as it must have been represented to Mr. Maguire, that it was, and is, the constant complaint of the Fenians themselves, precisely that the "cream of the Irish population" kept widely aloof from them.

The concluding pages of the book are devoted exclusively to the strange phenomenon presented by the fondly-cherished, never-dying, hatred of England found among the Irish in every part of America; the deep-seated, burning thirst for vengeance on the power whose baneful influence has for many ages blighted the genius, the hopes, the energies of the Irish at home--whose colossal shadow has thrown into the shade the fairer and more graceful genius of the Celtic race, and made "the oldest Christian nation of Western Europe," the proud Celto-Iberian race, the poorest, the most abject of European nations, with all its wealth of genius, of poetry, of energy, of all that gives historic fame.

Mr. Maguire has given a good "bird's-eye view" of the Irish in America; he has shown them in various lights, and under various aspects; still his book has left much untold, much that would have interested the Irish and the friends of the Irish everywhere. There is, moreover, a want of method in the arrangement of this book--a certain haziness and indistinctness, that detracts considerably from its value as a book of reference. Too much is said of some things and some persons, too little of other things and persons; and these omissions unfortunately include what we here consider most honorable to "The Irish In America."

The Double Marriage. [Footnote 69]

[Footnote 69: From _The Diary of a Sister of Mercy_. By Mrs. C. M. Brame. Now in press, by the Catholic Publication Society.]