Chapter II.

God had given great compensation to Paula in the rare natures of her children. The eldest, and perhaps the most gifted, Blesilla, combined with delicate health an ardent soul, quick wit, and a charming mind. Her penetration astonished even St. Jerome. She was full of those characteristics that make one hope everything and fear everything. She was but fifteen when she lost her father, and seventeen when St. Jerome first knew her, in the first bloom of her youth and beauty. She spoke Greek and Latin with perfect purity, and the elegance of her language was remarkable, as well as the quickness of her intellect.

Paula, full of anxiety for such a nature, sought to give her the counterpoise of solid piety. But Blesilla, though capable of exalted virtues, was intoxicated by the splendors of the sphere in which she was born and educated. Like all young girls of her rank, she loved dress, luxury, and entertainments, and neither the death of her father nor her mother's example had detached her heart from the world, neither did her early widowhood; for Paula had given her in marriage to a young and rich patrician of the race of Camillus, who died in a short time after, leaving Blesilla a widow and without children. But even this blow did not suffice, and, after the usual time given to mourning, the worldly and frivolous tastes of the young widow again rose to the surface. She passed many hours before her glass, busy in adorning herself, surrounded by her slaves occupied in dressing her hair and waiting on her, and entertainments of all sorts were her delight.

Paulina, the second daughter of Paula, was, as we have already said, a great contrast to her sister. Less brilliant, but not less agreeable, great good sense was her chief attribute, with sweetness of disposition. Less captivated by the world than Blesilla, she was more inclined to be pious. The equilibrium in her nature was excellent. But there was nothing in any way uncommon about her. She seemed born for the ordinary destiny of woman. She was now sixteen, and Paula, with an instinct truly maternal, felt that what she had to do for her child was to give her a protector worthy of her, in a husband of sound character and amiable disposition.

But the pearl of Paula's children was her third daughter, Eustochium, who was sweetness and candor itself, and all innocence and piety. Her distinguishing feature was her love for her mother, whom she never for a moment quitted. Marcella kept her with her for some time, and when the child returned to Paula, she clung more than ever to her mother, like a young vine. Her only wish was to follow in the footsteps of Paula and to be like her, and to consecrate herself also to the service of God with her young virginal heart. Soft and silent, but hiding under this veil of timidity a remarkable mind, Eustochium was formed for high purposes. She was not fourteen when St. Jerome came to Rome.

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Rufina was then only eleven or twelve years of age, and the time had not yet come for anxiety about her. It was, however, different with Toxotius, who was younger still, but had not received baptism, his father's family having assumed his guardianship; and they were pagans, which grieved Paula, who hoped to make her son a fervent Christian.

Such was the family of Paula. Her many duties to them had excited the interest of the austere monk, who, together with Marcella, wished to do everything possible to aid Paula in her cares. Blesilla at once filled the mind of St. Jerome with the ardent wish to save her from the career of worldliness on which she seemed bent; but in vain did he try to bring her to grave thoughts. Paulina was easier to guide, for Providence aided the pious efforts of her friends in the husband chosen for her by her mother, who was Pammachius, of whom St. Jerome has said that he was "the most Christian of the noble Romans, and the most noble of the Christians." He was also the old and tried friend of St. Jerome, to whom this marriage gave great happiness, as well as to Paula and Marcella.

As for Eustochium, she continued to expand and bloom under the influence of her mother. In vain were the rich dresses of her sisters and their shining jewels spread out before her. Her taste for religious life was becoming more and more decided every day. Notwithstanding her great youth, none of the maidens of the Aventine surpassed her in prayer, or in following St. Jerome in his laborious studies of the Scriptures. She had learnt Hebrew, and, like her mother, had inspired St. Jerome with singular devotion and interest. The increasing vocation of Eustochium aroused opposition in her father's family; for it was not possible that the progress of monastic tendencies among the patrician women should be allowed to take root without resistance in Rome, where opposition was made by law to anything like celibacy for men, with open advocacy of matrimony and the honors of maternity for women.

St. Jerome undertook to modify these ideas with his powerful pen, and, in his answer to the attack of one named Helvidius, came off the field completely victorious.

It was about this time, 384 A.D., that Blesilla fell ill of a pernicious fever, which for a month threatened her life. This illness brought her wisdom. The following is the story of her conversion, from St. Jerome: "During thirty days," he says, "we saw our Blesilla burning with a devouring fever. She lay almost bereft of life, panting under the struggle with death, and trembling at the thought of the judgments of God. Where then was the help of those who gave her worldly counsels? of those who prevented her from living for Christ? Could they save her from death? No. But our Lord himself, seeing that she was only carried away by the intoxication of youth and the errors of her century, came to her, touched her hand, and cried out to her, as to Lazarus, 'Arise, come forth and walk!' She understood this call, and she arose and knew that she owed the boon of life to him who had given it back to her." She was then but twenty years of age, when she shone in her new-born beauty of holiness. {510} She, who formerly passed long hours at her toilet, now sought only to find God; and, instead of the ornaments in which she had liked to appear, she now covered her fair head with the veil most becoming for a Christian woman. All the money that had been spent for adorning herself now went to the poor. And this ardent soul, once consecrated to God, gave itself up entirely, and, passing with a great flight beyond ordinary natures, at once reached the summit of human virtue and perfection.

Eustochium and Paula had not more ardor. Jerome was admirable in his manner of seconding this generous enthusiasm. He now instructed her in the Scriptures, and she studied first Ecclesiastes, then the gospels, and Isaiah. She learned Hebrew to read the Psalms. Her energy was wonderful, for her steps still tottered from illness, and her delicate neck drooped under the weight of her young head. But the divine book was never out of her hands.

How shall we paint the joy of Paula at this change in her beloved child! Her dearest wishes had been granted. This, too, was a fruitful conversion; others imitated such an example; and Paula's house soon became a sort of monastery, which Jerome would call the _fireside church_. He gives a most beautiful description of Paula and her children at this period, when the blessing of God was so visibly on her household. Her fervor increased. She determined on a complete sacrifice of her worldly goods, and, in the words of St. Jerome, "being already dead to the world, though still living, she distributed all her fortune among her children," thereby entirely initiating herself into the holy poverty of Christ. Notwithstanding all the consolations God had sent her, she was still uneasy and dissatisfied; her life was not yet all that she sighed for. A great disgust toward Rome filled her mind, and the descriptions Epiphanius had given her of the East rose up for ever in her, making her soul long for the monastic life of the desert. The example of Melanie was then to increase this longing, for Melanie had now been for some years realizing her dreams in her convent on the Mount of Olives.

There was now nothing to prevent Paula from going. Blesilla, as well as Eustochium, wished to follow their mother in her pilgrimage, and many of their friends desired to join them. St. Jerome, the veteran pilgrim, was to be their pilot to holy places. He had strengthened them all in the love of God and nourished them with the Holy Scriptures. His letters to Eustochium at this time were exquisite. What could be more touching than the friendship uniting the austere old monk and this sweet young maiden? "O my Eustochium! O my daughter! O my sister!" he wrote to her, "since my age and charity alike permit me to give you these names, if you are by birth the noblest of Roman virgins, I beseech you guard zealously your own heart and keep it from evil. Imitate our Lord Jesus Christ, be obedient to your parents, go out rarely, and honor the martyrs in the solitude of your chamber. Read often and you will learn much. Let sleep surprise you with the holy book in your hands, and, if your head drop down with fatigue, let it be on the sacred pages."

Eustochium was grateful to him for his wise counsels, and, wishing to express her appreciation of his letters to her, she gathered courage to send him a little offering of a basket of cherries, with several of those bracelets called _armillae_ and some doves. The whole was accompanied by a sweet, girlish letter, full of affection. The cherries, she said, were a symbol of purity, to remind him of his letters; the bracelets were such as were given to reward brilliant deeds, and were to put him in mind of his own victories in controversy; and, lastly, the doves were emblematic of his tenderness to her from her childhood.

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St. Jerome received with great kindness the little offerings of his spiritual daughter, and thanked her for them in a letter full of affection, mingled with the grave counsels which ever flowed from his pen.

The time was approaching for the departure of Paula for the East. It was in the autumn of 384 A.D., when Blesilla suddenly fell ill of the same fever which had once before laid her so low. The news of her illness filled her friends with consternation, for Blesilla was tenderly loved by them. She sank so rapidly that there was soon no hope left of her recovery. This was but four months after her conversion, and God already judged her ready for a better life, and called her to himself.

She was but twenty, and was going to die. Her mother, her sisters, her relations, her friends, Marcella and St. Jerome, all gathered around her death-bed in tears. Blesilla alone did not weep. Though the fever was consuming her, a ray of celestial light illuminated her countenance with a beauty not of earth, and transfigured her. Her only regret was, that her repentance had been so short. She turned to those who were around her: "Oh! pray for me," she cried, "to our Lord Jesus Christ, to have mercy on my soul, since I die before I have been able to accomplish what I had in my heart to do for him." These were her last words; every one present was moved to tears by them. Jerome eagerly offered consolation. "Trust in the Lord, dear Blesilla," said he; "your soul is as pure as the white robes you have worn since your consecration to God, which though but recent was so generous and complete that it came not too late." These words filled her soul with peace. And shortly afterward, to use the words of St. Jerome, "freeing herself from the pains of the body, this white dove flew off to heaven!"

Her obsequies were magnificent, followed by all the Roman nobles. Such was the custom of the patricians. A peculiar interest and sympathy were felt in the fate of this brilliant young woman, as well as universal compassion for the sorrow of her venerable mother. The long procession walked through the streets, followed by the coffin covered with a veil of gold. St. Jerome, though not approving of this display, dared not interfere to prevent it, as it seemed a sad consolation to Paula to see the honors paid to the child so tenderly loved. She undertook to accompany Blesilla to her last resting-place; but her strength failed, and, having taken but a few steps, she fainted away and was brought back to her house insensible.

The days that followed the funeral only increased her grief. She was crushed by it. In vain did she try to submit to the divine will, her heart failed her, and Jerome felt that he must make an effort to give her strength, or else she would succumb to the pressure. The effort was great on his part, for Blesilla was his beloved pupil, and this death annihilated all his own cherished hopes of her. He never found the courage to conclude a commentary, begun expressly for her, on Ecclesiastes. But feeling it a duty to help Paula, he wrote to her a letter filled with true delicacy of feeling and Christian faith. He commenced by weeping with her over the lost Blesilla, for he said: "While wishing to dry her mother's tears, am I not weeping myself?" {512} He continued this noble letter in these words, alike reproachful and sympathizing: "When I reflect that you are a mother, I do not blame you for weeping; but when I reflect also that you are a Christian, then, O Paula! I wish that the Christian would console the mother a little."

He reminded her of the children she had left, and with all the authority of his holy office bid her take care lest, "in loving her children so much, she did not love God enough." "Listen," he says, "to Jesus, and trust in him: 'Your daughter is not dead, but sleepeth.'"

Then Jerome would picture to Paula her daughter in all her celestial glory. He would suppose Blesilla calling upon her mother in these words: "If you have ever loved me, O my mother! if you have ever nourished me from your bosom, and trained my soul with your words of wisdom and virtue, oh! I conjure you, do not lament that I have such glory and happiness as is mine here! What prayers does Blesilla not now offer up for you to God!" And St. Jerome adds, "She is praying for me also, for you know, O Paula! how devoted I was to her soul, and what I did not fear to brave, that she might be saved."

St. Jerome's letter awoke new Christian strength and resignation in the broken spirit of Paula. The tears ceased to flow, but the wound bled inwardly and never healed. The void left by Blesilla in her mother's heart must ever make it desolate. Rome became insupportable to her, and the pilgrimage to the East, so long thought of, seemed now the only thing that could interest her. About this time Pope Damasus died. He was a great loss to St. Jerome, for his successor had not the same moral courage, and dared not sustain the old monk in advocating monastic life, which so enraged the patricians.

Finally, worn out by persecution, and perhaps longing to return to that solitude he had never ceased to regret, Jerome determined to leave Rome. This was in the year 385 A.D. His friends were only waiting for his signal to accompany him in numbers, and many were the tears shed by his gentle pupils in Rome at his departure. His farewell letter to them all was addressed to the venerable Asella, through whom he sent his last greetings to Paula, Eustochium, Albina, Marcella, Marcellina, and Felicity, "his sisters in Jesus Christ." Many of these he was destined to see no more. But the decision of Paula was irrevocable. She had no longer any earthly tie to detain her. Her son, moved by the example of his mother and sisters, had received Christian baptism, and was soon to marry a young Christian maiden, the cousin of Marcella. Rufina was to remain during her mother's absence with her sister Paulina and Pammachius, and also with Marcella, her second mother.

Eustochium was to accompany her mother, as well as a large number of the pious community of the Aventine. They left Rome in the autumn of 385 A.D. Paula courageously bid farewell to her children, and the friends who had followed in troops to see her embark. Leaning on the arm of Eustochium, she was seen on the deck of the vessel, her eyes averted, that her strength might not fail her as she witnessed the sorrow of her loved ones whom she was leaving. For St. Jerome tells us, "Paula loved her children more than any other woman."

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The voyage was favorable, the vessel touching at many places of classic interest. When they finally reached Salamines in the Island of Cyprus, what was her joy on finding her venerable friend, St. Epiphanius, waiting on the shore to receive her, happy in being able to return the hospitality he had enjoyed under her roof in Rome three years before.

The Island of Cyprus was filled with monasteries and convents founded and protected by Epiphanius, which were a great attraction to Paula. Holy hymns were sung where Venus but lately had reigned supreme; and the grave of the holy patriarch Hilarion stood near the ruins of the ancient temple of the heathen goddess.

After leaving Cyprus, Paula went to Antioch. There Jerome and the priests and monks who had accompanied him from Rome were awaiting her with Paulinus, the bishop. They wished to detain her; but since her feet had touched land her ardor to reach Jerusalem had so increased that nothing could stop her. To follow the footsteps of Christ, to see where his precious blood was shed, then to visit the anachorites of the desert, such was Paula's thought. Eustochium and her companions shared this desire. No time was lost. A caravan was organized, Jerome and his friends on dromedaries, Paula and her suite on asses, and they began their journey together. The road from Antioch to Jerusalem was long and fatiguing for women so delicately bred. A journey in those days was full of perils of which we now have no idea. But Paula was indefatigable, deterred by no dangers and complaining of no inconveniences, as she crossed the icy plains at this most trying season of the year. St. Jerome tells of the cities that she saw, and of the emotions that she felt as her knowledge of Scripture and of holy books brought up recollections and associations either of Jewish or of Christian history wherever she went. Besides, Jerome was there, with his prodigious memory and knowledge, to throw light on every step.

As Paula approached Jerusalem, her soul was more deeply moved, than it had yet been. The view of the landscape around the city was desolate, even as early as the fourth century. She entered by the Gate of Jaffa, also called the Gate of David and the Gate of the Pilgrims. The proconsul of Palestine had sent an escort to meet her, to receive her with honor; but with that sentiment which later made Godefroi de Bouillon refuse to wear a golden crown where God had worn one of thorns, Paula refused to lodge in the palace offered for her convenience, and she and her whole suite staid at a modest dwelling not far from Calvary; then she started at once to visit the Holy Places. Who can describe her feelings as she entered the church of the Holy Sepulchre? In the fourth century, the stone which closed the entrance to the tomb of our Lord was still to be seen by the faithful pilgrims. To-day it is covered by a monument of marble. As soon as Paula saw it, with great emotion she embraced it; but when she entered into the sepulchre itself, and went up to the rock on which had laid the body of our Lord, she could no longer restrain her tears, and, falling on her knees, sobbed and wept abundantly. All Jerusalem saw these tears, and were edified at the great piety of this noble Roman lady, the daughter of the Scipios.

St. Jerome tells us that, while she was in Jerusalem, "she would see everything," and that "she was only dragged away from one holy place that she might be taken to another."

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After having visited Jerusalem, the pilgrims travelled all over the Holy Land, commencing with Bethlehem and Judea, then visiting Jericho and the Jordan, Samaria and Galilee as far as Nazareth, and finally, reorganizing the caravan, they set out for Egypt; not, however, before paying a visit to Melanie, in her convent on the Mount of Olives, whence they returned to Jerusalem.

Paula would now have fixed herself at Bethlehem but for this longing to visit the fathers of the desert. They started on this, the longest and most fatiguing part of their journey, and were sixteen days in going from Jerusalem to Alexandria. This city was the Athens of the East. In such an atmosphere of learning, there had been great intellectual development among the Christians, and the school of Christian philosophers of Alexandria was renowned throughout the world. This was what detained Paula and Eustochium, and particularly Jerome, some time at Alexandria, where they were received with great hospitality by the bishop, Theophilus. But even the most interesting studies could not make Paula forget the principal object of her voyage to Egypt, and her desire to see and to know the ascetics, that wonderful class of men, who voluntarily exiled themselves from the world and from all human ties, and astonished mankind by incredible austerities, and by consecrating their lives entirely to spiritual things and to a future existence. At this time the number of these anachorites had so multiplied, that it was said that in Egypt the deserts had as many inhabitants as the cities. Monastic life was then in all its glory. The great anachorites, Paul, Antony, Hilarion, and Pacomius, were dead; but their disciples lived, as celebrated as themselves. A great work of organization had been accomplished among them. The first men who came to the desert lived alone in caves or cells, each following his individual inspiration. Paul had lived forty years in a grotto, at the entrance of which was a spring and a palm-tree, drinking the water of the spring and eating the fruit of the tree, being his only nourishment. Antony's life had been more extraordinary still. But when the number of the hermits increased, they felt the necessity of community life being established, and the cenobites began to take the place of the anachorites, though there remained many of the latter, dividing, as it were, the hermits into two kinds, the Anachorites and the Cenobites. Large convents spread out along the banks of the Nile to the furthest extremity of Egypt.

It was not easy to visit these establishments. In going there, many years before, Melanie and her companions had been lost for five days, and their provisions being exhausted they had nearly died of hunger and thirst in the desert. Crocodiles, basking in the sun, had awaited with open jaws to devour them, and numberless other dangers had beset them.

But this did not discourage Paula, and her route being happily chosen, she accomplished her journey safely to the mountain of Nitria, where five thousand cenobites lived in fifty different convents, under the rule of one abbot. The news of her coming had preceded her, and the Bishop of Heliopolis had come to welcome the noble lady. He was surrounded by a great crowd of cenobites and anachorites. As soon as they perceived the caravan, they came forward singing hymns. Paula was soon surrounded. She declared herself most unworthy of the honors accorded her, and at the same time glorified God, who worked such marvels in the desert. The bishop first conducted the pious band to the church situated on the summit of the mountain, and there, with that hospitality for which the monks of the East were ever remarkable, the travellers were given the best rooms attached to the convent and intended for the use and convenience of strangers. {515} Fresh water was brought to them to wash their feet, and linen to dry them, and the fruits of the desert to refresh their palates; after which they were allowed to visit the convents and the hermits, whose life was very simple and very free, at the same time holy and austere. Ambitious of reducing the body to servitude, and to penetrate the secrets of things divine, they united action with contemplation. Their days were passed between work and prayer. Some were to be seen digging the earth, cutting trees, fishing in the Nile, or perhaps plaiting the mats on which they were to die. Others were absorbed by the reading of, or meditation on, the Holy Scriptures. The monasteries swarmed like bee-hives.

After having witnessed the cenobitical life, Paula went to the desert of cells to see the anachorite life, which there was carried out in all its austerity and all its poetry. These monks had no walls built by man, but had retired to the mountains as to the most inaccessible asylums. Caverns and rocks were their dwellings, the earth their table, their food roots and wild plants, and water from the springs their refreshment. Their prayers were continual, and all the mountain hollows rang with God's praises. These grottoes did not communicate with each other, and the isolation of the anachorites was complete. Once a week, on Sunday only, they left their cells, and, dressed in robes made of palm-leaves or of sheepskin, they went to the church of Nitria, where they saw one another, and also met the cenobites. Paula wished to know and listen to these pious men. She therefore visited all the grottoes, one by one, talking always of the things of God to their inmates.

Paula's next visit was through a still more savage country to see those called by St. Jerome "the columns of the desert." She cared not for dangers nor fatigue, so that she could contemplate such men as _Macarius_--the disciple of Antony and Pacomius--a man so austere that he had astonished Pacomius himself, who had watched him during the whole of one Lent plaiting mats in his cell, without speaking to any one, all absorbed in God, and only eating once a week, on Sunday, a few raw vegetables. None could surpass this great ascetic. He permitted the pilgrims to penetrate into his grotto, and delighted Paula with his holy conversation and instruction.

Jerome admired likewise the prodigies of this pure and austere life; but more occupied than Paula with the doctrines he heard discussed, he had perceived that some of the monks were less enlightened than others. It seems, as it afterward was proved, that the theories of Origen were already beginning to trouble the inhabitants of the desert.

There remained now, to complete Paula's insight into the life of the hermits, but to visit the convents founded by Pacomius, which she hesitated not to do. There were six thousand monks living in them, governed by the venerable Serapion. Their rule divided each monastery into a certain number of families. Their frugal lives enabled them to extend their charities far and wide. Their fasting and abstinence lasted all the year round, becoming only more strict in Lent. Paula enjoyed their hospitality greatly, learning much from Serapion that delighted her about this well-organized monastic life which realized her ideal.

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She thought for a moment of establishing herself in the desert, and of requesting Serapion to admit her colony under the rule of Pacomius; but the love of the Holy Places prevented her from carrying out this plan. She said "her resting-place was not in these deserts, it was in Bethlehem." Already had she lingered too long! She had now learned all that she wished to learn, enough for her own guidance. She therefore embarked with her entire caravan for Maioma, a sea-port of Gaza; and from there, without stopping on her way, she returned to Jerusalem, and thence to Bethlehem, with as much rapidity, says St. Jerome, as if she had had wings.

Here the news awaited her of the death of her daughter Rufina. The blow was terrible to Paula, but her mind was strengthened by all she had seen, and the voice of God reached her heart and comforted her, and gave her stronger hope than she had ever had in reunion hereafter with her beloved children. She sought to make herself worthy of immortality, and her faith and her good works brought her consolation and peace. She resolved to found two monasteries: one for herself, Eustochium, and her friends from the Aventine; the other for Jerome and his followers. This was done without delay, and they at once began the life which they longed for--a life of labor, of study, and of prayer.

To Be Continued.

To The Count De Montalembert, With A Copy Of "Inisfail." [Footnote 149]

[Footnote 149: From a forthcoming volume of Poems, by Aubrey de Vere, now in press by the Catholic Publication Society.]

Your spirit walks in halls of light: On earth you breathe its sunnier climes: How can an Irish muse invite Your fancy thus to sorrowing rhymes?

But you have fought the church's fight! My country's cause and hers are one: And every cause that rests on Right Invokes Religion's bravest son.

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The Legend of Glastonbury.--A D. 62.

Down in the pleasant west of England a river--the copious Brue--follows its course to Bridgewater Bay, between the Sedgemoors and other rising grounds. Somersetshire farmers now drive their ploughs and graze their cattle where I am going to describe water: thanks to those Benedictine monks whom they have so clean forgotten. But at Christmas-tide, some sixty years after the first Christmas the world ever saw, there were no monks at Glastonbury; for the simple reason, there were no Christians there. No one had banked out the waters of the Bristol Channel, and converted a brackish and unwholesome swamp into fine arable or pasture land. The Brue had it all its own way, to make islands, pools, and treacherous bogs with its unrestrained waters; until it had got so far west as to struggle with the advancing tide of the bay.

Glastonbury has the holiest memories of any place in England; and they date from the first moment when the faith was planted there. The sacred name of our Lord was brought to this marshy district in a far-off heathen land by one of his own disciples, Saint Joseph of Arimathea.

Who has not heard of the Glastonbury thorn? A history of Somerset would be incomplete which did not mention its blossoming every Christmas that comes round. It was fair and fragrant for fifteen hundred winters, while all around was sapless and dead. People try to account for this standing miracle by something peculiar in the soil, as they would explain away the freedom of Ireland from snakes and toads, or the healing virtues of St. Winifred's Well. There were probably Sadducees in Jerusalem who thought the Pool of Bethesda was all nonsense, or a mere chalybeate. Anything you like about the powers of nature, but nothing of the marvels of grace. Chemistry to any extent, but of miracle not one jot. Thorns blooming at Christmas? It is all a question of earth, soil, stratum, and the lay of the ground, with those who are "of the earth, earthy."

But we are now on our way to Glastonbury as Christian pilgrims, staff in hand. And it is very fit that we should regard the old thorn (or such suckers and cuttings of it as may be found) with reverence. For that thorn is a Christian tree, planted by Christian hands. More than this: it was planted by the hands whose unutterable privilege it was to unfasten and take down from the cross, and bear with adoring reverence to the tomb, the body of God, separated from his soul, united ever with his divinity.

We are accustomed, in our meditations on the passion, to contemplate the emaciated, agonized form of our Lord stretched and racked upon the cross; or, after the _Consummatum est_, when eventide was come, laid stark and bloodless in the arms of the Queen of martyrs, his most desolate Mother. Naturally we lose out of sight, by comparison, other agents and events in what followed his expiring cry. Yet look again. In the growing dusk of that first Good Friday, at the foot of the cross, and in the group of five or six persons to whom the eternal Father seems to commit the lifeless body of his Son, there is the saint of Glastonbury. {518} With the dolorous Mother, and the beloved disciple, and the saintly, penitent Magdalene, and the other holy women, and Nicodemus, St. Joseph of Arimathea also bears his part.

To come back to Glastonbury; we must pass over some thirty years from that sacred paschal eve. Pentecost soon followed it, with its fiery tongues on the apostles' brows. They were illuminated and strengthened to preach the faith over the earth lying in darkness. So they separated on this world-wide mission, each on the path whereon the guidance of God's Spirit led him. "Their sound went over all the earth, and their words unto the ends of the whole world." St. Philip went into Phrygia, and, by some accounts, was martyred there. Others make him to have preached the gospel in what is now France, and that St. Joseph was one of his companions. A better supported tradition has it that St. Joseph, with St. Lazarus and his two holy sisters, Martha and Mary, landed at Marseilles from Judea. Anyhow, here comes St. Joseph of Arimathea to Britain, with a faithful band of eleven disciples. He has reached the distant region of tin-mines which the old Phoenicians had discovered and worked in Cornwall, Scilly, and, perhaps, the Mendip Hills. He is come not for precious metals, but to bring the priceless word of life.

So, rather more than sixty years after the Incarnation, and while Saints Peter and Paul are still alive in Rome, though the day of their martyrdom draws near, we find ourselves on the brow of Weary-All Hill, a mile or so south-west of the spot where Glastonbury Abbey will be built.

Weary-All Hill! the name it has been known by for generations back. But not a likely name to be given it by St. Joseph and his eleven companions, as they stood on it for the first time, eighteen centuries ago; as they looked on the marshy plain, dotted with islands, in and out of which the glassy stream is winding. Weariness, at least lassitude of spirit, was unknown to those apostolic men. Had they not come all this way to bring the everlasting gospel? Had not their feet been "beautiful upon the mountains" as they crossed them, bearing this message of heavenly love?--mountains deep in snow, yawning with frightful clefts and precipices, gloomy with impenetrable forests, to which this Weary-All is scarcely a mole-hill?

"At length, then," said St. Joseph, when the twelve had paused on the brow of it to recover breath; for few of them were young, and it was rather a pull for a Somersetshire hill--"at length we have reached the end of our pilgrimage."

As he spoke, he pointed with his long staff to the little group of islands already noticed. A cheery December sun lingered on the scene, and, though it was evening, still cast a gleam upon the wide-spread water. The Brue was winding along, noiseless and limpid, sprinkled with its dark islets, as the shining coils of a snake are variegated with the spots upon its skin. There was no ice yet, though it was already the Christmas season. Perhaps the sea-water that mingled with the marsh from the Bristol Channel prevented its formation. The leafless thickets that fringed the slopes of West Sedgemoor, and clothed both islands and marshland in irregular clumps, allowed a more distinct view of the mirror of waters than when shaded with summer foliage. There was a kind of grave and sober animation over the whole scene.

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A short distance further off, to the east, rose a solitary peaked hill, perhaps even _then_ called the Tor. It has several scarped lines, or passes, drawn around it, denoting that the Romans had fortified it as a stronghold, which they occupied from time to time. Years after, a little chapel in honor of St. Michael the archangel will be built on its summit. Years later, again, that little chapel will be enlarged into a stately church, the tower of which still remains. And nearly fifteen centuries after St. Joseph first stood on Weary-All, the last abbot of the stately Benedictine monastery, as Glastonbury had become, was martyred there with two of his monks. His crime was, that he rendered to Caesar _only_ those things that were Caesar's, and refused to acknowledge the tyrant Henry VIII. as head of God's church in England.

Northward of where we stand, at the distance of five miles and more, the abrupt range of the Mendip Hills caught at that moment almost the last beams of the declining sun, as it sank, fiery red, toward the western ocean.

"The end of our pilgrimage," said St. Joseph again, slowly, and gazed down on the peaceful spot. "These are the islands of which the heathen king spoke:--how are we to name him?"

"Arviragus," answered one of his companions, nay, it was the saint's own nephew, called Helaius.

"Permitting us to set up there a Christian altar, and to proclaim the names and the praises of Jesus and Mary."

"May the kindness be returned a hundred-fold into his own bosom," ejaculated Theotimus.

"Amen," answered St. Joseph fervently. And Joseph his son, and Simeon and Avitus, and the rest, responded.

Then all knelt there on the brow of the hill; all but Hoel, their poor pagan guide to the spot. And with Christian psalms, and the Gloria Patri, and invocations to the court of heaven to assist them in their praises, they poured out thanksgivings to him who had permitted their long wanderings to cease, and their missionary life in this heathen land to begin.

Hoel stood near, leaning on his shepherd's crook. He guessed in general what it was about; but he understood neither Hebrew nor Greek.

He is a true Briton of that date, is Hoel; and he might literally be called "true blue," for he is painted all over in blue patterns with the juice of the woad, like his northern cousins, the Picts. His scanty garments are dyed the same hue with the same plant, which yields its juice plentifully in this part of Britain.

He looks at the saint, and thinks he is inquiring the name of that principal island in the group to which his staff points.

"Iniswytryn," cries Hoel, in explanation. "You're Latin scholars, gentlemen; so I suppose you know what that means--_Glassy Island_." [Footnote 150]

[Footnote 150: _Insula Vitrea_, the Roman and therefore the British name (by a slight corruption) of what was afterward called Glastonbury. _Glas_ is the Celtic word for grayish blue, [Greek text] and enters into numerous local names in Ireland, Wales, and the Highlands. Its affinity with our word _glass_ is probably more than a coincidence of sound, the ancient glass being mostly of the same neutral tint. Others derive the name of the place from the woad-plant, _glaisn_, which grows abundantly in this watered district.]

Glass, in those days, imported by the Romans into Britain, sorry stuff as the best of it would now be reckoned in the Birmingham or St. Helen's foundries, was thought a wonder of rarity and beauty. So Glassy Island was a name equivalent to our calling _another_ island that we love very dearly the

"First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea."

{520}

Hoel now spoke again in the same strange jargon as before, composed of British, or what we should call Welsh, and a little Latin. It was the dialect of those parts of Britain where the Romans had established their colonies and introduced their tongue. Be it noted, we are at this moment near the Roman colonies of Uxella, or Bridgewater, Ad Aquas, or Wells, and Ischalis, or Ilchester.

"So you are going to settle down there," remarked Hoel. "Won't you offer some sacrifice on first sighting the place?"

"We have no means of sacrificing this evening, friend," answered St. Joseph calmly, "nor to-morrow morning, I fear, unless we obtain materials, which at present we lack."

"Means!--materials!" said Hoel, musing with himself. "Well, every nation, I take it, has its own customs. But I know those who would not be long without providing the materials."

St. Joseph wished to ascertain what was passing in the man's mind. The zeal which urged St. Paul to become all things to all men, that he might save all, burned in the holy missionary's bosom. It made him seek out all that might serve the purpose of his coming. He had everything to learn: language, habits of thought, customs of social life, and the very observances of British heathenism.

"And how," he asked, "would you offer a sacrifice, good friend, when you had nothing to offer it with?"

"I? Nay, _I_ could not. What good would a sacrifice be from a peasant like me?"

"To pray is to make an offering, is it not?"

"Yes; but I don't mean that. You know I mean something more; why, something really sacrificed--consumed, to make the gods favorable. Have you no such sacrifice in your religion? Then it can't be the true one, _I'm_ sure!"

"Certainly," said St. Joseph, "we have the one true and adorable Sacrifice, of which all others are mere shadows, and some of them very dark, distorted shadows. Every morning we offer to the true and living God that spotless Lamb who alone can take away sin, or be a worthy thank-offering to his majesty and his mercy."

"A lamb?" said Hoel, still musing; "why, that's not to be had at this season. But would nothing else do instead? For example, now, I've a nice--"

"Do not concern yourself," answered St. Joseph, and smiled again, kindly. "We shall be able to provide ourselves in a few days, when we have made acquaintance with the neighborhood. I suppose they grow wine in these parts?"

"Wine?" repeated the peasant, opening his eyes. "Oh! yes, to be sure." Then, after a pause: "You're fond of wine, then, after all, like our own Druids? Well, I should hardly have thought--"

Helaius could hardly repress a smile at his mistake.

Hoel looked at him; then, as if he had hit on the cause of his amusement, laughed his loud clownish laugh, too.

"Wine? Ah! the very best, if you can buy it of those gray-bearded gentlemen; and old mead, and metheglin; or cider from our apples hereabout. We grew a mortal sight of 'em." [Footnote 151]

[Footnote 151: Glastonbury was afterward called by the Saxons _Avalon_, or the Island of Apples.]

Then he broke out into singing, and a kind of war-dance, to please his companions, as he deemed:

"All under yon oaks, and the mistletoe sprouting. When victims have bled in the circle of stones. We drink down the sunset with sword-play and shouting, And he that refuses, we'll raddle his bones: His bones! And he that refuses, we'll raddle his bones!"

{521}

It was difficult not to smile at his extravagant tones and gestures.

"Gently, gently," said St. Joseph to his companions, "or we shall be misleading him, and doing harm."

"Oh! never mind, ancient sir," remarked Hoel encouragingly, though he had not understood what was said. "All quite right--why shouldn't one? Only, it strikes me, you've no place to lay in a stock of it at present. Now, our Druids burrow out caves, 'tis thought, somewhere under their cromlechs--"

"Listen!" interrupted St. Joseph, laying his hand on the other's arm. He looked into Hoel's face, and gained his attention in a moment. "Listen, while I say a thing to you. Bread and wine, the ordinary food of man in our native land, have been appointed by him whom we serve, as the materials of that true sacrifice which he will accept. He requires, and will admit, no other. Animals were sacrificed to him of old, before he appointed this new and better way; but now--"

"You spoke of a lamb," interrupted the peasant, growing rather sulky, "so I just took the liberty of informing you as we'd none at your service."

It was not the moment to pursue such high and mysterious truths with him any further. But Hoel himself would not be let off, nor would he let off St. Joseph. Something seemed to be working in his mind.

"A lamb is a lamb," persisted he doggedly, though he seemed to mean no disrespect; "and a sacrifice is a sacrifice; and bread is bread, I hope; and wine, I'm sure, is wine."

"All things are what they have been created by God," answered St. Joseph very gently, "until it is his holy will and pleasure to change them in any way, or even to change them into other things."

Hoel looked at him, but said nothing. His look, though, meant inquiry, and this St. Joseph perceived.

"Is not a tree changed into something very different from what it was before," he went on, "when the warm air of spring breathes upon it, and the sap rises into it, and it puts forth green buds, and they swell, and burst, and afterward come leaves and fruit?"

"True," answered he; and then was silent, thinking.

"Did you ever see one of the trees down yonder blossom at this season?"

For all answer, Hoel laughed, and pointed to the leafless boughs on the island, and the shores around them.

"Could the gods whom you worship cause them to do so?"

"Not one of 'em all," answered he, with a somewhat scornful gesture.

"Then, _who_ makes winter pass and spring return; the bud burst forth, and the fruit ripen?"

A pause. The poor pagan was not prepared to answer.

"Now," continued St. Joseph, "my God, the one living and true, not only has appointed the laws by which seasons come round with their produce, and the sun rises and sets. He sometimes, moreover, changes these things, according to his own all-perfect will, so that the sun stays motionless in the heavens above, and the tree blooms in mid-winter on the earth below."

Hoel mused, and mused again, while his eyes wandered from the speaker to the rest, in whose looks he read confirmation of the words. Then he turned to take a sweep over the wintry scene that lay beneath and around. Woods and thickets skirting the slopes of Sedgemoor, the osiers lining the banks of the Brue, the few apple-trees that were even then on Iniswytryn--all without sign of a leaf.

{522}

He bent his eyes to the ground, knit his brows, seemed determined to hear no more, and to believe nothing of what he _had_ heard.

Still the gentle, persuasive voice of the saint sounded in his ears:

"What is that, friend, you have in your hand?"

"My shepherd's crook," was the brief and surly answer.

"And see, my pilgrim-staff, that has aided my steps so far. Yours was cut from a British sapling, out of your moist soil, I dare say, no longer ago than last autumn. Mine, under a burning sky, long years since, in Judea, a land you never heard of. It came from a thorn-brake that had furnished thorns for a crown of which you know nothing. Which of these two staves would bud the quickest, if they were planted side by side?"

Hoel looked up, pleased to find something he understood. "Mine would, of course," he grinned out. "'Tis a right slip of mountain-ash, and would have leaves next spring, if I struck it into the ground."

"And what if mine now budded before you could count ten?"

"You jest with me where I see no jest," exclaimed the countryman, disposed now to be angry, "or you speak as one of the unwise."

"There is no jest here," answered St. Joseph with unruffled look. You say truly. By no power of mine could the seasons alter, or the effects of them. My Master has said: 'All the days of the earth, seed-time and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, night and day, shall not cease!' But what if his power and his will unite to make some wonderful change in all this?"

"His power is great in the summer," answered Hoel, casting a look at the declining sun; "but in the winter time he seems further off, or feebler. He cannot melt the ice, nor draw up the dew, nor warm my fingers while I stand watching my sheep."

It was plain he was speaking of his deity, then sinking in the west, lower every moment.

"Ah!" said Avitus, "is it even such darkness as this into which the land is plunged? Would we had pushed on sooner from Gaul!"

"Courage, brother," whispered Simeon in answer. "There has been no time lost, Man can do but little, except pray and obey. If he does these well, he does good all around him. What says the holy text? 'Well done, good and faithful servant; because thou hast been _faithful in a little_.'"

Meanwhile St. Joseph had been in silent prayer. By some inspiration he felt moved to ask for power to work the first miracle ever wrought in Britain. Our Lord had promised: "These signs shall follow them that believe. In my name they shall cast out devils, they shall speak with new tongues, they shall take up serpents, and if they shall drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them: they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover." "Amen, amen, I say to you, he that believeth in me, the works that I do, he shall do also; and greater than these shall he do, because I go to the Father. And whatsoever you shall ask the Father in my name, that will I do; that the Father may be glorified in the Son."

And even while St. Joseph prayed, it seemed as if witnesses of the miracle, and disciples of the truth, were being given him; for, stealing up the ascent from various directions, knots of the wild Britons, in threes and fours, converged on the summit of Weary-All Hill. {523} I do not suspect Hoel of treachery, or that he had meant to lead the foreigners into a snare. It is likely the rude inhabitants had perceived them from afar as they stood there, their forms traced on the hill-top against the red sunset sky. But these new-comers seemed to have no friendly intention. Most of them held in their hands the rude weapons of ancient British warfare. The bare arms of some were stained blue with the juice of the woad; others were tattooed; they had the wild and savage look we have seen in prints of the Sandwich Islanders. So, with threatening aspect and gestures, on they came, brandishing their lances and _celts_, or bronze hatchets, and beginning a sort of war-cry.

Yes; the moment was come, and the sovereignty of the true Lord both over nature and grace was to be manifested in one and the same moment.

St. Joseph told his companions how strongly the thought had come into his mind. It had, indeed, guided much that he had already said to Hoel. As by one impulse, they all knelt again, and besought our Lord to remember now his promise; so that the soul that had remained impervious to his word might see his work.

St. Joseph then approached the peasant, who by this time was surrounded by his countrymen. In a mild voice, yet with an authority not to be resisted, he said:

"Plant your staff here, upright in the ground."

Hoel was startled, looked at him, then slowly obeyed.

The multitude still gathered, their gestures more threatening every moment.

"Call now, if you will, on your gods, that the staff may bud and blossom."

The peasant turned by a kind of instinct to the setting sun; clouds were mantling round it; its form was veiled; nothing seen but a dull and rusty stain of sunset fast paling into twilight. Hoel shook his head.

"You will not call on it to hear, to help you?"

He was answered by a gesture which implied that the power of Hoel's god was set for that night.

Then St. Joseph, with another ejaculation of prayer, struck his thorny staff into the ground beside the other. He made over it the sign of the cross, saying:

"By the grace of him who for us men hung on the tree on Calvary, wearing the thorny crown, I bid thee be as thou wert wont to be in the bloom of spring!"

There was still light enough to see how, here and there on the length of the staff, the shrivelled rind began to swell and to break, how the green buds shot forth and lengthened into twigs; how these ramified out again, branch from branch, sucker after sucker; how the old staff expanded into a shapely trunk of thorn-tree, crowned with a pollard head of rustling leaves.

And then through the keen wintry air was wafted such a fragrance as had never saluted the senses of shepherd, or of dreaming bard, wandering through the brakes and thickets of leafy May. The seasons had been reversed at the strong prayer of the just. He who enabled Josue to command the greater and lesser light in the firmament, "Move not, O sun, toward Gabaon, nor thou, O moon, toward the valley of Ajalon," now honored the name of the true Josue, the Captain of salvation, by the "things that spring up in the earth," [Footnote 152] which obey their Lord as perfectly as sun, and moon, and stars.

[Footnote 152: _Benedicite omnia germinantia in terrâ Domino_.--Dan. iii. 76.]

{524}

What cries of astonishment broke from the rude men who crowded round! How they came trembling to the feet of St. Joseph; how they kissed the hem of his robe, and adored him as a god! They thought he was Baal himself; they shrieked out that the sun had set in clouds because Baal had come in person to take the place of his representative. And though St. Joseph and his companions testified by signs of abhorrence and earnest words how much the rude impiety disturbed them, yet, "Speaking these things, they scarce restrained the people from sacrificing to them." [Footnote 153]

[Footnote 153: Acts xiv. 17.]

But this reverence, misguided and idolatrous at first, soon found its true channel, and was directed to the Giver of every best gift. And so the gospel was preached in Glastonbury, and grew, and flourished, and breathed out its fragrance like the thorn itself.

Then, after nearly fifteen hundred years, came a winter more killing than any Christmas during which the thorn had bloomed; and "a famine, not of bread, nor a thirst of water, but of hearing the word of the Lord." The decree of spoliation went forth; the royal commissioners, with a warrant from Henry VIII., thundered at the gates. The choir of Glastonbury, as of numerous other shrines in England, was desecrated; treasures of literature in the library and scriptorium were torn in shreds and scattered to the winds, with the relics of innumerable saints. The abbot, and two of his brethren, were drawn on a hurdle to the Tor, and martyred on its summit; the community dispersed, and the ruins, covering many acres, were given over to strangers, as a stable for their cattle.

But this was long after St. Joseph and his companions had been gathered to the saints.

The Sun. [Footnote 154]

[Footnote 154: This lecture was delivered by M. Secchi to the scholars of the school of Saint Genevieve, on the 28th of July last, at a scientific _soirée_, presided over by Mgr. Chigi. It occupied two hours in the delivery, during the whole of which time the lecturer held captive the attention of his distinguished audience, who testified their appreciation of its scientific and literary merits by warm applause. The lecture will speak for itself. But in publishing it, there is one thing which cannot be reproduced; that is, the deep interest which necessarily attaches to the hearing a learned man himself explain his experiments and his discoveries. A number of figures were necessary for the illustration of certain parts of the lecture; and these, prepared from M. Secchi's designs by M. Duboscq, optician, were projected on a screen, by the aid of the electric light, thus enabling the spectators to follow the learned astronomer with greater ease. Of these designs, etc., only the most essential have been given in the published lecture.]

Gentlemen: From the beginning of my stay in Paris, I was invited by persons to whom I owe great deference to lecture to you on some of the subjects which are studied at the Observatory of the Roman College. This invitation I felt to be in the nature of a command, which I would readily have obeyed long before, had I not been prevented by numerous and incessant cares. I cannot, however, leave France without discharging the debt; and it is for this purpose that we have met together, on the present occasion. I propose to speak to you of the sun, and to show you what science teaches us of its physical constitution. {525} For eighteen years I have studied the sun, and observed all that passes over its surface. I hope, also, to interest you in acquainting you not only with the fruit of my own labors, but also with the discoveries of my learned contemporaries.

What is the sun? Such is the question which has been frequently asked me. I confess it has always perplexed me to reply to it. I should not be pardoned, perhaps, if I should say I know nothing of the matter; nevertheless, it is impossible for me to give a complete and satisfactory answer. You yourselves have addressed this question to me with an eagerness which I appreciate as a particular honor; and, in responding to your desire, I am going to place before you the very interesting results which we have obtained in the study of this luminary, to which, after God, its creator, we owe all the physical blessings we enjoy here below.

To deal with this vast subject in something like an orderly form, let us speak first of the new means of observation with which modern science has furnished us; after which we shall see what advantage we have derived from them, and in what way they have served to make us better acquainted with the sun.

Astronomers, gentlemen, are not privileged beings. Like simple mortals, they are dazzled by the sun. Far from sharing the penetrating sight which poets accord to the eagle, they cannot fix their gaze on the bright orb of day without exposing their eyes to the greatest danger; and this danger becomes more serious if they employ their instruments for this purpose without taking proper precautions. Until recently, two means have been employed to protect the eyes of the observer: first, the reduction of the objective aperture of the glasses; and second, providing strongly-colored glasses. These two expedients present the most serious inconveniences. The first deprives the observer of the advantages which he would gain from the large apertures, and the confusion of the image is greatly augmented by the diffraction which the small diaphragms cause the light to undergo; while the second will not permit of our distinguishing the different colors which may meet in the sun; and on this account the observer is liable to fall into very grievous errors. The means now in use effectually obviate this double inconvenience, inasmuch as they allow of the use of the entire aperture of the glasses, and leave to the different parts of the sun their natural color. The first means consists of the employment of the reflective glass. A rectangular prism of crystal is disposed in such a manner as that its hypothenuse has an inclination of 45 degrees on the axis of the glass. The light, on reaching the surface, divides itself into two very unequal parts. The reflected rays are rather feeble, but of sufficient brightness to make them pass through a glass faintly colored, falling perpendicularly on one of the faces of the prism, without reaching the eye of the observer. The colored glass, not having to sustain so high a temperature, is not so liable to break, as often happened in the old method.

If the colored glass is completely done away with, we shall succeed by adopting a method which rests on the properties of polarized light. When the light is reflected by a glass mirror under an angle of 35 degrees 25 minutes, it undergoes a modification which is called polarization. If the rays thus polarized are received on a second glass mirror under the same inclination of 35 degrees 25 minutes, they will divide into two parts, one part of which will traverse the glass, and the other will undergo a second reflection. {526} The quantity of light reflected by the second mirror will depend on the relative position of the two surfaces of reflection. It will be at the maximum if these surfaces are parallel, but otherwise if they are perpendicular; so that, by varying the relative position of the two mirrors to each other, we may either augment or diminish gradually the intensity of the reflected rays. Such is the property of the polarized light, which is utilized for making observations of the sun. To the eye-glass of the instrument are fixed two smooth mirrors, so adjusted as to make to the direction which the light follows an angle equal to the angle of polarization. One of these mirrors can turn round to the reflected rays. Then, by putting the surface of the second almost perpendicular to that of the first, we can observe the sun as easily as we can the moon, seeing it in its natural color, and we can regulate at will the intensity of the light. It is to this new arrangement of the eye-glasses that we owe the greater part of the discoveries of which I am about to speak to you. I ought to add, however, that in the astronomical glasses we employ not only two, but three and even four, of these reflections.

But to come to the consideration of the sun. Everybody knows that it has spots; that these spots, relatively very small, are of a black color, and also, that they adhere to the body of the sun. They move in a manner leading us to the conclusion that this luminary turns on its own axis in the space of twenty-five and a quarter days, and that its equator has an inclination of seven degrees and a half on the ecliptic. These spots are far from being constant. They undergo, on the contrary, the greatest changes both of form and size. They show themselves particularly in some zones, and appear and disappear at very irregular periods. The maximum and the minimum are reproduced at intervals of about eleven years. One of the most curious discoveries of our times is, that this periodicity of the solar spots has some correspondence with terrestrial magnetism. It is impossible to discover the point at which the two classes of phenomena unite, but the existence of the fact is incontestable. Thus, we have just seen the spots pass through the minimum. From September, 1866, to March, 1867, there were scarcely any of them; and during the same period the magnetic perturbations have been very feeble. As soon as the existence of these spots had been fully ascertained, the questions naturally arose, What is the cause of them, and what their nature? On these points there have been numerous opinions, all as diverse as possible. This is not to be wondered at; for hitherto there has been no correct observation from which could be learned the character and the particulars of the phenomena we desire to explain. So, without stopping to discuss ancient theories, I am about to bring before you the latest observations, and the conclusions at which we have arrived. The drawings of the first observers represent the spots as formed with a black centre surrounded by a gray tint of a uniform figure, which is called penumbra. It is not surprising that, with such imperfect means of observation, the theory of the spots should remain so long uncertain, and that these phenomena should have been taken for simple clouds floating in the solar atmosphere. This theory, which was put forth by Galileo, has been revived in our day. The solar spots have an aspect completely different from that which we see in the ancient cuts. {527} I am going to show the drawing of several of them as observed at the Roman College. I designed them myself, by a very rapid process, such a process being very important for objects essentially variable, and which change their form with great rapidity, and in a short space of time. Here is, first, one of the most common forms. (Figure 1.) It is a round spot, consisting of a black centre, around which is a penumbra all ragged. The first thing you wall observe is, that the figure of the penumbra is far from being uniform. It is composed of filaments, very long and very thin, which converge toward the centre. These have been called wisps of straw, willow-leaves, etc. I prefer to call them currents, being aware, at the same time, that it is impossible to compare them to any known thing. They are more scattered near the outline of the penumbra, and they become condensed near the centre, where the light is stronger and brighter. These luminous threads start from the outline of the spot, traverse the penumbra, and often run into the black space that forms the centre, where we see them floating singly, gradually becoming smaller, and disappearing after a while.

The penumbra is not always composed exclusively of threads like those you see. The centre is often surrounded by a uniform pale color, over which the currents are disseminated. These currents are not always continuous, and their different parts present an appearance which may be compared to elongated grains.

In spite of the increased power of the instruments we employ to observe the sun, the detached parts of the spots often appear to us as microscopic objects. In order to form an exact idea of their real dimensions, we must always remember that, at this distance, four fifths of a second is equal to 140 kilometres, and consequently these apparent threads, whose seeming width is at most not more than one or two seconds, are in reality immense currents, being, about the middle, of 600 or 700 kilometres in width, while their length is at least equal to the diameter of the terrestrial globe.

The drawings which you have just seen represent some of these spots in their complete form and exactly defined. But they present themselves oftener under fantastic and irregular forms. They are sometimes accompanied by a kind of tail, itself formed of black spots, and which seems to follow the centre in its motion. {528} We have here a curious example. The centre is not quite black; we meet with shadows there--some gray, and others red; the filaments on all sides fall toward the centre, and their edges are turned back and bent, as if they had experienced some resistance, or as if they had encountered a whirlwind. Here is a spot of this kind, (Figure 2,) the details of which are most instructive, and most important in a theoretical point of view. We find the centre divided in several parts by the luminous threads. This appearance was remarked by the ancient astronomers, who explained it by supposing that on the surface of the sun solid crusts were formed, which broke into shivers like glass under a blow from a stone. Modern observations, however, do not admit of this explanation. They show us clearly that these divisions are produced by currents which, leaving opposite edges, meet in the middle of the centre, and thus divide the spot into several parts.

The formation of a spot is never instantaneous. It is ordinarily announced by the appearance of several black points, and by a kind of diminution in the thickness of the luminous bed. These little cavities multiply themselves; one of them develops itself, absorbing the others, and the process ends in the formation of a black spot in the centre. In this first phase the movements of the spots are very irregular, and their advance is always to the front, by reason of the solar rotation.

The drawing which is now before you represents the first appearance of a great spot which was formed almost suddenly on the 30th of July, 1865. The day preceding that of its appearance, in observing the sun as usual, we had remarked only three little cavities, of which we noted the position. On the 30th of July, at mid-day, we found in the place of these cavities an enormous spot, the surface of which was equal to at least ten times the size of our globe. It was so mobile, and its form changed so constantly, that we could scarcely draw it. We could discover in it four principal centres, where the movement of the matter was visible in the form of a whirlwind. In an interval of 24 hours it had undergone some considerable changes. On the 31st of July, the four centres were completely distinct, and the matter which separated them seemed as if it were stretched out. {529} During the days which followed, this form became more and more marked. Soon there were four spots clearly defined, which ultimately assumed the form of four independent craters or cavities. In the interior of these craters we perceived some light shadows, whose form reminded us of that of the clouds we call cirrus. Their color was different from that of the other part of the sun which presented itself to view. As the polariscopic eye-glass does not change the color of objects, we are enabled to see that these clouds are often of a very decided red; and, as this tint is clear and well marked, it is impossible to confound it with the effects due to the achromatism of the instruments. You see here a great number of spots presenting this appearance, and especially in Figure 2, where the red shadows seem intertwined with the white shadows. I have more than once seen these luminous tongues, so to speak, transform themselves into red veils.

This hasty view is, however, so complete as to convince us that the spots cannot be compared to clouds, their aspect not warranting such a comparison. If any part of them may be compared to clouds, it is more the luminous matter; for we see it precipitate itself in the obscure space, and there dissolve in much the same way as we see the vapor which forms the mist dissolve into thin air. All that we are required to believe is, that these apparently black masses are but rents made in the luminous veil which covers the solar body, and to which we give the name of photosphere. It is this bed which transmits light and heat to us. It is suspended in the solar atmosphere, just as clouds in the terrestrial atmosphere. What appear to us as spots in the sun is simply the effect of the rents which take place in it. We are confirmed in this view by the well-ascertained fact that the spots are depressions in the solar body, and that they have the form of a funnel. This form becomes very perceptible, when the spots are drawn by the rotary movement toward the solar disk. When we examine a spot situated toward the centre of the sun, we find that the shape of the penumbra is more regular. But when the spot moves toward the edge, we see the penumbra diminish on the side of the centre, and increase on the opposite side, in which case it presents the appearance of a cavity in the form of a funnel looked at obliquely. {530} This effect is very clearly indicated in the drawing (Figure 3) which you have now before you, and for which we are indebted to M. Tacchini, the astronomer, of Palermo. We have observed this same spot at Rome, and we have made a drawing of it similar to that you now see; but I would rather exhibit that of M. Tacchini, because it cannot be objected that it was made under the influence of a preconceived idea. You see that in this spot the edge of the aperture is raised much in the same way as in the craters of the moon, and around these apertures are elevations, clearer and more luminous, which we call faculas.

The conclusions which I have just presented to you are also those to which M. Faye arrived, in studying the apparent perturbations in the movements of the spots. In short, what settles the question definitively is the study of the spots of exceptional grandeur when they reach the edge of the solar disk. It is then very easy to prove that the centre is lower than that part of the outline from which radiates the facule. Both M. Tacchini and I proved this at Rome, in studying the grand spot of July, 1865, at the moment in which it disappeared behind the disk of the sun.

The spots, then, are apertures, rents made in the photosphere. But how is it that these spaces do not fill up immediately? This is a serious difficulty, and it leads us to study the structure of the photosphere. If the photosphere was solid, all the movements which take place in it would be impossible. It is, then, fluid. But, on the other hand, a fluid would naturally spread itself until all points of the surface were on the same level, and it would require very little time to fill a gap having the dimensions of even the largest of the spots. The celebrated William Herschel saw this difficulty, and he met it by a solution which we still adopt, because it has been confirmed by observations and discoveries; so that what to Herschel was but a conjecture has become to us a demonstrated truth. The photospheric matter is like our clouds, gauze-like and transparent as ours. We often see among the clouds differences of level--disruptions which enable us to perceive the blue of the sky in the space which separates them. The same thing happens in the sun; and this hypothesis, which is so useful in explaining the phenomena I have just set before you, accords perfectly with all the particulars observed.

We have seen, in effect, the luminous matter remain suspended and floating in the midst of the centre, and the photospheric currents melt in obscure parts, just as our clouds dissolve, apparently dispersing themselves in a space completely deprived of vapor, when the temperature is sufficiently elevated. The little white veil in Figure 1 is a cloud about to be dissolved. Without this dissolving force, the matter which radiates from the circumference to the centre would not be long in filling up this gap. As I told you just now, we have been able to seize the fact of this dissolution of the solar atmospheric matter, and to see these cloud-like forms change into red veils occupying a large surface in the centre.

One thing alone remains to be proved--the existence of a transparent atmosphere. We have for a long time presumed its presence and its action to explain a well-established fact, namely, that the edges of the sun impart to us less of heat and light than the centre. This fact, inexplicable by any known laws of radiation, is easily explained by the action of an absorbing atmosphere; for the rays part at the edge before passing through a thicker atmospheric stratum, proving necessarily an absorption more considerable than that which flows to the centre. {531} The existence of a solar atmosphere, which was formerly regarded as probable, has been reduced to certainty by the observation of eclipses, and it has been shown that veritable clouds float in this gauze-like bed.

Everybody has heard of the magnificent aureola which surrounds the moon during the total eclipse of the sun. It is a truly solemn moment when, the last rays having just disappeared, we see the shadow of the moon projected on a sky of leaden hue, with a perfectly black disk surrounded by a magnificent luminous glory, like that which we see represented around the heads of the saints. This aureola, at least the part nearest the disk, is owing to the atmosphere of the sun. This spectacle is magnificent, but it becomes much more instructive when we examine it through a good telescope. We then perceive around the disk of the moon gigantic flames, of a lively red, the height of which is incomparably greater than the diameter of the earth. Some are suspended without any support, and others take a horizontal direction, like the smoke that comes out of our chimneys. These flames were designated protuberances; but we knew not how to explain them. It was even doubted whether they were real; and we were quite disposed to attribute them to an optical illusion. These doubts have disappeared since the observations we made in Spain during the eclipse of 1860. On that occasion we were stationed at Desertio de las Palmas, on the coast of the Mediterranean, while M. De la Rue took up his post at Riva Bellosa, at a short distance from the ocean. We succeeded at both these stations in photographing the sun at the period of the total eclipse, and a comparison of the two photographs has proved that the protuberances have a real existence, that they have a form so fixed as to give identical images at two points distant from each other by several hundreds of kilometres. The perfect resemblance of the two photographs is the more remarkable, from their not having been executed at the same moment. Between the two operations an interval of ten minutes elapsed. These protuberances, considering their distance and their bent forms, can be nothing but clouds suspended in the solar atmosphere, and it is these which form the red veils that we have seen in the centre. The observation of eclipses proves to us conclusively that the sun is really surrounded by a stratum of this red matter, which we ordinarily see only on the most elevated summits.

In the photograph taken at Desertio de las Palmas during the total eclipse, the exterior form of the atmosphere is perfectly visible. We see that it is more extended at the equator than at the polar regions, which is a natural effect arising from the movement of rotation which the sun possesses. We see, in short, that this atmosphere is livelier in its action in the two zones on each side of the equator, in which the spots ordinarily show themselves. The existence of a solar atmosphere being perfectly in accordance with all known principles and with all ascertained facts, there is no longer any room for calling it in question. We describe the sun, then, as surrounded by a dense atmosphere in which floats the photospheric matter. The surface of the photosphere is far from being uniform and regular. It is, on the contrary, wrinkled all over, and again covered with granulations. These granulations, first perceived by Herschel, have been carefully studied in later times.

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When our atmosphere is calm and the observation very precise, the whole bottom of the solar disk appears covered with small luminous grains, separated by a very fine and very dark net-work, resembling in appearance partially desiccated milk, examined through a microscope. These points, or white grains, are of different sizes. Where there are openings, we see around each of them some lines of grains in the form of leaves, more or less oval. Their mean dimension is about the third of a second. These grains are only the upper part of the flame which inclines toward the openings, thus proving that there is a very sensible power of attraction in the apertures. We may even say that these granulations resemble the appearance which the clouds known as cumuli present when, from the summit of a mountain, their upper part is examined. The largest spots would be, then, but an exaggeration of this net-work, ordinarily so fine, produced by the force which caused the flame, or rather, the stratum of the cumulus.

But what is it that produces these spots in the sun? Here the difficulty is singularly complicated. To reply satisfactorily to this question, it would be necessary to become acquainted with what passes in the interior of the solar globe. But let us, without hesitation, and without attempting to delude ourselves, confess that our study of the sun is confined to its external stratum, and to the most striking phenomena of which it is the seat; whereas, with regard to the interior mass, it is only by the process of induction that we are enabled to arrive at any knowledge.

Observations which we have just made lead us to the conclusion that the spots are owing to emanations issuing from the solar body, almost similar to the way in which matter is ejected by our volcanoes. This is proved both by the form of the craters, which you have just seen, and by the columns of clouds, analogous to those arising out of volcanoes, or out of chimneys, observed during eclipses. Here, then, is how we explain the constitution of the photosphere and the formation of the spots. The exterior stratum cools itself constantly by radiation, passes into the gauze-like state, or state of vapor, and ends by precipitating itself in the liquid state, or even in the solid, remaining, however, suspended in the solar atmosphere, as clouds do in ours. It is this condensed matter that forms the photosphere, and it is from that principally we receive light and heat. From some cause or other, a movement from below takes place in the gauze-like mass which is situated underneath. By this movement the photospheric stratum, raised at first, spreads itself on all sides, forming a sort of cushion, and ends by separating itself, leaving a wide opening in the form of a crater. While the volcanic emission lasts, the spot remains open, and it disappears only at the moment when the equilibrium is reestablished, by the luminous matter filling up the void which was formed. If this theory is correct, the circumference of the spots ought to form the mountains above the exterior surface. Now, we have just seen that the outline of the spots is always surrounded by faculae, which constitute prominent elevations. Supposing it is true that the interior mass is the seat of violent action, this conclusion has nothing surprising in it, and we are led to it by a certain number of other phenomena equally remarkable. {533} Thus, every time that a spot is produced, we remark that it is visibly projected with a quickness greater than that of the solar rotation. The projecting mass is then animated with a quickness greater than the surface of the photosphere; and, in order to explain this fact, we must admit that the matter of the interior stratum possesses a quickness greater than the superficial part.

This novel conclusion is supported by another fact. We know now that the rotation of the spots has not the same angular quickness under all the parallels. The quickness is sensibly greater in the equatorial zone than in the higher latitudes. This circumstance forces us to the conclusion that the sun is not a solid globe, but that its structure admits of the different strata of which it is formed having a movement of rotation independent of each other as regards velocity. In fact, the only explanation we can give of this difference of quickness is, that the interior mass is fluid, and that it is moved by a rotary process, more rapid than that of the external surface. We cannot, however, undertake the formal demonstration of this point on the present occasion.

This fluidity of the sun is calculated to surprise you; but you will cease to regard it as incredible when I remind you of certain ascertained facts about this luminary. The gravity of its surface is twenty-eight times greater than that of the surface of our globe, from which results an enormous pressure capable of condensing a large number of substances, or, at least, of singularly diminishing their volume. Looking simply at this fact, the mean density of the sun ought to be much greater than that of the earth. It is nothing of the kind, however, but just the contrary; for the specific gravity of the terrestrial globe is four times greater than that of the solar mass. We must admit the existence of a repulsive force capable of overcoming the molecular attraction, and of rarefying the substances which the weight tends to condense. This repulsive force is probably owing to the heat, and, in fact, the temperature of the sun is estimated at not less than five millions of degrees. At this temperature no matter could remain solid, even in spite of the enormous pressure of which we have already spoken. It is, then, impossible for us to admit the existence of a solid mass, and much more that of a cold centre in the interior of the sun.

And here an objection presents itself to which I ought to reply. If the interior mass of the sun is at a temperature so very elevated, how is it that, when the photosphere opens, a black spot is presented to our eyes? In examining this opening, we perceive a substance of which the temperature is extremely elevated, and which ought, consequently, to be very luminous. How is it, then, that, on the contrary, it presents to us the appearance of a very deep black? My reply is, that the black color of the spots is a purely relative matter; that it is owing to the contrast of the brilliant light which comes to us from the photosphere. If we could see those apparently dark parts away from the glittering mass of the sun, they would appear not only luminous, but dazzling with light.

But you will say to me, it still remains true that the interior mass of the sun is less luminous than the photosphere; but since the superficial part constantly cools by radiation, it follows that there ought to be less heat, and, consequently, less brilliancy in the photosphere than in the interior mass. {534} With your permission, I will make a reply to this which might, at the first blush, appear paradoxical, but which is, nevertheless, the expression of truth. It is precisely because it is of so very high a temperature that the interior mass of the sun sends us a less degree of light and heat; it is precisely because it is cooled at the point of condensation, to precipitate itself in the liquid or solid state, that the photospheric matter becomes hotter and more luminous. To make this plain, we have only to recall certain well-known principles of physics. Two bodies equally hot may not emit the same quantity of heat. One of them may cool itself rapidly in heating the bodies which surround it; while the other may let its heat escape only very slowly, and heat but feebly the neighboring bodies. In this case, we say that the first has a more considerable radiating power. Now, philosophers know that gas has a very feeble radiating power, and that it may be consequently at a very high temperature without emitting around it a great quantity of light and heat. You have an illustration now before your eyes. This lamp, fed by lighted gas, gives a very brilliant flame, because the carbon remains there some time in suspension before burning. Let us throw into the flame a little oxygen; immediately the flame pales, becomes bluish, and ceases to be luminous. Its temperature, notwithstanding, has greatly increased, and it is now the celebrated gas by the aid of which M. Sainte-Claire Deville melts his platina so rapidly. The change results from the very rapid combustion of the carbon by the oxygen. As soon as this takes place, the flame, no longer containing any solid body, loses almost all power of emission, and ceases, in spite of its high temperature, to have the brilliancy which it possessed at a lower temperature. To convince you perfectly, let us put a solid body in this flame, now so pale, and you will see it become more brilliant than ever. We introduce, for example, a piece of lime, and the apartment is at once illuminated by the Drummond light, one of the most brilliant of our artificial lights.

But, leaving the earth, let us now return to the sun. The interior mass is undoubtedly at a very high temperature--so high, indeed, that all the substances composing it must be in the state of gas, possessing only a feeble radiating power; while the photosphere is composed of matter precipitated in a liquid or solid state, of which the radiating power must be considerable. Here is the explanation of what seemed paradoxical in my answer. The hottest part of the sun is not the part which warms and lights us most, because, being in the state of gas, it produces only a feeble radiation.

Two questions now present themselves. How is it that the sun preserves indefinitely so elevated a temperature in spite of the enormous amount of heat which it loses daily? Of what kind of matter is this luminary composed? And what the nature of the radiation which sends to us daily the light and heat which we need? It is undoubtedly impossible to give a complete and satisfactory answer to these questions. We may yet be able, however, to do so; and we are persuaded that science in its progress will only confirm and develop the explanations which we give to-day of first principles. In the first place, it is impossible to admit that the sun is simply a luminous globe, not possessing any means of renewing the heat which it loses at every moment; for, in that case, at the end of a few years its temperature would be lowered in a very appreciable manner; and it would not require an age to effect a complete change in the phenomena which are dependent on it. There must be, then, a source of heat in the sun.

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We are in the habit of comparing things we do not know with those with which we are familiar. Thus we have been led to think of the solar globe as the seat of a combustion similar to that we witness on our hearths. This idea is deceptive.

We know the quantity of heat which each substance throws off in a state of combustion; we know, too, what a vast body the sun is; and we are able to calculate with a rough but sufficient approximation the quantity of heat which the body of the sun would produce in burning. The result of this calculation is, that, at the elevated temperature which the sun possesses, the combustion of the solar mass could not be kept up during many ages. Since the historic period this temperature would have been so lowered as to produce a change in the seasons that has not taken place. We are compelled, then, to abandon the idea of a mass in combustion, as well as that of a luminous globe, and to acknowledge that there is a secret which has escaped us.

This secret, gentlemen, chemistry is charged to unveil to us. Astronomers profit eagerly by all the discoveries which physical science makes, and it is by this means alone that they arrive first at conjecture, and afterward at a knowledge of what is taking place at prodigious distances. It is thus that the phenomenon of dissociation recently discovered by M. Sainte-Claire Deville, puts us in the way of explaining the permanence of the solar temperature. We know that no combination can resist heat. Whatever may be the stability of the combination, whatever energy the affinitive force may possess, if the temperature is raised to the proper degree, the elements separate, and remain together simply in a mixed state, wanting to combine anew when the temperature is lowered. This is what we call dissociation; and this is just the state, for example, in which we find oxygen and hydrogen gas, exposed to a temperature of 2500 degrees. At such a temperature they remain in a mixed state, without being able to form water, which ought to result from the combination of these two elements. But the phenomenon of dissociation cannot take place without the intervention of an enormous amount of heat. To illustrate this, let us suppose a kilogram of ice at zero. In liquefying it would absorb 79 degrees of heat; to make it warm, 100 degrees would be required; in evaporation it would absorb 640; and to dissociate it, 3955, or nearly 4000 degrees would be necessary. What we say of water is equally true of all the combinations; all that is required being to change the numerical degrees of the latent heat, for fusion, for volatilization, and for dissociation. This being so, we arrive at the conclusion that even the least considerable quantity of matter in a state of dissociation may be regarded as a magazine of latent heat continually tending toward sensible development.

The temperature of dissociation of water is almost 2500 degrees. The temperature of the sun being at least five millions of degrees, the whole mass of which it is composed ought to be in a state of dissociation, and to contain consequently an enormous quantity of latent heat independent of the sensible heat; to which is owing this prodigiously elevated temperature. {536} What, then, is the effect which the solar matter ought to produce on the radiation of which it is the seat? Almost the same effect that radiation produces on a liquid body which has reached a temperature of solidification. The heat necessary to keep up the radiation is borrowed from that part of the liquid which solidifies, so that the temperature, instead of decreasing, remains constantly at the point at which solidification ceases. This is really what passes on the surface of the sun. This brilliant mass, raised to a temperature of five millions of degrees, has a tendency to cool itself rapidly. The radiation produces, in fact, a coolness in the superficial stratum. By reason of this coolness, part of the gas which composes the atmosphere is lowered below the temperature of dissociation; it yields then an enormous quantity of heat, which from latent becomes sensible, and prevents also an ulterior lowering of temperature. It is sufficient to repair the continual loss of heat that a mass of several kilograms passes daily from a state of dissociation to one of combination; and it is evident, considering the enormous size of the solar globe, that things may remain in this state during millions of ages without the temperature of the sun changing in a manner which may be felt by us. I say, by us, for our knowledge of this temperature is obtained at no less a distance than several hundred thousands of degrees.

It appears, then, from the very nature of the sun, that it does not possess an inexhaustible quantity of latent heat. A day will come when it will no more be able to lose heat without being cooled in a sensible manner, but that cooling will not take place before a very distant period, and long after we have disappeared from this world.

By way of recapitulation of the several views we have set forth, let us endeavor to give you a precise idea of the sun, as regards both its interior and its surface. The reasonings which we have just advanced, founded partly on astronomical observations and partly on known principles of science, lead us to regard the sun as composed of a fluid or gauze-like mass, surrounded with a photospheric stratum, the matter of which has passed through the first stage of condensation. According to the views held by Laplace, the sun proceeded from the hands of its creator in a nebulous state. We are led to believe that the interior mass is still in this state. A change has taken place only on the surface, because there only could the loss of heat owing to radiation produce a partial cooling. The result of this cooling is the condensation of a relatively small quantity of matter, which, possessing a very considerable power of emission, forms the photosphere. It is in the presence of this photosphere that the only difference exists between the sun and a nebula, between the myriads of stars which people the heavens, and the nebulae with whose existence the telescope makes us acquainted.

We come, at length, to the last with which we proposed to deal: What is the constituent matter of the sun? What are the elements which enter into the composition of its atmosphere and of the photospheric bed? Some years ago, to put a question like this would have been regarded as rashness; to attempt to answer it, the height of folly. We only knew, from the analysis of meteoric stones, that cosmical matter did not contain any other elements besides those of which our globe is composed. But to-day we can go further, thanks to the discoveries of the German Kirchoff.

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We all know the solar phantom, and the brilliant colors which result from the decomposition of the white light. This phantom seems continuous if we make the observations in a rough manner; but if we employ delicate means, we see that it is formed of a multitude of black streaks and of brilliant rays perfectly distinct from each other. It is impossible to imitate this appearance artificially. All that we are able to do is to project on a screen the figure of a solar appearance taken from a drawing. You see that it is furrowed over with a considerable number of black streaks, of which the principal ones are, according to Fraunhofer, who discovered them, indicated by the letters of the alphabet, A, B, C, etc. These streaks are extremely numerous: we have counted no fewer than 45,000 of them.

I have said that it is impossible for us to imitate this appearance with our artificial lights, and it is precisely here that we are able to discern the nature of the different sources of light. In fact, each source has an appearance peculiar to itself, and by which it is characterized. The brilliant line of the Drummond light gives a continuous appearance, and it is the same with all the simple incandescents. But when we analyze the light of a body in combustion, we arrive at an entirely different result. The appearance obtained in this case is crossed by rays which, instead of being black, are, on the contrary, more brilliant than the colors in the midst of which they are formed. The same thing happens when we make the rays emanating from the electric light pass through a prism, because in this case there is combustion, that is to say, a combination of the oxygen in charcoals, mixed with foreign matter, from which is produced the voltaic bow. If we are content to restore these burning coals, they will give a continuous appearance just as lime.

The brilliant spectral rays are not always the same. They depend on the nature of the metal which is found in the flame, and which takes part in the combustion. You see at this moment the appearance which silver presents: it is characterized by a magnificent green ray. Here is now the appearance of copper, which, we know, has a yellow ray, accompanied by a fine group of green rays, different from those which silver produces. We now burn some zinc, which gives a magnificent group of blue rays, a fine red ray, and another of violet. Finally, we shall close these experiments with burning brass, which is, as you are aware, a mixture of copper and zinc. You will recognize in the appearance which is produced the characteristic rays of those metals, each of them producing its proper effect, as if it were alone.

We learn but little, however, from these experiments, of the nature of the substances of which the sun is composed; for the rays which we have produced are all brilliant, while those of the solar appearance are black. Let us see, then, in pursuing this subject, if it would not be possible for us to obtain these black lines with our artificial lights. Let us produce, in analyzing the Drummond light, a perfectly continuous appearance. Now, let us make this appearance, before reaching the screen, pass through a deep layer of hypoazotic acid. Immediately you see it discontinued. It is like the solar appearance, crossed over by a multitude of black lines. The hypoazotic acid is not the only gas that produces this result. The vapor from brome, that of iodine, will give equally the black lines in the same circumstances, only these lines are different from those we have just seen in the experiment made with the hypoazotic acid. {538} Thus, the gases, the vapors, possessing the property of absorbing certain luminous rays, certain colors, these rays, found no longer in the appearance, are necessarily replaced by the black lines we have just observed. All the gases, all the vapors, could not, I am convinced, produce this result; for it is clear that their power of absorption, being less considerable, could not make itself felt, unless by means of a stratum the thickness of which should be greater than that which we are able to use in our experiments. We find a proof of this in what passes in the atmospheric air. Under a feeble thickness no sensible absorption is produced; but it is certain that the atmospheric mass absorbs a great number of rays, and consequently gives birth to many black lines; for in the solar appearance we observe new and very marked lines, when the sun being near the horizon, his rays pass through a bed of air of very considerable thickness. These rays are principally owing to the vapor of water. We can equally affirm the absorbent power of the atmosphere which surrounds the planets Saturn, Jupiter, and Mars. Their appearances contain lines very different from the solar appearance. Yet, as the light which they transmit to us comes to them from the sun, we are forced to conclude that that light undergoes some modification in travelling over its transparent path. It is the atmosphere of the planets which produces this result.

The sun also possesses an atmosphere, as we have seen, and this atmosphere ought necessarily to exercise an influence on the rays which traverse it. Such is, in fact, the origin of the rays which we notice in the solar appearance. They are owing to the atmospheric absorption, and the bed of transparent but absorbent vapor which surrounds the atmosphere, and which the rays pass through before they spread themselves in space.

But how are we to ascertain the nature of the vapors which produce the black lines we observe? Here physical science comes again to our aid, and the question we have just put finds its answer in a recent discovery. We have seen that a certain substance in burning gives birth to certain luminous rays which characterize it. We have also seen that this same substance, in a state of vapor, absorbs, on the contrary, certain rays, and produces in consequence certain black lines which are equally characteristic. Now, by a singular coincidence, these two powers, emissive and absorbent, are identically the same. Each substance, in a state of vapor, absorbs precisely the rays which it is capable of producing in combustion, so that the black streaks produced in the first case occupy identically the same place as the brilliant lines observed in the second. We may demonstrate this interesting theory by the following experiment, due to M. Toucault. We know that sodium produces in burning a beautiful yellow light. Well, let us burn some sodium in the coals, and between these two substances the electric light is produced. The metal while it is burning volatilizes largely; the vapors which are produced absorb precisely the rays which they should have emitted in their combustion; and you see that in the yellow, instead of a brilliant line, we have a very dark line. What we have just seen take place with the sodium has been equally proved by experiments on a great number of metals, and, by induction, we may extend the application to all those on which it has been impossible to make experiments.

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Let us apply this principle to what concerns the light of the sun. The photosphere is composed of condensed substances, precipitated in a solid or a liquid state, floating in a transparent and absorbent atmosphere. This matter, being simply incandescent, ought to present to us a continuous appearance, and this continuity can be disturbed only by the absorption of the solar atmosphere. From this it follows, that to ascertain the chemical nature of the substances which compose this atmosphere, it will be sufficient to compare the black lines of the sun with the bright lines of our artificial lights. This has been done. M. Kirchoff first discovered that the sun contains sodium; for the line D of Fraunhofer coincides perfectly with the brilliant lines of this metal. It is equally well known that iron, copper, and twenty other substances which exist upon the earth in a solid state, would, at a temperature of five millions of degrees, be necessarily in a state of vapor.

After having thus made a chemical analysis of the sun, astronomers wish to go further; they have sought to know equally the composition of the stars. We have been led by this to some very remarkable consequences; we have been able to make a kind of classification of these stars, and to determine the group to which our sun belongs. It remains, then, for us now to apply the spectral analysis to the myriads of stars which stud the heavens, to those far distant suns, the greater part of which, perhaps, surpass in grandeur and brightness that which is the centre of our planetary system. It remains for us to interrogate these scarcely perceptible bodies, sparkling at such an incalculable distance, and to demand and draw from them the secret of their chemical composition. This enterprise is daring, but it is not rash. The difficulties are alarming; yet learned men are not discouraged, for they are accustomed to see difficulties disappear before strenuous and persevering labor.

We commenced our study of the stars with the complicated instruments which we employ for the sun; but we soon found out that this complication was useless. We have been able to reduce our instruments to the number of two, a cylindrical glass and a prism. And M. Wolff, of the Paris Observatory, has succeeded recently in suppressing the cylinder, keeping only the essential element, that is, the prism intended to produce the appearance.

We have examined a great number of stars, and I am going to submit to you some of the results at which we have arrived. You see at this moment the appearance which the star Orion presents. This star is of a yellow color; the appearance which it produces is deeply streaked; and it is one of the most beautiful in the heavens. You will find there the line D of sodium, and the line b of magnesium. These are two fundamental lines which have served as marked points to compare this appearance with that of the sun. Besides sodium and magnesium, _a_ of Orion contains iron, copper, and several other known metals; but it is singular that hydrogen is not found there in the free state, as in the sun. There is, then, some essential difference between the stars, of which you will be more convinced as we go further into the subject. Here is the appearance of Sirius. You see it is not nearly so fine. You will find two large bands in blue, in the place of the streak F of the sun; two others in violet; and one, very faint, in yellow. The two first are attributable to hydrogen, and the last to sodium; but we know not to what substance the violet is owing. In the green there are also some very fine lines, but very difficult to seize.

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What is most remarkable is, that all the white stars present the same appearances, and half the stars that are visible belong to this type. Thus the fine stars of the Lyre, of the Eagle, of the Bear, Castor, etc., ought to be ranged by the side of Sirius. There is, however, an exception in [zeta] of the Bear, which is a yellow star. The magnificent stars of Arcturus, of the Goat, of Procyon, belong, on the contrary, to the class of which our sun is a type, except that the iron line E is much more marked. Their color, of light yellow, led to the inference that they were analogous to the sun, and the supposition has been confirmed by spectral analysis. All know substances have an appearance which is peculiar to them, and which characterizes them. Can we say as much of the stars? Do they also present marked differences in their appearance? This has been the subject of very interesting researches. The task has been undertaken at the observatory of the Roman College, and it has led to a result altogether unforeseen, namely, that the stellar appearances appertain to only a very limited number of types. We may classify them in three groups. The first group is that of the white stars like Sirius; the second, that of the yellow stars, of which Arcturus and the second are members; and Orion may be regarded as a type of the third, in which we ought to place _a_ of Hercules, and [Beta] of Pegasus. These two last-named stars have very remarkable appearances. They seem formed of a multitude of channels, which are divided by large black bands. This form of appearance shows us that the stars which belong to this type are surrounded with atmospheres heavily charged with vapor. In this group enters all the red stars, and in particular _Omicron_ of the Whale, that celebrated star which has been called _The Wonderful_. Several small stars of a blood-red color have appearances resembling each other. It is remarkable that in all the appearances belonging to stars of this type, the black lines occupy the same place, which proves that in general they are all made alike.

I have observed further that certain types abound in certain parts of the heavens, and that the stars of the same kind are generally grouped together. Thus the white stars are found in the Pleiades, the Bear, the Lyre, etc.; the yellow in the Whale, Eridan, etc. The constellation of Orion deserves particular attention; it abounds in stars of a green color, reminding us of the nebula which is found in the same region of the sky. This small number of types, and the grouping of which I have spoken, constitute an unforeseen fact, the importance of which is considerable from a cosmological point of view. We should not, however, be hasty in drawing conclusions from it.

A curious fact has been established with regard to one of the white stars in Cassiopeia. Its appearance is directly the opposite of that which is presented by stars of the same color, for, in place of black lines, it shows some brilliant lines. This phenomenon has appeared to me so extraordinary, that I am anxious whether it is an isolated fact. I have observed more than five hundred stars, selecting some of the largest, and I have found only one, [Beta] of the Lyre, which possesses the same peculiarity. M. Wolff says that among the small stars of the Swan he has found some examples of the same kind. A most remarkable fact is, that these brilliant lines were found in a transient star which glittered for a time in the Crown in May, 1866.

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These observations upset the theories which had been prematurely built upon facts formerly known. Still, there is nothing inexplicable here. You have seen that sodium burning gives a line of a very lively yellow, while the line becomes black if the sodium is increased to a considerable quantity. Might not the same thing happen with the hydrogen, which produces the brilliant lines of which I have spoken to you? Might not a small quantity act by radiation, while the action would be one of absorption should the mass be greater?

After having examined the stars, it was impossible to resist the temptation of observing the nebulae. You know that we designate by this name the kind of white clouds which are found spread in the heavens, and of which the nature is not perfectly known. Herschel has assured us that many of them, by means of the telescope, may be resolved into a multitude of small stars approaching very closely to each other. We infer from this that the greater part are composed in the same manner, and that the feebleness of our instruments is the only thing that prevents us from proving it. It is, however, admitted that many of these nebulae are formed of cosmical matter in a state of vapor not condensed. Everybody knows the nebulae which compose the Milky Way. But besides those which are visible to the naked eye, there is a vast number whose existence the telescope has revealed to us. One, of the most celebrated is that which is found in the magnificent constellation of Orion: we have carefully drawn it at the Roman College, and you see at this moment a sketch of it on the screen. The nebulae possess a very feeble light, and we had our doubts of success in seeking to apply the spectral analysis to them. We have, however, succeeded beyond our hopes. The appearances obtained in these observations are very singular. They reduce themselves constantly to luminous streaks, all the other colors failing; it is, in another way, that which happens when we burn an alcoholic solution with marine salt; the flame, analyzed by the spectroscope, gives simply a yellow streak. In the nebulae we find two green lines and a blue one. Such is the result which we obtained in examining the large nebulae of Orion, and that of the Milky Way in Sagittarius. Such is that, also, which furnishes the little nebulae called planetaries, on account of their form, which resembles that of the planets. These facts have been established for the first time by M. Huggins.

As I have just told you, the nebulas present generally but three lines; one belongs to azote, another to hydrogen, and the third is unknown. This result, which was not known before, is of the highest importance; for it teaches us that the nebulae are composed of gas and of vapors far removed from their point of saturation and condensation. These appearances, with luminous lines, distinctly isolated and separated from one another, appertain essentially to gas, and, we ought to add, to gas raised to a very high temperature. Thus we have made a discovery by the aid of the prism, for which the most powerful glasses had failed us.

The nebulae, notwithstanding their shining points, are not in general a collection of stars, but masses of cosmical matter in a state of dissociation under the action of an extremely elevated temperature. The collections of stars are perfectly distinguishable by the continuity of their appearances, as we see in the nebulae of Andromeda, and in some others which are well known. The discovery opens a vast field of investigation, and will be an epoch in science.

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We have wandered far into the depths of space, very far from the point from which we started. This is of no consequence, however, for between the sun, the stars, and the nebulae there is a close relation. The sun is simply a star approaching nearer to us than others. According to a bold hypothesis, its entire mass was at one period in a state of dissociation, which a great part of it still actually preserves. The only thing that makes it differ from the nebulae, and causes us to rank it among the stars, is its superficial stratum of inconsiderable thickness.

What mysteries do we not discover in nature, when we investigate it by the aid of those principles and instruments with which modern science has furnished us! And in the presence of the wonders, what an exalted idea ought we to form of the splendors of the universe and the power of its Creator!

Permit me, gentlemen, in closing this lecture, to quote an admirable thought of Saint Gregory of Nazianzus. The sun, says that father, is the most perfect image of the Deity. You see the effects which it produces; you enjoy its benefits; but you cannot contemplate it directly, nor sound its depths. The loss of life, the greatest of the earthly blessings we enjoy, would be the punishment of the madman who would dare to invade its mysteries. It is the same with the Deity; it is impossible for us to see in himself; and we ought to content ourselves with admiring here below those traces of his infinite perfections which shine in his works.

We have succeeded, by the means with which science has furnished us, in examining this dazzling star, and in doing so we have seen some unexpected wonders; but how many other wonders have escaped us, which will doubtless be discovered at some future time!

If we can thus speak of the material sun and its splendors, what shall we not say of its prototype, when, freed from this material covering of sense, and reduced to a state of pure intelligence, we contemplate him with the eyes of our soul? Science and Faith are two rays issuing from the same focus, the one direct, the other reflected. As long as we are upon this earth we should be content with the second, our vision not being strong enough to support the brightness of the first. But a day will come when we shall see the Divinity face to face; and, in the meantime, the man who denies his unfathomable mysteries, under the pretence that our feeble powers are not equal to their comprehension, is as foolish as the rude peasant who should deny the wonders with which I have entertained you, under the pretext that his eyes are dazzled by the light of the sun. A day will come when the direct rays of the Science of Divinity will no longer dazzle our intelligence: the high destinies which awaits humanity will permit of our contemplating the unclouded essence of the Deity, as the reward of the persevering but not blind fidelity with which we shall have here below, without pride as without baseness, believed in his existence and admired his greatness.

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Translated From The French.

An Italian Girl Of Our Day. [Footnote 155]

[Footnote 155: _Rosa Ferrucci: her Life, her Letters, and her Death_. By the Abbé H. Perreyve.]

Continued From Page 372.

I here interrupt, for a moment, the order of these _Letters_, to introduce a fragment from one of the writings of Signorina Ferrucci, in which is found, eloquently developed, the idea with which the last letter closes. Need we wonder that, to so a pure a soul, Christianity was all mercy and all love? Certainly not. The passions of men have so often disfigured the sweet countenance of the gospel that those outside the household of faith form a false idea of it, and, in their inability to distinguish what is divine from what is human, they reject all. But, if they would only learn to leave men and draw near to God, to flee vain disputes and go to the centre where all is calm, they would soon know that the genius of Christianity is indeed love. Pure souls, whom anger and dispute have not marred, know this well. The young author whom I am about to cite understood it, and it is with a feeling of respect that I transcribe these beautiful pages, which breathe so strong a perfume of the gospel:

The love of God, which inflames the heart of man and infuses into it a holy zeal, has assuredly nothing in common with that implacable fanaticism with which infidelity so unjustly charges the religion of Jesus Christ. And yet it is but too true that the sons of one Heavenly Father, the inhabitants of a world watered by the Redeemer's blood, have more than once, while waging cruel war upon each other, ranged themselves under the standard of the cross. But because such horrors darken the page of history, are we to conclude that the love of God banishes all toleration from the human heart, or can we deny that the Catholic religion is all love? And shall the blind fury of men make the world forget the numberless benefits which, for nineteen centuries, the gospel has bestowed upon all nations and upon its most cruel enemies?

O church of the Redeemer! who dost pray for thine enemies, and dost show thyself ever ready to succor them, even as our Heavenly Father maketh his sun to shine upon the most ungrateful of mankind, who was it that filled thy heart with that holy and ever active love of all the virtues? Who gave thee the strength to oppose at all times a tranquil front to the masters of the world? Whence have thy martyrs derived that courage which made them joyfully bend their heads under the axe of the executioner? Who taught thee to confound the subtle contradictions of the philosophers, and, with the same hands, to break the chains of the slave? How is it that, ever firm and immovable, thou alone hast survived the vicissitudes of all things and the overthrow of so many thrones? Who has given thee such power of persuasion that by its prodigies "from the very stones are raised up children to Abraham"? In fine, whence hast thou received that inviolable authority which resolves all doubts, dissipates our errors, humbles the mighty, sustains the weak, enlightens the world, pardons all faults, and consoles in every affliction and in every distress?

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Ah! who does not see that so many miracles have been wrought by the sole power of that divine love kindled in thee by Jesus Christ? For just as thou lovest Jesus in fatigue and in repose, in tears and in joy, in persecution and in peace, in combat and in victory, so also thou lovest in him and for him the humble and the great, the faithful and the unbelieving, the poor and the rich. There is not on this earth a human being for whom thou dost not pray, and whom thou wouldst not, at any price, bring back to the bosom of him who suffered for all men because he loved all. Oh! may thy desires soon be fulfilled, holy church of the living God!

How, then, can that man call himself the friend of God and the true son of the church of Jesus Christ, who would oppose arms to arms, violence to violence, forgetting these words of Christ, "Love your enemies," "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do"? The blind apostles of intolerance show well that they have never penetrated in its true sense the life of the Redeemer, who, suffering every injury, and even the death of the cross, drew the whole world to himself by the irresistible power of pardon and of love. He who would be willing to forget his prejudices, and, retiring into the solitude of his own heart, would plant there the sweet image of Jesus Christ, such a one would soon learn how far the power of Christian meekness transcends that of the sword, and he would shudder at the thought of pursuing with fire and steel them whom the cross alone may vanquish. Ah! if Jesus crucified entered truly into our hearts, how many things would he not make them understand! [Footnote 156]

[Footnote 156: Della Carità Cristiani.]

Again, I find, in the same paper, this beautiful sentiment:

I believe that charity consists not solely in compassionating the sufferings of the poor and relieving them. Its character is more general: it must be the soul of all our sentiments. For my part, I see charity in patience, in humility, in faith, in docile submission to superiors, in justice, in courage, in fortitude, in contempt of the world, in the desire of heaven. Charity is, indeed, the light of God, infinite as himself. Whoever has received into his heart a ray of this divine light is bound, if I may so speak, to communicate its warmth to the whole world.

We return to the letters.

July 15.

Sweet were the impressions, Gaetano, which our walk yesterday in that beautiful garden left on my mind. Is it not true that the flowers, the trees, the blue sky, the pure soft air, the song of the birds, the hum of the insects--all conspired to speak to our hearts of God? I feel, too, that all these beautiful things seemed more joyous to me because you were there, for to me they all seemed to reflect the feelings of your heart. Then those beautiful verses of my mother's which Uncle G---- read to us affected me powerfully. Earth and heaven, flowers and songs, all borrowed a new charm from the harmony of those beautiful stanzas.

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July 22.

I do not know the places you speak of, unless you mean Romito and Antignano. I went as far as La Torre on foot, one beautiful August morning, without suffering much from the heat, which was tempered by the sea-breeze. After having traversed that long, steep road, which becomes at every step more solitary and more closely shut in between the hills and the sea, I went up to the top of the little fortress, and thence for a long time I gazed on the neighboring islands and the vast horizon where sea and sky seemed to unite, and I even discerned some of the lands of the Maremma. Another time, with the Plezza, the Gabrini, and other friends, we went as far as Romito. The sun had already sunk below the horizon. Every moment the last glimmering of twilight was becoming more faint, and soon the moon rose behind the hills. Her pale rays were reflected in the sea, where nothing was seen save a solitary fishing-boat; and the gentle murmur of the waves, as they came slowly to die on the rocky shore, was the only sound that broke the stillness of the night. We crossed from time to time the dry bed of one of those torrents which fall from the mountains into the sea; and thus, now talking, now silent, gazing, admiring, we passed the two little towers, and, arrived at the limits of the two communes, we stopped and turned back, as if we had reached the Columns of Hercules, There is a comparison that would please my good friend Louisa V----. Would you believe it, in her last letter she gravely compares me to a navigator steering toward a new world. "Yet no," she says, "love is a world as old as the earth." That may be, my good Louisa; but to me it is new, all new, Gaetano, and I believe, even, that it will never grow old, like everything that comes directly from God, who is endless duration in eternal youth! On this is grounded my sure hope that, after having united us here on earth, he will unite us again in the life to come; and this thought alone raises me from earth to heaven!

This was not the first time that Rosa had visited Antignano. That calm and lovely shore had witnessed the sports of her childhood. Three or four years before the date of the last letter we have given, she wrote from that place to one of her young friends the following pretty letter:

Antignano, July, 1853.

In spite of our joy at being here, believe me, my dear Maria, we feel your absence sadly. It turns to melancholy the joyous memories of last year. This is from my heart, Maria; how happy I should be to have you at this moment by my side! Come back to us then, dear friend, come back! The little wood where we spent so many happy hours, the great shady trees, the smiling country, and the sea--all call you back. Why, it is but two days since I heard a wave which came bounding over the sea say to you, "Come down, young girl, from the flowery bank into this calm sea, and yield to the invitation of the sun, who with his brilliant rays is brightening air and earth and water." But this pretty song of the naiad was suddenly interrupted, for my poor wave broke and expired on a rock. All its sister wavelets murmured the same prayer to you, but all, like the first, soon broke upon the shore; and I grew pensive at the sight, for those poor waves, vanishing so quickly, seemed to me a true image of our shattered hopes, which cause us so many tears. Meanwhile a little interior voice remained with me, and murmured sweetly in my ear, "Courage, courage! Why are you sad? Cannot Maria come back? I am your good friend Hope, listen to me and believe me: I promise you that next year Maria shall be here." This consoled me a little, for I always believe what my good friend Hope tells me. Courage, then, and patience, and I am sure of having you yet at Antignano. Dear Maria, pardon this letter, which is as long as it is foolish, and, if you do not understand it, seek in it only a new proof of my tender affection for you. Meanwhile, let us leave the world of dreams and enter that of news. ...

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To Gaetano. July 28.

This day brings to us a mournful anniversary. Poor Charles Albert! on this day, and at the very hour in which I write, he yielded up to God his soul, oppressed with grief, but still full of an unshaken confidence in the justice of his cause and the imprescriptibility of his rights. Doubtless the saints have welcomed into heaven him who on earth loved God and suffered for justice' sake. It is with feelings of compassion that I think of the king, his son, surviving all his family, who have, one after the other, gone before him to the grave.

This enthusiastic remembrance of the house of Savoy is not the only one to be found in the letters of Rosa Ferrucci. The misfortunes of the king, Charles Albert; the death of the Duke of Genoa, his son; the ruin of so many hopes, for a moment triumphant--all these often call forth in her correspondence plaints and regrets. I like to see this love of national independence in so pure a soul. She says somewhere:

"In considering the history of nations, we discover at every step new and infallible proofs of the wisdom and omnipotence of him who directs the affairs of the world; of that mysterious justice which surpasses all human understanding as the heavens surpass the earth. Hope, then, in the Lord, ye victims of oppression! Acknowledge the hand which alone can give you deliverance! And you, usurpers of the rights of the vanquished, triumph not without trembling at the tears which you have caused to flow. He lives, he will live for ever, who will never remain deaf to the lamentations of his people Israel. If he defers his justice, are you to cease to believe in him? Because he can wait, will your presumption know no bounds? Do you forget that God is patient because he is eternal?" [Footnote 157]

[Footnote 157: Della Carità Cristiani]

Patriotism was, however, a family tradition with Rosa Ferrucci. At the time of the memorable events which, in 1848, threatened the speedy overthrow of Austrian rule in Italy, Signer Ferrucci, with his colleagues in the University of Pisa, quitted his chair, and, at the head of the students, who had formed themselves into a body, set out for the army, accompanied by his young son. They took part in all the battles of that unfortunate campaign--at first in its victories, then in its reverses--and returned to Pisa only after the ruin of the last hope. These are facts too little known in the contemporary history of that unhappy Italy whose faults are the theme of every tongue, while few know how many noble hearts she can still produce.

We resume the correspondence:

August 4.

May I tell you, Gaetano, what I have been thinking about our future life? We must first, as we have so often said, have continually present to our minds the will of God, endeavor to accomplish it in all things, and be ever submissive to it from our inmost hearts. Then we must have but one heart and one soul in serving God, and I hope that we shall have but one heart also in loving our dear parents. What ingratitude would be ours if in our happiness we forgot them to whom we owe so much, and who loved us before we knew what love was! [Footnote 158]

[Footnote 158: "Prima che noi potessimo sapere che fosse amore."]

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Let us endeavor so to regulate the affections of our hearts that one shall not be stifled by the other, but that all, forming a sweet harmony, may rise toward him who created us, and for whom alone we must live. May he alone be the end of all our actions and of all our thoughts! Then fatigue will never overcome our courage, our duties will never seem too heavy, our life will be calm, our intentions pure, and we shall taste even here below that interior peace,

"Which no one knows but he who feels it."

Such is the plan of our life. I have but lightly sketched it, fearing that I might seem to be giving counsels and prescribing rules to you. All this is possible only by the grace of God. Let us beg it through the intercession of the Blessed Virgin at the approaching festival of the Assumption; we have so great need of her protection and guidance.

"We pray for grace and it obtain From her who is its mother."

September 15.

To-day I am as sad as I was joyous yesterday. Your departure, the thought of an inevitable separation from my father and mother, a thousand conflicting feelings in my heart, undefinable to myself, have made me weep. Alas for us women! we are weaker than the leaves which are stripped from the trees and scattered by the first wind of autumn; and, childhood scarce passed, our hearts, capable only of loving and suffering, are torn by a thousand contrary emotions of joy and sadness. Pardon me these murmurs, O my God! No, I ought not to weep, but ought rather to pour out my soul in thanksgiving.

I open my whole heart to you, Gaetano, because it is you who are to be the support of my life; to share all my thoughts, dispel my fears, and be my counsellor and guide. Singular thing! my new hopes have made all my feelings more keen and ardent. Hence those alternations of joy and sadness, to whose deepest emotions I was till lately a stranger. As it is, I do not know how I am to tear myself from the arms of those who watched over my childhood and who love me so much. But let us forget all this to-day. I can no longer speak of my mother without my eyes filling with tears. It is drawing near that dear October. If I cannot enjoy your ruralizing, I can, at least, be happy in thinking of the pleasure you will find in it. You are going to see your mountains again, and those pine-groves, which from my childhood I have ever loved and admired. In the midst of the flowers, the plants, the trees, you will think often of him who created us with souls capable of loving the beautiful and good; of him who this year has opened to you the horizon of a new life, in which I hope you will never find either regrets or thorns. Oh! how easy, as it seems to me, does the beauty of the country make the love of God. How sweet it is to think that the same God who gives the dews and the fertilizing rains to the earth, foliage to the trees, flowers and harvests to the fields, is also that loving Father who supports us in all our trials and so sweetly invites our souls to repose in himself! Let me speak to you of the good God, Gaetano; I love so much to think of him.

September 25.

I cannot express the pleasure it is to me to gaze into the deep azure of the beautiful mornings of which

"The air is sweet and changeless,"

and of the lovely evenings when the stars seem to speak, and tell in a sacred language the wisdom of God. The country does good to our souls. In admiring its beauties and its treasures ever new, we are led more easily to think that, if earth was made for man, man was created to love God. I often say to myself, What, then, will heaven be, if there is so much of beauty on this poor earth, where we are not so much dwellers as pilgrims? ... On the eve of St. John's day, all Florence was illuminated. There was nothing to be heard but games and noisy laughter among the people. Every one was gazing eagerly at the fireworks and the illuminations; but no one thought of admiring the most beautiful ornament of the feast--I mean the moon, whose tremulous rays were reflected in the Arno, lengthening the shadows of the trees.

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September 28.

Next year we will go to the country together. If you knew how I love your mountains, with their tall pines, their flowers, their streams, and their green summits. I still remember the moment I left them. It was a November morning. The faint rays of a cloud-veiled sun shed a pale light on the horizon, the leaves were falling from the trees, and the snow of the day before still covered the summits. All nature was solitary and sad. Who could have told me then, that to this melancholy spot which I was leaving as a child, I should return with you a happy bride?

October 23.

Enjoy well your ruralizing; its pleasures are a thousand times sweeter than those of our towns. How pleasant it is of an evening to climb the heights, and thence behold the vast expanse of heaven still purpled by the sun's last rays; to see at one's feet the fields, the pine groves, the pale olives, the elms, yellow-tinted by autumn, the little, scattered cottages of the peasants, with the smoke of the evening fire rising from the roof, and the village church, which seems by the tolling of its bell "to mourn the dying day,"

"Il giorno pianger che si muore!" [Transcriber's note: This sentence is blurred.]

I am far from all this now, but I often think of it. Again I see our happy day at Cuccigliana, our mountain walk, and that beautiful horizon, with its luminous depths, which promised me a joyous future. How many things nature can say! How she can speak to the heart! How, above all, she can speak to it of God! Flowers, hills, forests, earth, and sky--all are more beautiful when we have learned to discern in them the beauty of God. How many times already, Gaetano, have I gone over again our walk on the Serchio, where the rustling of the leaves was the only accompaniment to our long conversations! Ah! may God bless thee, may he render thee happy, and all my desires will be satisfied.

Eve of All Saints' Day.

Oh! if the feast of to-morrow should one day be our feast! Do not suppose, however, that I am presumptuous enough to hope that we shall ever be like the saints of our altars. No; but I believe that not only those great saints, but also all the souls of the just who are admitted to the beatific vision of God, are invoked on this great day by the church. This it is that emboldens my desires. ...

If you are sad, recollect that it has pleased God thus to alternate in this world our joys and sorrows, in order to implant more deeply in our souls the desire of that life in which weeping shall be no more. Then shall we be united I hope, in the love and blissful contemplation of that God whom we now adore under the veil of faith.

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Meanwhile it is sweet to say to one's self: God loves me infinitely more than I can love myself. He thinks of me and watches over me with a tenderness surpassing all the tenderness of a mother. What, then, should I fear? And besides, how be Christians and not be willing to suffer for love of a God who has suffered so much for us? I would share these thoughts with you, Gaetano, because I find in them my strength and consolation every day. Treasure them in your heart, call them often to mind, and your sadness will disappear as

"La neve al sol si disigilla." [Footnote 159]

[Footnote 159: "The snow dissolves before the sun."]

I do not think we shall lose by the exchange when, having finished Milton, we read Virgil together. That great man seems to me indeed

"The light and honor of the other poets,"

as our Dante says. We shall reap from this reading the great advantage of being able to compare the principal episodes of the AEneid with the best passages of other poems. I assure you I do not regret the time I give to my little studies; if I had to commence them again, I should apply myself only with more diligence and attention. I owe to them the best pleasures that I have known; above all, I owe to them community of intellectual life with you. [Footnote 160]

[Footnote 160: I would for a moment call the reader's attention to this sentiment. Such should, indeed, be the chief end of the studies of every Christian woman--community of intellectual life with her husband, community of intellectual life with her sons.]

Now that I do not take lessons, and that, consequently, I have no more leisure, I know no more lively pleasure than to shut myself up in my little room with my books and my pen; and even during those hours which I ought and which I am determined to devote to needlework, I love still to think of what I have read and to beguile the time by these pleasant memories. Having had some time for study to-day, I resumed the reading of Muratori, taking the history of the wars of Odoacer and Theodoric. The subject is a familiar one, but I return to it always willingly, because I think the history of the middle ages even more important for us to know than ancient history. And then what joy of soul to see the church, in all places and in the most barbarous ages, the mother and guardian of civilization, the friend and consoler of the vanquished, the last bulwark of the oppressed against the unbridled pretensions of power!

Poor Italy! how she has suffered! What carnage! How much blood shed in vain! How many tears!

January 1, 1857.

Let us pray God, let us pray him with our whole heart to-day, Gaetano, to bless our union, our souls, our actions, our thoughts, our life. May he deign to preserve long those who are dear to us, to shield us from great misfortunes, and, above all, never to withdraw his grace from us! Such are the prayers that we will offer together, united in heart, though separated by distance. God will see the sincerity of our desires, and he will grant them.

The serenity of the heavens gladdens all nature, and rejoices also our souls, which in the light of the sun seem, as it were, a reflection of the Increated Light. I do not think I am superstitious, Gaetano; and if the new year had commenced in the midst of lightning, thunder, and dismal rains, I should certainly not, on that account, have augured ill for our future. But now, contemplating the calmness and pureness of the sky and of the whole horizon, I ask of God to give us a life like to this beautiful day, that is to say, such a life that nothing may ever be able to disturb in our souls that peace whose source is in God, its eternal fount.

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January 4.

After some cold days, the weather has again become very mild, and the air is balmy as with the first perfumes of spring. How brightly the sun shines to-day! Its warm beams inundate my little room. Seated at my table, at some distance from the window, my eye wanders involuntarily to what I can see of the sky. I fancy I see a great blue eye looking down lovingly on me. Ah Gaetano! how good is God!

I have just learned the death of a very dear friend. Young, beautiful, brought up in opulence, the only daughter of a mother who idolized her, she wished to become a Sister of Charity in order to serve God in his poor. For ten years she has been a tender mother to the orphan, and she has just died in the bloom of her days. Dear and good Sister Maria! how happy I should have been to see her again! I do not cease thinking of her! Schiller would say here: "Cease to weep: tears do not resuscitate the dead." Ah! with what a far different power do the words addressed by the Redeemer to the afflicted come home to our hearts: "Blessed are they that weep, for they shall be comforted!" The more I meditate on these words, and then look on earth in its renewal, the pure light and deep azure of the sky, the more I am impressed, death notwithstanding, with the infinite goodness of God and the ineffable bliss of a future life. I hear sometimes of the good being oppressed by the wicked; I often see virtuous persons in misfortune; will not, then, the just also have their day and their recompense? Ah! often, when at night I raise my eyes toward the twinkling stars, I think of those happy souls who are there on high, higher than the stars, in the eternal enjoyment of the beatific vision, of adoration and love without end. If man would only fix his soul on such thoughts, what is there on earth that could discourage him?

I received your dear letter this morning, Gaetano, and lest you should suppose I thought it too gloomy, I must tell you that I, too, have been thinking of death the whole day, and that I even offered a special prayer to our Lord to be merciful to me when the hour shall have come for me to pass from time to eternity, and, as I hope, "from the human to the divine." We have need of abandoning ourselves with a child-like confidence into the arms of God, if we wish to keep alive in our hearts the hope of seeing in heaven him whom we adore on earth. For my part, if, instead of thinking of him alone, I turned to think of myself, I really know not whither my reflections might lead me. But hope, which is a Christian virtue, is a firm expectation of future glory, I will, then, forget my fears and believe that, despite our imperfections, we may one day taste in the bosom of God a happiness even of the shadow of which we cannot catch a glimpse on this earth. We shall then know in what overflowing measure the Lord rewards even the feeblest efforts of his friends. We shall know how everything here below was inevitably passing away with ourselves, how this earthly life vanished more lightly than a dream, and that there remains nothing to man after death but love, that ethereal part of the soul which God claims all for himself. Yet more: I believe that the love which shall unite and commingle our souls on high will not be absorbed in the contemplation of the divine essence in such a manner that the sweetness of loving each other still shall escape our perception. {551} I believe, on the contrary, that it will be the triumph of love to exist and to endure in God, and to unite in one canticle of praise the souls which God made to love one another.

More sorrow--Matilda is dead! [Footnote 161] Oh! how we loved her. She was an angel! It is we only who suffer, for to her it is pure happiness to have quitted earth. Not a murmur was ever heard from her lips. She found all peace and all strength in the love of God. Her soul so easily opened itself to joy. The day before her death, seeing some flowers, "What beautiful things our God has made!" she exclaimed. Her friends wished to inform her father of her imminent danger. This she constantly opposed, wishing to spare that poor father the agony of a last farewell. Here are examples.

[Footnote 161: Matilda Manzoni, daughter of the celebrated author of _I Promessi Sposi_.]

I do not know the introduction you speak of; but my mother has read to me the admirable verses of Manzoni which are prefixed to it. How many things these verses recall to me. They have affected me powerfully. Returning in memory to the times that are past, I fancied as I listened to them that I heard the sweet voice of my poor Matilda, who, in reciting this beautiful poetry, evinced so tender an admiration for her father's genius. We were at Viareggio. It was a beautiful summer evening, and the peace of a starlit sky penetrated deep into our souls. Matilda said to me: "Rosa, if you could only tell me the first verse of those stanzas, I am sure I could recite the whole." For some time I ransacked my poor memory in vain. Suddenly came the word, "Pause awhile." That word was enough. Matilda recited without failing in a word--and oh! with what feeling--the whole piece of poetry. Dear friend! she is with us no longer, and we shall see her no more on earth. When I parted with her last, I said to her: "Farewell till we meet again." I ought to have said: "Farewell till we meet in heaven."

When the storm came upon us, [Footnote 162] two terrific peals of thunder were heard at once. I confess, Gaetano, I did not expect to reach Pisa. And oh! how terrible is the thought of death, when all around reminds one of the almighty power of God. I trembled as I thought of eternity. I saw my own nothingness, and that my only refuge was in the bosom of God. There did I cast myself with all the confidence of my soul. Unperceived by any one, I drew from my bosom my crucifix, and, concealing it in my hand, I pressed it to my lips. I felt then what help religion will give us in our last moments, for I immediately regained courage, and all my fears vanished.

[Footnote 162: Signorina Ferrucci was, with her parents, returning from Leghorn to Pisa, when they were surprised by a violent storm, which is the subject of this letter.]

To Signorina Louisa B----.

I received your sad and tender letter yesterday, my dear Louisa, and I answer it without delay, to prove to you that your sorrows are mine. Poor Antonietta! Yet, why weep for her? Her soul has winged its flight to the celestial regions, where, as she said in her delirium, all was ready to receive her. It is not to her, then--it is to you, to your family, to ourselves, that our tears belong. {552} As soon as I heard the sad tidings, I raised my heart to God, and offered him a fervent prayer for your mother and yourself. As to Antonietta, I could not pray for her, because I saw her truly in the midst of the angelic choirs.

Dear friend, would that I could console you; but I feel with sadness my utter inability. It is God alone who has the secret of true consolation. Is not he our good Father? Does not he await us in that blessed abode where there are neither sorrows nor tears, but where reign eternal peace and happiness? And then, my poor Louisa, if life seemed to promise your dear sister happiness and joy, has not death put her in possession of joys more pure, happiness more profound, than she could ever have desired? Oh! how enviable is her lot. She will never know the troubles, the disappointments, the disenchantments of this life. She will be spared all the suffering which is inseparable from a long existence. Death has been to her a beautiful angel, come from heaven to crown her with flowers. Dry your tears, Louisa: your sister is happier than we.

To Gaetano,

Each day is bringing you nearer the mournful anniversary you spoke of in your last letter. I beg, I conjure you, Gaetano, to allow to your heart no sentiment but that of resignation. Remember that we shall see in heaven those who are taken from us on earth; and that the sufferings of this life are the means by which we are to attain endless beatitude. I speak thus, not to preach patience to you, which it would ill become me to do, but to give you a word of consolation; for I know all that you have suffered, all that you still suffer in secret. The cares of business and the multiplicity of exterior duties will not prevent sorrowful memories from taking possession of your soul. You can, then, but offer your sufferings as a sacrifice, believing that they will render us more worthy of the divine love. If I already shared your life, I would do everything in my power to console and encourage you on these sad days. Meanwhile let us both strive each day to lessen our imperfections, and to let the love of God have fuller scope in our hearts. Thus shall we, if not without fear, at least without remorse, reach that solemn moment of our life, the one that will end it. May God, who, we hope, will one day unite us on earth by holy ties, deign to unite us also in heaven!

January 21. (Three days before the commencement of her illness.)

Truly we must be always ready to die when and as God wills, and to love him infinitely more than all the things of this world which are passing away with our frail lives. Our immortal soul is not made for this world, where all is fleeting, dissolving, changing. By the very nature of its being, it yearns for heaven. For me, living or dead, in this world or the next, I will be ever thine, my Gaetano, in the love that God knows and blesses.

This letter is the last that Rosa Ferrucci wrote.

Concluded In Next Number.

{553}

The Sanitary and Moral Condition of New York City.

A glance at New York City, embracing the entire of Manhattan Island, will show that its geographical position, its advantages for sewerage and drainage, in fact for everything that would make it salubrious and healthy, cannot be surpassed by any city in this or any other country. And still, with its bountiful supply of nature's choicest gifts, many of our readers will be surprised to hear that our death-rate is higher than that of any city on this continent, or any of the larger cities of Europe. We append a table showing the relative per annum mortality in various cities:

Death. Population.

New York 1 in 35 London 1 in 45 Paris 1 in 40 Copenhagen 1 in 36 Christiansund, (Norway.) 1 in 40 Liverpool 1 in 44 Philadelphia 1 in 48 Boston 1 in 41 Newark, N. J 1 in 44 Providence 1 in 45 Hartford 1 in 54 Rochester 1 in 44 [Footnote 163]

[Footnote 163: _Health in Country and Cities_. W. F. Thorns, M. D.]

Let us first examine the conditions which favor and cause this excessively high death-rate, and then approximate as nearly as possible what our percentage of mortality should be, under good hygienic regulations.

The primary cause of the present condition is, evidently, in the packing system of the tenant-houses; and how the unfortunates exist in the fetid air and dirt of these dens, it is impossible to imagine. The name tenant-house is applied to all buildings containing three or more families. There are at present in our city 18,582 of these residences. In these live over a half-million of people, or more than half of our entire population. These houses vary in condition, from the apartments over stores on our prominent thoroughfares, which often contain all the comforts and conveniences of more aristocratic and imposing structures, through many gradations to the cellar, garrets, and model tenant-houses, occupied by the most miserable of our inhabitants. Such an economy of space was never known to be displayed in sheltering cattle as is here shown in the houses, if they can be so called, of the laboring classes. We give a description of one of these establishments, for the benefit of those who have never examined a "model tenant-house." On a lot 25 by 100 feet two buildings are erected, one in the front, the second in the rear. Between the houses is a yard or open space, in which are located rows of stalls to be used as water-closets. The buildings are frequently seven and eight stories high, including basement. Through the middle of each house runs a hall three to four feet wide. On each side of the hall are the apartments, as they are termed, more properly coops or dens. There are sometimes three or four sets of these coops to each half, making six or eight families to the floor; and so they are packed, from the cellar to the roof of the establishment. As the term "suites of apartments" is rather deceptive to the uninitiated, we will state this means simply two--one, the common room, where all the cooking, washing, and other family work is performed, and in some instances used additionally for manufacturing purposes, as shoe-making, tailoring, etc.; the other is the sleeping-room. {554} The first is generally 8 feet by 10, and the second 7 by 8, with an average height of 7 feet. "Not unfrequently two families--yea, four families--live in one of these small sets of dens; and in this manner as many as 126 families, numbering over 800 souls, have been packed into one such building, and some of the families taking boarders and lodgers at that. And worse yet, all around such tenements, or in close proximity to them, stand slaughter-houses, stables, tanneries, soap factories, and bone-boiling establishments, emitting life-destroying exhalations." [Footnote 164]

[Footnote 164: Mr. Dyer's Report on the Condition of the Destitute and Outcast Children of this city.]

Imagine rows of such houses, so close to each other as to shut out the air and sunlight from their inmates, and you have a picture of the condition of some portions of the lower wards of New York City. Of the 18,582 tenant-houses. Dr. E. B. Dalton, the Sanitary Superintendent, reports "52 per cent in bad sanitary condition, that is, in a condition detrimental to the health and dangerous to the lives of the occupants, and sources of infection to the neighborhood generally; 32 per cent are in this condition purely from overcrowding, accumulations of filth, want of water-supply, and other results of neglect." Dr. E. Harris, the efficient Register of Vital Statistics for the Board of Health, informs us that, although the Fourth ward has given up nearly one half its space for mercantile purposes, it still retains the population it had in 1864. This is effected by driving the poor tenants into smaller space and more miserable dens, which they are obliged to accommodate themselves to, as there is no rapid transportation at their command by which they could reach homes in more salubrious districts, and still retain their employment in this section. The result is, that in some locations the people are packed at the rate of nearly 300,000 to the square mile. Here are congregated the vilest brothels, the lowest dance-houses, and other dens of infamy. It is doubtful if throughout Europe, and certainly in no other part of America, in the same amount of space, so much vice, immorality, pauperism, disease, and fearful depravity could be found, as some of the worst of these locations present daily for our consideration. Our readers must not suppose, from our frequent references to the Fourth ward, that it contains all of this character of trouble existing in New York. This is not the case. In portions of all the wards in the lower part of the island, as well as up-town by either river-side as high as Fiftieth street, will the same condition be found, but not in so concentrated a form as in the Fourth Ward and its immediate surroundings, which has for a long time held the unenviable reputation of being the worst locality on the island.

Practical hygienists give 1000 cubic feet as the standard amount of air-space for each individual. Dr. W. F. Thoms, in his pamphlet on _Tenant-Houses_, thinking that quantity impracticable in this character of building, gives 700 cubic feet as the minimum in which a person can live and not be injured by the carbonic acid he constantly expires. With many of the 'fever-nests' not more than 300 to 400 feet to the individual are given; and Captain Lord's report shows that in 289 houses the quantity allowed each inmate is only between 100 and 300 cubic feet.

{555}

The zymotic or foul-air diseases, as they are termed by some, formed 29.36 per cent of our total mortality during last year. [Footnote 165]

[Footnote 165: Dr. Harris's Report.]

Belonging to this class are the diarrhoeal maladies, Asiatic cholera, cholera-morbus, typhoid and typhus fevers, small-pox, measles, scarlet fever, and others of this kind; also the dietetic disorders, inanition, scurvy, etc. It will be readily seen that, in such locations as are above described, a very large proportion of the mortality from this class must arise. Consumption also, which might properly be termed the constant scourge of the human family, assists largely in running up our death-table. The late Archbishop Hughes, in speaking of this disease, said "it was the natural death of the Irish emigrant in this country." This remark is equally true of persons coming from all other countries, partially on account of foreigners not being acclimated to the vicissitudes of our climate, but more particularly because so many of them dwell in damp, leaky shanties, or in cellars which are frequently below the level of high water. Here the seeds of the disease are planted by which the miserable victims of hectic fever, night-sweats, and other attendant evils are hurried to their untimely graves. In the fifteen months ending December 31st, 1867, 4123 persons died in our city of this disease. The largest number of these were between the ages of 25 and 40. One thousand seven hundred and sixty-five were natives of Ireland, 1430 were Americans, 600 Germans, and 328 from other foreign countries.

Upon the infants, however, of these polluted districts death fastens his relentless grasp, and from their ranks under the age of five years he claimed last year over one half the entire mortality of the city. The blood of these innocents is poisoned from birth by the noxious influences of bad air and adulterated food; consequently their nutrition is defective, and the majority of them are found frail, puny, and miserable. In this condition they are little able to stand the irritation attendant upon the process of dentition, and during this period a large number of them rapidly sink from diarrhoea, marasmus, or some kindred disorder.

Seven thousand four hundred and ninety-four of these little ones died last year under twelve months of age. This is supposed to be little less than one fourth of all the infants born alive during the same period. Is it not enough to send a thrill of horror to the breast of every mother, to think that one out of every four infants born, must perish before it reaches its first birthday?

"This is well known to be twice too high a death-rate for the first year of infant life, and experience demonstrates, that the infant death-rate is a safe index of the general rate of mortality, both in the total population and in the adults of any city or district. That is, if in the Sixth ward we find a high death-rate in children, and if it is vastly higher than that in the children of the Fifteenth ward, then we shall find (as we actually have found) that the death-rate is excessively high in the total number of adult inhabitants of the Sixth, while there is a very low death-rate in the Fifteenth that buries the smallest percentage of its infants." [Footnote 166]

[Footnote 166: Dr. Harris's Report.]

An easy solution to this is found in the greater susceptibility of early infancy from extreme delicacy of formation. Just as the accurate thermometer indicates immediately every change in the temperature, so these frail organizations blight first under detrimental influences, before the more matured portion of the population are perceptibly affected by the same causes. {556} The following will strikingly elucidate the greater expectation for human life to persons living in even comparatively salubrious districts. The death-rate in the Fourth ward, in 1863, was about 1 in 25 of the population; in the Fifteenth, in the same year, it was 1 in 60.

Why should this wide difference in the mortality exist in two sections of the same city adjacent to each other? The reason is obvious: there are but few of the densely over-crowded tenant-houses in the Fifteenth or healthy ward, while the Fourth presents a population of nearly 20,000 souls packed in these buildings. Thus it is shown that persons living in the Fifteenth ward, have two and a half times more chances for life than those residing in the Fourth.

The all-important question to the social economist now recurs: What is the necessary or inevitable mortality of the total population of this city? We cannot do better than refer to the mortality above given for the Fifteenth ward, which is 1 in 60. Why is it not practicable to bring our sanitary regulations to such perfection as to reduce the mortality of the entire city to near this standard? Thus we would save many lives, now sacrificed by diseases which we have the power in a great measure to control; and we would lessen the general death-rate of the city to between 16,000 and 17,000 to the 1,000,000, instead of ranging, as it now does, from 23,000 to 26,000 to the same amount of population.

To look at this fearful drain of human life is painful enough; but the moral aspect of the subject will be found even more deplorable. The constant inhalation of vitiated air lowers the vitality and poisons the entire organism, and, as a natural consequence, predisposes these unfortunates to a continual desire for stimulation. This, in fact, is a manifestation of nature, which, by a wise dispensation of Providence, when depressed or disordered from any cause, has a constant tendency toward health. They, however, do not appreciate that pure air, cleanliness, and substantial food would quench this natural longing; but they seek that which is more gratifying to their depraved appetites; as for the time being it steals their reason and blunts their sensibility to present misery. These facts account to a great extent for the large number of rum-holes found in the neighborhood of these tenant rookeries, which is reported in certain localities to be one for less than every two houses. Many of these low groggeries are so disgustingly filthy, and their poisonous compounds so corrupting of every moral feeling, that they can properly be placed on an equality with the despicable Chinese opium-dens found in the neighborhood of Whitechapel in London. The following figures demonstrate the immense number of votaries who frequent drinking-saloons in this city, and the vast sums of money squandered annually in these degrading haunts: "There are at present 5203 licensed rum-shops in New York; 697,202 persons visit these daily, 4,183,212 in a week, and 218,224,226 in a year. The total amount of money paid out for drinks across the bar and at the drinking-tables of the liquor-shops of New York is $736,280.59 a week, or $38,286,590.68 a year." [Footnote 167]

[Footnote 167: Dyer's Report.]

This is the account of the licensed bar-rooms: how many unlicensed ones exist it is impossible to know. When we consider that the highest estimate made of our population gives us only 1,000,000 of inhabitants, the foregoing figures certainly are astounding, and deserve most earnest consideration. {557} In connection with this subject, it will be interesting to examine the annals of crime for the past year. There were 80,532 [Footnote 168] arrests made during the twelve months ending October 31st, 1867.

[Footnote 168: Report Metropolitan Police.]

These embrace offences of every grade, from petty larceny to murder. The number of the latter is 59, or an average of more than one a week. This total number of criminals amounts to nearly one twelfth of our entire population, and certainly shows a very low grade of morals in our community. It would be most interesting to know what proportion of these criminals date the commencement of their career in crime, from the time they began to drink intoxicating liquors.

One of the saddest features in our city is the condition of the homeless children. "The number of these between the ages of five and fifteen years is stated to be 200,900, of which not more than 75,000 attend Sunday-school, leaving the vast number of 125,000 of our children unreached and uncared for, of which it has been estimated that nearly 40,000 are vagrant children." [Footnote 169] "Hundreds of these children are confirmed drunkards, and thousands of them are accustomed to strong drink. Children from the age of fourteen years down to infants of four are daily met in a state of intoxication. They come drunk to the mission-schools. The little creatures have many a time lain stretched upon the benches of this institution, (Howard Mission,) sleeping off their debauch. Hundreds of them have become veteran thieves, and thousands more are in training for the same end. Nine hundred and sixty girls and 3,958 boys, between the ages of ten and fifteen years--making a total of 4618--were arrested during the year ending October 31st, 1867, for drunkenness and petty crimes." [Footnote 170]

[Footnote 169: R. G. Pardee, Esq., communication to _New York Observer_.]

[Footnote 170: Dyer's Report.]

The arrests for the same period between the ages of ten and twenty years amounts to the fearful number of 13,660. Is it not melancholy to contemplate these little creatures, "made to the image and likeness of God," allowed to develop in such haunts of crime, every faculty as soon as awakened blunted by the atmosphere of sin surrounding them? If not rescued from their fate at an early age, we know they are the embryo criminals who will in the future fill our prisons and grace our scaffolds. How can it be otherwise? Nurtured in a hot-bed of crime from infancy, educated in pilfering and beggary in childhood, it is but human that they should develop these accomplishments in rank luxuriance as they grow to manhood. It seems strange that Mr. Bergh's attention has never been drawn to the condition of the miserable tenants and the homeless children. He and the rest of his society take every means to remedy the complaints of ill-used quadrupeds; but unfortunate biped humanity may be stalled in filthy dens with imperfect drainage and no ventilation, or, the little ones starve and die on our thoroughfares, without finding a humanitarian to raise a voice in their behalf. It is true, our cattle should be cared for, but a just God will demand at our hands some protection for his poor.

"He has said--his truths are all eternal-- What he said both has been and shall be-- What ye have not done to these my poor ones, Lo! ye have not done it unto me." [Footnote 171]

[Footnote 171: Proctor.]

The radical relief for the evils growing out of the tenant-house system can only be reached by, first, condemning and tearing down the worst class of these buildings; and, secondly, remodelling those which, by their construction, are susceptible of such improvement as will insure the inmates at least the blessings of sunshine and pure air.

{558}

These stringent measures are unfortunately, for the present, impracticable, as, should they be carried into effect, two thirds of the inhabitants of these dens would be thrown upon the streets without shelter. Space must be found adjacent to the city where neat and comfortable cottages can be built for the laboring classes, and transportation of such character provided as will enable them to reach these abodes in as little time and at as small an expense as it now consumes to get to their tenant dwellings. The beautiful shores on the opposite sides of the Hudson and East rivers must eventually be dotted by the villages of these working people. It has been reported that a very wealthy gentleman of our community proposes building a number of such houses somewhere in the vicinity of New York. To be the projector of such a philanthropic enterprise would entitle him to the love and admiration of the people now, while in after-years it would be pointed out as a monument of his generosity to the struggling poor. The proposed "Hudson Highland Bridge," the "East River Bridge," and the tunnel under the East River, all of which, we hope, will be pressed rapidly to completion, will form the first of the links which are to bind our Island City to the surrounding rural districts. The location where the first will span the Hudson is near Fort Montgomery, in the Highlands; the second is intended to connect the lower part of the city with Brooklyn; and the iron tubular tunnel is, as its name indicates, a wrought-iron tunnel, to be laid at the bottom of the East River; it also is to connect Brooklyn with New York. In a sanitary point of view, we think these proposed means for rapid communication between our island and the neighboring country vie in importance with the gigantic enterprise which gives us the water of the Croton river for our daily consumption, and the Central Park for the recreation and amusement of our pent-up population. Over the East River Bridge it is intended to run cars by an endless wire rope, worked by an engine under the flooring on the Brooklyn side. The minimum rate of speed is put down as twenty miles an hour. It is such travelling facilities as these structures will afford which are necessary to enable the workingmen to reach healthful and salubrious homes outside of the metropolis. We would thus be able to disgorge the immense surplus of population which it is impossible for us to accommodate in our midst.

But while we keep this in our minds as the great ultimatum which will eventually relieve us, we must in the mean time use every effort in our power to ameliorate as much as possible the misery surrounding us.

Since the establishment of the Board of Health, in March, 1866, strenuous efforts have been made by that body to remedy the most glaring defects in the tenant-houses. Nothing could bear better evidence of the good results effected by the wise sanitary measures they have adopted than the saving in our mortality rates during the last year. It has been asserted that "our present code of health laws are better than those of any other city on this planet;" and had the commissioners, in the execution of these laws, been sustained in their laudable efforts for the public good by the courts of justice, no doubt much more would have been effected. {559} The Sanitary Superintendant, Dr. E. B. Dalton, reports 35,045 inspections made during the last year; 11,414 of these were in tenement-houses, 11,473 to yards, cellars, waste-pipes, etc.; the remainder, to private dwellings, slaughter-houses, establishments for fat-melting and bone-boiling, stables, piggeries, etc. This amount of visitations by the sanitary inspectors shows great activity in their department, and entitles them to much credit. The evils, however, attending the entire of the present systems are so numerous that, without a good deal of active legislation, it is to be feared the root of the trouble cannot be reached. In the first place, no person should be allowed, in the future, to build a house to be occupied by more than three or four families, without its plan of construction being first officially approved of by an appointed superintendent. This would confine the sanitary evils, so far as the internal arrangement of tenements are concerned, to those we now have; and, in the second place, as Dr. Dalton suggests, the erection of a front and rear tenement on the same lot should be strictly prohibited. The importance of these means cannot be overestimated. In addition, many changes apparently slight in themselves can be effected in the existing houses, which would materially add to the comfort and chances of life of the inmates. Miss F. Nightingale says: "It is a fact demonstrated by statistics, that in the improved dwellings the mortality has fallen in certain cases from 25 to 14 per 1000; and that in the common 'lodging-houses,' which have been hot-beds of epidemics, such diseases have almost disappeared through the adoption of sanitary measures." One condition probably more pregnant with disease to the tenants than almost any other is, that so large a percentage of the water-closets in the tenant buildings are not connected with the regular sewers. The consequence is, these places become choked up with accumulations of filth, and give forth noisome and offensive odors, most detrimental to health. This alone is sufficient to cause a large amount of the diarrhoeal diseases which pervade our community during the hot season with such fatal results. The inspector of the Fourth Sanitary District, for the Citizens' Association, in 1864, reported "less than 30 per cent of the privies in his district as being connected with drains or sewers." He also says: "There is a section of my district, embracing at least nine blocks, in every part of which the peculiar odor arising from privies is always distinctly perceptible during the summer months. From this region fever is never absent. I refer to typhus and typhoid, for intermittent and remittent fever do not prevail in this neighborhood, even in the low tract adjoining the river. Such a gentle fiend as paludal miasma flies affrighted from the terrific phantoms of disease that reign supreme in this domain of pestilence." The landlords who grind the last cent of rent possible from their tenants should be obliged, at least, to do all in their power to preserve them from palpable occasions of disease. At a small expense in comparison to the income this class of property yields, the proper connections with the sewers could be made, and thus much suffering avoided.

One great trouble the sanitarian encounters is, the disinclination of a large portion of this class to adopt habits of cleanliness. They seem actually to riot in and be proud of their filthy surroundings. And their example is unfortunately contagious, as it is known frequently to be the case that where neat, clean, and respectable families are thrown in contact with them, they, too, soon degenerate into the same condition. {560} "It would be true of many thousands that, if left to the uncontrolled indulgence of their reckless and filthy habits, they would convert a palace into a pig-sty, and create 'fever-nests' and hot-beds of vice and corruption under circumstances most favorable to health, comfort, and social elevation." [Footnote 172]

[Footnote 172: Report of Association for Improving the Condition of the Poor in New York. 1863.]

This fact, although discouraging, should be but a greater incentive to keep constantly over them a vigilant sanitary inspection, to show them the baneful effects of their habits of living, and to cause a spirit of emulation to assist themselves in purifying their homes and surroundings. This can be done. Their "reckless and filthy habits" are, in many instances, but the indication of a lowered moral and physical status, the result of the poverty, starvation, and misery they have endured. A little encouragement, and a constant stimulation as to the right means to be adopted, would soon cause many of them to overcome their vitiated and depraved tastes.

These combined facts, we think, necessitate a thorough house to house examination of all this character of property in the city, by competent sanitary persons, so that the Sanitary Superintendent may know the exact condition of each tenement. With such knowledge many advantageous improvements could be made and many nuisances abated, without waiting for a report from either the occupants or sanitary police, as is now done. This action is at present rendered more essential as the summer is coming on, and under the influence of its long, hot days the animal and vegetable decomposition will make the air putrid with its "life-destroying exhalations." Our death-rate from the diarrhoeal, and other miasmatic diseases, will, as usual, run up to the highest mark; and should cholera get a foothold in the city, it is questionable if it could be controlled by the Health Commissioners as readily as it was in the summer of 1866.

The question, how to deal wisely with the abuse of alcoholic stimulants, has been earnestly discussed and considered by the press, by municipal and legislative bodies, from the pulpit, and also by countless temperance associations, without reaching a solution of this great problem. Philanthropic efforts are constantly made to stop the tide of self-destruction without avail; and the originators of such movements seem all to arrive at the conclusion that it is impossible to thoroughly restrain the appetite for strong drinks by any character of laws which may be enacted. The only resource that remains is to throw around the trade such restrictions as will confine it to its narrowest limits. This is to be effected not alone by legislative enactments, but also by a moral and religious influence. Public opinion has great weight, and every man who loves the well-being of his race should frown down this social evil to the utmost of his power. Ministers of the gospel should persistently teach the enormity of the ills resulting, as they alone fully know, from this cause.

A great many persons think the present laws have no influence in restraining drunkenness, and that as much liquor is consumed now as formerly. As a proof of their efficacy, we will give here a portion of a table, taken from the report of the Excise Commissioners for last year, comparing the number of arrests for offences actually resulting from the excessive indulgence in intoxicating drinks on Sundays, when the rum-sellers were obliged to keep their glittering shops closed the entire day, and Tuesdays, when the prohibition applied only to before sunrise.

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Months. Year. Days. Arrests.

March, 1867 5 Sundays, 210 March, 1867 4 Tuesdays, 471 April, 1867 4 Sundays, 195 April, 1867 5 Tuesdays, 480 May, 1867 4 Sundays, 123 May, 1867 4 Tuesdays, 380

As it is well known that before the enaction of these laws the arrests on Sunday far exceeded those of any other day in the week, this should convince the most sceptical of the effect of the Sunday prohibition.

The estimated number of vagrant children in this city is nearly 40,000. Forty thousand immortal beings floating, day by day, toward physical and moral destruction! Throw aside all the dictates of Christianity, and look upon these children in the future. According to our free institutions, they will have the same amount of control over the destinies of the nation as our own offspring, although the latter may be thoroughly educated to make good and intelligent citizens. Here we are allowing to be nurtured the element which, in the riots of 1863, threatened to deluge the length and breadth of the island with tumult, conflagration, and bloodshed. Every year, with the constantly increasing tide of emigration, new material is added to develop this character at a more rapid rate. Such being the case, self-protection demands that something be done to give these children homes and draw them from the pollution surrounding them. In the lower portion of the city, there are some institutions intended particularly to take care of these little vagrants, and they form the only breakwater to this torrent of infantile depravity. The first of these is the Five Points Mission. This was established under "An Act," passed in March, 1856, by the Senate and Assembly of the State of New York, "to incorporate the Ladies' Home Missionary Society of the Methodist Episcopal Church." The intentions of the ladies forming this association are shown in the second paragraph of the above-named act, and reads: "The objects of said society are, to support one or more missionaries, to labor among the poor of the city of New York, especially in the locality known as the 'Five Points;' to provide food, clothing, and other necessaries for such poor; to educate poor children and provide for their comfort and welfare; and, for that purpose, to maintain a school at the Five Points, in said city, and to perform kindred acts of charity and benevolence." The "Old Brewery," a most notorious den of infamy, just at the Five Points, was selected by the association as headquarters for their missionary labors; and to gather round them here the little ones of this worst location of the city, to be fed, clothed, and instructed in the rudimentary English branches, as well as the Methodist Episcopal faith, became a labor of love. This enterprise prospered, and now, in place of the "Old Brewery," stands a large, commodious mission-building. A peculiar feature in the management is, that entire families are taken in, and given work of some kind to do, so that it forms a character of tenant-house. The institution contains some 18 families, including between 60 and 70 children. One thousand and nineteen children have been taught during the year in the day-school. Immediately opposite and facing this is the second of these institutions, the "Five Points House of Industry." {562} This was established under the supervision of the same gentleman who at first had control of the Five Points Mission, the Rev. L. M. Pease. Through some misunderstanding, he withdrew from the mission and founded the House of Industry. His beginning was very small, and consisted of an effort to obtain work for a number of unhappy females who desired to escape from their criminal way of living. His next step was the establishment of a day-school; soon afterward men and women were employed in making shoes, baskets, etc. The success of the enterprise was quickly assured, and it rapidly enlarged its sphere of usefulness. Some time since, the manufacturing of baskets, shoes, etc., was given up, and it is now simply a house of refuge, where homeless children are educated, fed, and clothed. During the winter, a meal was given, in the middle of the day, to destitute adults. One of the gentlemen informed us that 325 men and women partook of this meal daily during the cold weather. The average number of children given three meals was also 325, making 1300 meals given by this institution daily. The whole number of children taught here during the last year was 1289. An interesting feature connected with this enterprise is the boarding-house which has recently been established for working-girls. A large tenement-house was bought, and fitted up in the most complete manner; and here homeless working-girls can get good, substantial board for three dollars and a quarter a week. This is of great advantage to these poor young women, who are overworked at meagre pay, and enables them to live for about one half the price they would be obliged to pay for board in a respectable lodging-house. In the internal arrangements, everything is done to add to the comfort as well as the mental improvement of the inmates. In the public parlor there are an organ and a piano, also several sewing-machines. These are at the disposal of any one in the house, at all times. Two evenings in the week they have night-school. The Germans teach their language in exchange for English. The matron states: "Through the kindness of some publishers, we have 5 daily papers, 12 weeklies, and 4 monthlies. Three daily German papers are sent us; also a German magazine, published at Leipsic, Germany." Some six years ago, the third of the houses for this special work was established at No. 40 New Bowery, by the Rev. W. E. Van Meter. The Howard Mission (as this establishment is called) far exceeds the House of Industry in its internal appearance. The latter, with its massive bare walls and iron gratings resembles more a prison for culprits than a home for little ones. The former, to the contrary, is built with a desire to surround the children with everything that can please and attract them. The assistant superintendent remarked to us that "their wish had been to make their mission home more beautiful and enticing than any saloon could be." The two large halls are neatly finished and artistically adorned. In the lower one, through the benevolence of a gentleman, a fountain is constantly playing, several hanging baskets of moss and evergreens swing from the ceiling, and at the base of the fountain is a pretty reservoir containing gold-fish. This institution has received, in six years, 7581 children; and the March number of the _Little Wanderers' Friend_, published by this house, states that "for this month (February) 619 children have been fed at its tables, clothed from its wardrobes, and taught in its schools." {563} These houses all have their regular religious services, morning, noon, and night, with Sunday-schools, singing, and prayer-meetings. On Sunday mornings, the prisoners from some of the station-houses, under arrest for disorder and drunkenness the night previous, are taken to the Howard Mission, and furnished with coffee and bread, and then, before leaving, they have a religious discourse preached to them. In addition, these houses have regular visitors, who call at the homes of those making complaints, to assist and comfort the sick, and, at the same time, to find out if the statements given by them are correct. In order that those not familiar with the workings of such institutions may see the charitable work these ladies effect, we extract the first two items from the visitors' diary in the April number of the _Monthly Record of the Five Points House of Industry_, 1866:

"Called on Mrs. L---- , Irish Catholic; is a widow, with two small boys; tells me she cannot get enough work to support the family; would be willing to sew, wash, pick hair, or any of the various female employments, if she could get it. We offered to feed and clothe her boys if she would send them to our school, which she readily promised.

"Visited Mrs. G----, 31 M---- street, Irish Catholic. She lives in a small attic room, rear building; is a widow, with one child; has been but a few days out of the hospital; found her little girl sick with fever; promised to send a doctor and give her necessary assistance."

Although these institutions are doing something by their work to alleviate the condition of a portion of this vast army of 40,000 stray waifs, still it is most evident that they are utterly inadequate to provide for more than a small fraction of this number. It is well known that nearly one half the population of this city profess to be members of the Roman Catholic religion; and, to show the great excess of persons belonging to this church among the lower classes in our city, we extract the following analysis of a block of buildings from the _Little Wanderers' Friend_ for March, 1868: "Fifty-nine old buildings occupied by 382 families, in which are 2 Welsh, 7 Portuguese, 9 English, 10 Americans, 12 French, 39 negroes, 186 Italians, 189 Polanders, 218 Germans, and 812 Irish. Of these, 113 are Protestants, 287 Jews, and 1062 _Roman Catholics_."

The Catholic Reformatory in Westchester county, established by the late Dr. Ives, is doing everything possible for the children under its control; but the little vagrants, unless arrested for some petty crime and thus committed to that institution, are not within reach of its benefits.

The Rev. F. H. Farrelly, the pastor of St. James's church, has labored most zealously during the last three years in the cause of the Catholic children in his immediate vicinity. He has established a poor-school in the basement of his church, under the charge of the Sisters of Charity. The average daily attendance here is 200, and these are furnished with a meal at noon, in order to facilitate their remaining in the institution the entire day. During the year, two suits of clothing are furnished to as many as the good father's means will permit. This school will be removed to the very elegant five-story mission-house, now nearly completed, on the corner of James street and New Bowery. This structure is of brick with freestone trimmings, and has a front of 111 feet on New Bowery, and 83 feet on James street. It will be divided into 21 class-rooms. {564} This enterprise will take more means for its support than St. James's parish can possibly furnish, and it deserves and should have the sympathy and pecuniary assistance of all Catholics.

It is impossible to calculate the amount of good to be effected by the establishment of a large home, under the supervision of the Sisters of Charity or Mercy in this location. These good ladies are peculiarly adapted to care for the wants of the poor, the sick, and the afflicted, as they devote all their energies, according to the intention of their institution, to these classes of society. And why? Because simply in so doing they fulfil the wishes of "The Master." Thus their mission is one of love, and to strictly attend to duty the greatest pleasure of their lives. This is the solution of their great success in the management of hospitals, schools, and charitable institutions; and the large number of their magnificent edifices devoted to these purposes, found throughout almost every portion of the known world, attest the success with which God blesses their labors. To these good sisters the poor emigrants could appeal, without even apparently denying their religion, for a little sustenance to keep their miserable bodies from perishing; the sorrow-burdened could communicate their troubles, confident of a ready sympathy; and to these the homeless little vagrant could come, knowing a mother's tender love and gentle forbearance awaited him. In the home a room should be devoted to the use of mothers--a place where they could leave their babes to be fed and taken care of for the day. This would enable poor widows to do washing and other kinds of work, and thus many could support their families who are now entirely dependent upon public charity. In addition to the home, a large farm should be procured near the city, where the children taken permanently under the care of the institution could be raised and educated. This is advisable, because, in the first place, it would be more economical, and secondly, experience demonstrates that a large body of children do not thrive well in such establishments when located in cities. We feel confident there would be no trouble in supporting this home, as the great Catholic heart always responds liberally to appeals made for the poor, and in this institution the weight of the burden should be equally borne by all the Catholics in the city. In addition to all this, to take care of these little wanderers is a matter of great import in the light of political economy. They form the fountain-head from which a large proportion of our criminals are developed. If they could be made useful members of society, it would relieve the city of a large proportion of the taxation which is now necessary to support our various prisons; and the energy now shown in the commission of crime would become a source of material wealth to the country.

There is one other subject we wish to mention before concluding this paper: it is, the condition of the night-lodgers at the station-houses. From the report of the Board of Metropolitan Police, we find that 105,460 persons were accommodated with lodgings at the various precincts during the last twelve months. Mr. S. C. Hawley, the very accommodating chief clerk of this department, informs us that the number this year will be much greater. Over 100,000 sought refuge in the station-houses, glad to obtain the bare floor to rest their weary limbs; but how many pace our streets nightly, poverty-stricken and despairing, but too proud to seek a shelter in these abodes of crime! It is a stigma on the fair fame of this great city that, throughout its length and breadth, there is not one refuge, established by religious or philanthropic efforts, where the homeless can find shelter from the wintry night blasts.

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"Our beasts and our thieves and our chattels Have weight for good or for ill; But the poor are only his image, His presence, his word, his will; And so Lazarus lies at our doorstep, And Dives neglects him still." [Footnote 173]

[Footnote 173: Proctor.]

In Montreal, Canada, refuges are connected with the church property, and are superintended by the female religious orders, we think more particularly by the Gray Nuns. In 1860, the Providence Row Night Refuge was established in London, under the care of the Sisters of Mercy. There is no distinction made as regards religious creed, and the only requisites necessary for admission are, to be homeless and of good character. Before retiring, a half-pound of bread and a basin of gruel are given to each lodger, and the same in the morning, before they are allowed to commence another day's efforts to obtain work. What charity could so directly appeal to our hearts as this? Think how many men and women arrive daily in this metropolis, in search of employment! For days they eagerly seek it without success, hoarding their scanty means to the uttermost. Finally the time comes when the last dime is spent for bread, and they wander along, their hearts filled with dread, as night covers the earth with her sable mantle, knowing not whither they shall turn their weary steps. Think of the poor woman wending her way through the pelting storm; garments soaked and clinging to the chilled form; heart filled with despair, and crying to Heaven for shelter; head aching, temples throbbing, brain nearly crazed with terror; finally, crouching down under some old steps to wait the first gleam of day to relieve her from her agony. If one in such condition should reach the river-side, what a fearful temptation it must be to take that final leap which ends for ever earth's cares and sufferings, or, still worse for the poor female, the temptation to seek in sin the refuge denied her in every other way!

"There the weary come, who through the daylight Pace the town and crave for work in vain: There they crouch in cold and rain and hunger, Waiting for another day of pain.

"In slow darkness creeps the dismal river; From its depths looks up a sinful rest. Many a weary, baffled, hopeless wanderer Has it drawn into its treacherous breast!

"There is near _another river_ flowing. Black with guilt and deep as hell and sin: On its brink even sinners stand and shudder-- Cold and hunger goad the homeless in." [Footnote 174]

[Footnote 174: Proctor.]

What a mute appeal for such institutions is the case of the little Italian boy found dead on the steps of one of our Fifth avenue palaces last winter! Think of this little fellow as he slowly perished that bitter night, at the very feet of princely wealth. How his thoughts must have reverted to his dark-browed mother in her far-off sunny home! And think of that mother's anguish, her wailing

"For a birdling lost that she'll never find,"

when she heard of her boy's death, from cold and starvation, in the principal avenue of all free America! We consider we are safe in saying that in no other work of charity could a small amount of money be made to benefit so many as in the founding of these refuges. In the police report it is recommended that "several of these be established in different parts of the city, to be under the supervision of the police." This is a great mistake. These people always associate station-houses and the police with crime; consequently it is bad policy for them to come constantly in contact with either. {566} This is the objection to the lodging-rooms used in the various precincts. Official charity, as a rule, hardens those who dole it out, and degrades its recipients.

There are thousands of noble-hearted women attached to our different churches, who, if they once thoroughly understood this subject, would not cease their efforts until societies were established and refuges opened. How could it be otherwise! How could they nestle their little ones down to sleep in warm, comfortable beds, and think of God's little ones freezing under their windows? How could they go to sleep themselves, and feel that some poor woman was probably wandering past their doorways, dying from want and exposure? We hope, before the chilling winds of next November remind us of the immensity of suffering the winter entails upon the poor, some philanthropic persons will have perfected this design, and have the refuges in working order. If such should be the case, the founders will find an ample reward in the words of Holy Writ, "He that hath mercy on the poor, lendeth to the Lord: and he will repay him."

If we could thus, by the adoption of every possible sanitary precaution, deprive our death-tables of all avoidable mortality; and by a proper religious influence elevate the moral character of the people, we should, in the first place, save thousands of lives, now necessary to develop our vast resources; and, secondly, our advance toward perfection in healthfulness and public virtues would go hand in hand with the gigantic strides being made in the adornment of our beautiful island. Our people would no longer seek other places in quest of health, as none more salubrious than New York could be found; and strangers, instead of saying, as is said of that most beautiful of Italy's fair cities, "See Naples, and die!" would exclaim, "Go to New York, and live!"

Wild Flowers.

The child, Mercedes, youngest of the three Whom God has sent me for a mother's crown. Brought me wild flowers, and with childish glee Thus prattled on, as at my feet she cast them down:

"See, mamma! here are saucy flowers I found Hiding behind the hedge, like boys at play. Just peeping up their heads above the ground. To watch if any one should chance to pass that way.

"'Aha!' said I, 'whose little flowers be you, And from whose garden have you run away? Your leaves are dripping with the morning dew. Fie, naughty things! What, think you, will the gardener say?

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"'Come, let me take you to my mamma's home; And she will put you in a golden vase, Where you shall stand and look around the room, And see your pretty, rosy faces in the glass.'

"I took them softly up, and here they are. And now, my mamma, I should like to know Whose garden they have wandered from so far. And why they did not stay at their own home to grow?"

I said: "My child, these flowers have never strayed From any other home. Their place to grow Is just behind the hedge, down in the glade. Though no one may their beauty see or sweetness know."

Then she: "Why, mamma dear, how can that be? What use for them to grow there all alone? Why look so pretty if there's none to see? Or why need they smell any sweeter than a stone?"

"No one on earth may see," I then replied-- "No one may know that flowers are blooming there But God." Mercedes clapped her hands, and cried, "God's flowers! Oh! keep _them_, mamma, in your book of prayer."

Methinks the child did choose a fitting place To put those unnursed blossoms of the field: Like them, our humble prayers with beauty grace The heart's rough soil, and unto God their perfume yield.

Translated From The French.

Faith And Poetry Of The Bretons.

The bay of St. Malo is strewn here and there with rocks, upon which forts have been erected to protect the town by their cross fires. One of these, the Grand Bé, was formerly armed with cannon; but the fort is now abandoned, and only recognizable midst its ruins by the cross at the extremity of the beach, resting apparently on the blue sky above. To this cross all eyes are attracted, to this all steps turn, so soon as the breakers leave a shore of sand and granite for a pathway for the travellers.

After having ascended a rough and steep declivity, a naked and desert plateau is attained, where a few sheep find with difficulty a herb to browse upon; then a turn through a defile of rocks, and on the steepest point a stone and cross of granite. This is the tomb of Chateaubriand.

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No longer a poetical tomb; leaning against the Old World, it contemplates the New; under it, the immense sea, and the vessels passing at its feet; no flowers, no verdure around it, no other noise than the incessantly moving sea, covering in its tempests this naked stone with the froth of its waves. Here he chose his last resting-place; and we wonder what thought inspired the wish that not even his name should be inscribed upon his tomb. Was it pride, or humility that actuated him? To me it appears that this humility and this pride were from the same source--a perfect disenchantment with the world. This man, who had proved so many projects abortive, so many ambitions misplaced; this traveller who had overrun the universe, visited the East, the cradle of the Old World, and the deserts of America, where was born the New; the poet who could count the cycles of his life by its revolutions, was overwhelmed at the end of it by a sadness that knew no repose. He, whose youth was preluded by _Considerations on Revolutions_, so comprehended life in his latter years as to write _The Biography of the Reformer of La Trappe_. The silence and solitude of the cloister were in harmony with the sadness of his soul. Having been charged with the most important missions, having accomplished the highest employments, and set to work the most skilful and powerful men, he retired from the whirling circle of the world, penetrated with the overpowering truth, how little man is worth, how little he knows, and how seldom he succeeds in what he undertakes. The usual source of joy--pride, the intoxication of the world--only provoked in him a smile; for all men he had the same contempt--did not even except himself--and knew well, according to the ancient proverb, that there is very little difference between one man and another. [Footnote 175]

[Footnote 175: Thucydides.]

Through humility, then, he cared not for any inscription on his tomb, not even a name. What mattered it who read it! Men were nothing, and he was one of them! But through pride also, he chose this naked stone. Travellers would come from all parts of the world, they would contemplate it and say, _Chateaubriand!_ His name would be echoed by the waves that came from, and those that parted for, distant shores; and men were obliged to know where he lay.

Thus--ever-recurring instability of the human soul!--in him were united the most contrary sentiments--the disenchantment of glory, and the belief in the immortality of a name; the disdain of scepticism, and the thirst for applause; the impression of the Christian's humility, and an instinct of sovereign pride.

Here, however, we find truth: this cross, the sign of eternity on this stone marked by death, is the immutable testimony of the emptiness of human pride. Chateaubriand desired only a cross on his tomb, while Lamennais, his compatriot, rejected it: both obedient to the same preoccupation, in negation as in faith. The cross, dominating the tomb where the Breton poet reposes, is the symbol of the genius of his country, of Catholic Brittany.

Faith, in Brittany, has a particular character, allied to a poetry peculiar to Breton genius. In this country material objects speak; the very stones are animated, and the fields assume a voice to reveal the soul of man conversing with his God. This is not imagination; no one can be deceived in it. So soon as one enters Brittany, the physiognomy of the country changes, and the sign of this change is the cross. On all the roads, at all the public places, is raised the cross; of every epoch from the twelfth to the nineteenth century we find them, and of every form. {569} There, simple crosses of granite raised on a few steps; here, crosses bearing on each side the image of Christ and the Virgin, rude sculptures in themselves, but always impressed with a sincere sentiment. The Bretons not only understand the tenderness of the Blessed Virgin, but they feel her grief; they share it with her, and express it with an energetic truth. Look at the picture of the Virgin holding her dead son on her knees, in the church of St. Michael at Quimperlé. It is a primitive painting by an unskilled hand, and one totally ignorant of the resources of art; the design of it is incorrect; yet what an expression of grief! The painter wished to portray the living suffering of the mother; the mouth is distorted, the eyes are fixed, the pupil seems alone indicated: yet this fixedness of look seizes upon you; you stop, you remain to examine it, you forget that it is a representation, and see the Virgin herself, immovable in her grief, with no power to express her sorrow; petrified, yet living.

At one side, leaning against the wall, is a statue of the Virgin, conceived with as contrary a sentiment as possible. She is all tenderness and delicacy, and has a leaning attitude, the head inclined, with the gentle look of the Mother who calls the sinner to her side. Her robe falls in numberless plaits, her mantle envelops her with a harmonious grace; for she is no longer the Mother of sorrow, but the sweet consoler of human kind, holding her Son in her arms, whom she presents to bless the earth, _Notre Dame de Bot Scao_, The Virgin of Good News.

The faith of sailors in the Blessed Virgin is well known, that of the Breton sailors particularly. At Brest, we look in vain for a museum of pictures. Brest is not a city of art; it breathes of war; the port, filled with large ships, the arsenal and its cannon, its shells, its gigantic anchors, the forts built on the rocks, the animated movement of the streets, where soldiers of all kinds go and come, and sailors constantly arriving from all parts of the world, give to it an air of intense reality--a character at once powerful and precise. Man has built on the rock his granite home, and we may believe it is immovably established.

But ascend the steps that lead from the lower to the upper town, and under a vault you will find four pictures appended to the wall. Here is the museum of Brest. Sea pictures dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, the departure of the vessel, women and children on the beach on their knees during a tempest, the vessel tossed by the waves, and the arms of the sailors extended to heaven; and on their return, the rescued sailors, bending their steps, with tapers in their hands, toward the chapel of Notre Dame; and underneath, touching legends, cries of the soul that implores, humbles itself, or renders thanks. _Holy Virgin, save us! Holy Virgin, protect those who are now at sea!_ Man we see in his weakness, his aspirations, and his hopes--the true man; the rest was but the mask.

They seize every opportunity and use every pretext to testify their faith. At Saint Aubin d'Aubigné between Rennes and Saint Malo, you go along a tufted hedge; you see a cross cut of thorn--a cross which grows green in the spring, among the eglantines and roses. [Footnote 176]

[Footnote 176: At St. Vincent les Redon, a tree is cut in the form of the cross.]

You return to visit the land of Carnac--a land so pale and desolate, where the standing stones are squared by thousands, gigantic and silent sphinxes that for twenty centuries have kept their impenetrable secret--what is that cross that rises on an eminence? {570} One that they have planted on an isolated ruin in the land--a cross on a Druidical altar, and before the army of stones which mark, perhaps, a cemetery of a great people.

Elsewhere, at the cross-way of a road near Beauport, a spring gushes out and flows among the rocks, forming both basin and fountain on the heaped-up stones; in an arched niche is enclosed a Virgin crowned with flowers; all around, the field morning-glory, the periwinkle, and the eglantine have peeped through the moss and herbs, and enlaced the rustic chapel with their flowery festoons, and fallen again on the infant Jesus. Opposite lie fields of green thorn-broom, and above their long, slender stalks appear the half-destroyed walls of an ancient abbey, roofless, opened to heaven, and silent. Through the blackened arches appears the blue sea, whose prolonged and incessant roaring fills the air.

In this Catholic country _par excellence_, all the churches are remarkable. There is no village, however small, of which the church does not form an interesting part; and here and there, as at Guérande and Vitré, we find the beautifully carved pulpits enclosed in the wall, from which the missionary fathers, on certain extraordinary occasions, speak to the people assembled in the square. At Carnac and Rennescleden we have the arched roofs so exquisitely painted; at Roscoff, Crozon, and elsewhere, medallions of stone and wood framing the altar with quaint gilded sculptures; then, again, we meet with a tabernacle formed for an architectural monument, a sort of palace in miniature, with its wings, pavilions, columns, domes, galleries, and statues, (as at Rosporden;) then an antique confessional greets us in a little chapel near Chateaulin, and a canopy sculptured in wood or even crystal, at Landivisiau. An odd ornament, which is found in only one church--that of Notre Dame de Comfort, on the way to the Bec du Raz--is called _the wheel of good fortune_, and is composed of a large wheel suspended from the roof of the church, and entirely surrounded by bells. On days of solemn feasts, for baptisms and weddings, the wheel is turned, and, agitating all the bells at once, forms a noisy chime, which times the march of the procession, and adds a joyous and silver-toned accompaniment to the voices of the young girls chanting the canticles to the Blessed Virgin. Finally, we meet with one of those trunks of trees, large squared pillars of oak, encircled with heavy bands of iron, and placed in the middle of the church, by the side of a catafalque of blackened wood, but sowed with whitened tears; the trunk and the coffin, emblems of the fragility of life, and the Christian principle above all others, charity.

The churches in the towns are truly _chefs-d'oeuvres_, the cloisters of Tréguier and Pont l'Abbé, for example, where the arcades are so light and so finely carved; or the _bas-reliefs_ inside the portal of Sainte Croix, at Quimperlé, a vast page of sculptured stone, finished with the delicacy and richness of invention, the charming qualities of youth and of the _Renaissance_. Then, in all these churches, near the altar, you perceive immediately the painted statue of the parish saint, one of the Breton saints, not found elsewhere--Saint Cornély, Saint Guénolé. Saint Thromeur, Saint Yves especially. {571} Saint Yves has the privilege of being represented in almost all the churches, even in those of which he is not patron; the remembrance of this great, good man, this wise priest, this incorruptible judge, is indelibly impressed on the heart of every Breton. Sometimes he is seen in his judge's robe, his cap on his head, and listening to two litigants, one in red velvet, embroidered in gold, with his grand wig, his silken stockings, and sword; the other, the poor peasant, all in rags, holes on his knees and his elbows, and naked feet in his wooden shoes. The great lord, with his cap on his head, and an air of pride, presents the saint a purse of gold; the peasant, with timid look and attitude, his head bent down, his cap in his hand, humbly awaits his sentence. He has nothing to give, but justice will not fail him. Saint Yves turns toward him with a gracious smile, and, handing him the judgment written on parchment, lets him know it is his. And thus the history of the middle ages: the church protecting the peasant, the weak against the powerful and the strong.

As to monuments, properly called, nowhere can we find more of these beautiful churches of the middle ages, testimonies of the piety, the science, and the taste of so glorious an epoch. Here, the Cathedral of Dol, of the best day of Gothic art--the thirteenth century--imposing by its massiveness, its grandeur, and the noble simplicity of its ornaments and the harmony of its proportions, the granite of whose towers, in the lapse of ages, is permeated with the air of the sea, has a color of rust, we might say built with iron; there, Tréguier and its exquisite wainscoting, benches, altars, stalls, pulpit in brilliant black oak, carved in such fine and delicate designs, with inexhaustible variety; not a baluster alike, enough models to furnish the entire sculpture of our time; and further on, Saint Pol de Leon and its spire of granite; daring and easy, a prodigy of equilibrium, immovable, girded with open galleries like graceful crowns, flinging to heaven its tiny sharpened bells; so beautifully carved, so aerial, the joy of Brittany, as well it may be, its legitimate pride; then Folgoat, a little unknown village north of Brest, lost at the extremity of the isle, and necessary to leave one's route to see it; but even here, two Breton princes, the Duke Jean III. and the Duchess Anne, have constructed a royal church accumulating all that Gothic art in its richest ornamentation, united to the most ingenious caprices of the _Renaissance_, could have imagined of delicacy and brightness; portraits sculptured, statues of the finest style reflecting their antiquity, a richly Gothic and carved choir, and a gallery--one of those graceful and original monuments of Catholicism so seldom met with--of lace-work, where trefoils, roses, and foliage are carved in indestructible blue granite. The hammer of the Revolution has only knocked off small pieces of these beautifully carved stones. They resisted the passions of men, as they have defied the action of time.

With the bells, of such varied forms, and the vessels for holy water, we will conclude.

These bells are of every style--of the _Renaissance_, the Roche-Maurice-les-Landerneau, of Landivisiau, of Ploaré, of Pontcroix, and of Roscoff. Many are hung with smaller and lighter bells and ornamented with two-story balustrades, like the minarets of the East; then the coverings, spires as they are called, are like that of Tréguier, open, that the winds of the sea may pass through them, and adorned with crosses, roses, little windows, cross-bars, and stars like the cap of a magician.

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The vessels for holy water also express the character of the age. At Dinan, in a church of the twelfth century, an enormous massive tub is supported by the large iron gauntlets of four chevaliers; the old crusader dress, armed _cap-a-pie_ in the service of Christ. In a church of the fifteenth century, at Quimper, is one of an entirely opposite character--a small column, around which a vine is entwined, and above an angel, who, with wings extended, appears as if it had descended from heaven to alight upon the consecrated cup. Again, and as if inspired by a still more Christian sentiment, we find the exterior vessels for holy water, so common everywhere in Brittany, of which the most remarkable are at Landivisiau, at Morlaix, and Quimperlé. The interior ones seem only accessories; the exterior, isolated before the door, have a more precise signification: they solicit the first impulse of the soul; the Christian, in stretching out his hand toward the blessed vase, pauses, and prepares his heart for the coming devotion.

How well these Breton architects have understood religion! These exterior vases are living monuments, little pulpits, with their emblems, symbols, and heads of angels enveloped in their wings. Their canopies, prominent, sculptured, and under them, standing and always smiling, our blessed Mother, who seems to invite the faithful to enter the house of prayer. And prayer, as some one has said, is the fortress of life. The Breton people believe and pray: a hidden power is theirs--religion; its effectiveness attesting not only its existence, but its life.

Sayings Of The Fathers Of The Desert.

Abbot Pastor said: He who teacheth something and doth it not himself, is like unto a well which filleth and cleanseth all who come to it, but is unable to cleanse itself of filth and impurities.

A brother asked Abbot Pastor the meaning of the words: He who is angry with his brother without cause. He answered: If in all cases where thy brother wisheth to put thee down thou art angry with him, even though thou pluck out thy right eye and cast it from thee, thy anger is without cause. If however, any one desireth to separate thee from God, then mayest thou be angry.

Abbot Pastor said: Malice never driveth away malice; but, if anyone shall have done thee an injury, heap benefits upon him, so that by thy good works thou destroy his malice.

A brother came to Abbot Pastor, and said: Many thoughts enter my mind, and I am in great danger from them. Then the old man sent him out into the open air, and said: Spread out thy garment and catch the wind. But he answered that he could not. If thou canst not do this, replied the old man, neither canst thou put a stop to these thoughts; but it is thy duty to resist them.

Abbot Pastor said: Experiments are useful, for by them men become more perfect.

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New Publications

Discussions in Theology. By Thomas H. Skinner, Professor in the Union Theological Seminary. New York: Anson D. F. Randolph, 770 Broadway.

Hints on the Formation of Religious Opinions. Addressed especially to young men and women of Christian education. By Rev. Ray Palmer, D.D., Pastor of the First Congregational church, Albany. Same publisher.

These two volumes are very much alike in their general scope and character. Both are written in a calm, philosophical style, and with the praiseworthy view of presenting the claims of the Christian religion on the reason and conscience of men, combating scepticism, and removing difficulties and objections derived from the infidel literature of the day. Professor Skinner begins with a very good essay on miracles as the basis of a reasonable, historical belief in the teaching which they authenticate, and then proceeds to develop his own views respecting certain special topics which he can assume will be admitted by his particular audience to be contained in that teaching. These relate chiefly to the mode by which fallen man may obtain restoration to the divine favor through the Redeemer of our race. The author's object is to show that this mode, as explained by himself, exhibits the attributes of God in a manner consonant to the dictates of reason and the truths of natural theology, and is one by which any sincere, well-intentioned person can make sure of obtaining grace from God, pardon and eternal life. The author's view is that of the new school of Calvinists, which is a great improvement on that of the old school in a moral, though not in a logical, sense. Such preaching and writing as that of Professor Skinner must have a good influence on those who still believe in Christianity and know no other form of it than the Presbyterian. It puts forward the goodness and mercy of God, and encourages the sinner to hope for grace and pardon, if he will be diligent in prayer, meditation, and other pious exercises, and this appears to have been the practical end proposed to himself by the author in this volume. Dr. Palmer's essays are more elaborate and consecutive in their character, and aim more immediately at satisfying the intelligence. He first portrays in a clear and impressive manner the evils of scepticism, and then proceeds to exhibit the evidence of the truths of natural theology and of the fact of a divine revelation, which is also accomplished with a considerable degree of ability and force. The result at which he aims is to convince his readers that they are morally bound to recognize Christianity as true, and to form some definite opinions as to its real meaning, which may serve them as a practical rule and guide for attaining their eternal destiny. The capital defect in his argument is, that he reduces the evidence of the being of God to mere probability, thus leaving the mind where Kant left it, in a state of scientific scepticism with no better basis of certainty than the practical reason. Of course, then, he has nothing more to propose under the name of Christian doctrines than probable opinions. No doubt, it is obligatory on all to act upon opinions which are solidly probable in regard to the momentous interests of the soul, where there are no other equal probabilities to balance them, and no greater certainty is attainable. We deny, however, emphatically that man is left in this state by the Christian revelation. The being of God is a metaphysical certainty. The fact of revelation is a moral certainty, reducible in the last analysis to a certainty which is metaphysical and sufficient to produce an absolute assent of the mind without any fear of the contrary. {574} The articles of faith proposed by the revelation of God ought to have the same certainty, since it is necessary to believe them without doubting. Our respected authors cannot propose a reasonable motive for believing all the doctrines of their sect or school without any doubt, but can only propose opinions more or less probable, or even directly contrary to reason. We do not think, therefore, that they will be able to satisfy the reason of any person who thinks logically that their theories of Christianity are true and complete. The most they can do is to breed an anxious desire to find out with certainty what Christianity is and to attain to a rational faith.

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Celebrated Sanctuaries of the Madonna. By Rev. J. Spencer Northcote, D.D., President of St. Mary's College, Oscott. For sale by the Catholic Publication Society, New York.

This is a valuable contribution to Catholic literature, and presents a subject of interest not only to Catholics, but to the public at large; for great public facts are always of interest, whatever may be our opinion in regard to their significance. A clear and full account is given in this book of the principal facts connected with the origin of some of the sanctuaries of the Madonna in Europe, particularly of the Holy House of Loreto and the recently established pilgrimage of La Salette in France. We do not see how any one can read it and resist the conviction that God has, by his own finger, established and maintained the devotion of the faithful at these holy places. It is easy enough to cry superstition, and to call everything supernatural superstitious. But the evidence of facts speaks for itself, and we commend this book to the candid reader, confident of his favorable judgment in spite of all preconceived opinions, as able to speak for itself. We have, moreover, found it most attractive, and have read it from beginning to end with unflagging interest. It is calculated to quicken the faith of the dumb Christian, open his eyes to the unseen world, and fill his heart with desire for virtue and the love of God, and, as well, to produce in the mind of the careless a deeper conviction of the truth of spiritual things, which may make him set less value on the present, and prize more highly the world to come. We hope this book may attract attention and be widely circulated.

Notes on the Rubrics of the Roman Ritual: Regarding the Sacraments in general. Baptism, the Eucharist, and Extreme Unction. By Rev. James O'Kane, Senior Dean, St. Patrick's College, Maynooth. New York: The Catholic Publication House. 1 vol. crown 8vo, pp. 527. 1868.

This is one of the most excellent commentaries upon the Ritual that has come under our notice. The reverend author has for several years delivered lectures upon the Rubrics to the senior class of theological students in Maynooth, and the substance of these lectures is to be found in the present volume. That he is eminently qualified for such a difficult task, is apparent from the thoroughly practical as well as theoretical knowledge he displays in treating of the administration of the sacraments.

Priests on the mission will find the book one of the most useful works for reference on the subjects treated of which can be found in the English language.

It has been examined by the Sacred Congregation of Rites, and received its approbation, and can, therefore, be consulted and followed with confidence as good authority.

Appleton's Annual Cyclopedia for 1867.

This valuable work appears to receive more care and attention each year. The present volume is of unusual importance on account of the political events in our own country and elsewhere, bearing on the ultimate destiny of the Christian world, which are recorded in its pages. {575} It contains, also, a very fair statement of the history and present condition of the Pope's temporal dominion, and of the principal events in the history of the Catholic Church during the year. In the article on the "Roman Catholic Church," it is incorrectly stated that the Council of Florence is by some regarded as oecumenical. It is universally regarded as oecumenical, and was one of the most important councils ever held in the church. The Patriarch of Constantinople, the Greek Emperor, the representatives of the other Eastern patriarchs and of the Russian Church, and a number of other Eastern prelates were present, and discussed all their causes of difference with the Roman Church during thirteen months, after which they signed the Act of Union, and united in a solemn definition of the supremacy of the Pope.

The Council of Basle is enumerated among the certain oecumenical councils, although all its acts from the twenty-fifth session have been condemned, and none of those of the prior sessions approved, by the Holy See. Although a few Galilean writers have maintained that this council was oecumenical during its earlier sessions, their opinion is generally rejected and is of no weight.

Red Cross; or, Young America in England and Wales. By Oliver Optic. Boston: Lee & Shepard.

This volume, the third of the series published under the title of _Young America Abroad_, continues and concludes the travels and adventures of the naval cadets on British soil and in British waters. London, Liverpool, Manchester, the Isle of Wight, the Lake District, Snowdon, the Menai Straits, etc., are visited, affording an opportunity for the introduction of a great deal of miscellaneous information regarding the physical geography and history of many interesting localities. So far the book is unexceptionable. The adventures of the students, however, are, in Oliver Optic's usual style, exaggerated to the very verge of credibility; and though they will doubtless be relished by the class for which they are written, we no less decidedly think that, as mental food for youth, the selection is not the most judicious, and that the author could very easily, with equal credit to himself and greater benefit to his juvenile readers, serve up something else more nutritious, if less palatable, or not so highly seasoned. As regards the students themselves, it seems to us, also, that the author has not yet hit upon the golden mean: the good boys are almost too good, the bad equally untrue to nature. Our experience with boys--and it is by no means slight or superficial--tends to prove that with those who, from an indisposition to submit to an "iron rule," are commonly known as "wild," such impatience of restraint generally springs from exuberant animal spirits, and is seldom, if ever, met with in connection with meanness, much less vice. _Per contra_, the greatest sycophants are, as a rule, the meanest and most depraved.

Chaudron's New Fourth Reader. On an Original Plan. By A. De V. Chaudron. Mobile: W. G. Clark & Co. Pp. 328. 1867.

Exteriorly, this book presents a by no means pleasing appearance; hence, the greater our surprise, and, we may add, our pleasure, at the variety and excellence of its contents, in which respect it is nowise inferior to any of those in use in our public schools. While we cannot expect for Mrs. Chaudron's Series of _Readers_ an extended circulation in this city, in view of so many and generally deserving rivals already firmly established amongst us, we do with confidence recommend them, if in their general features they resemble this, the only one of the series submitted to us.

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Imitation of Christ Spiritual Combat Treatise on Prayer. Boston: P. Donahoe. Pp. 816. 1868.

Decidedly opposed to small type in books of a religious or educational character, we can cheerfully overlook its use in this instance, giving us, as it does, complete in one volume and in bulk not exceeding the average size of prayer-books, three such admirable devotional works.

Irish Homes and Irish Hearts. By Fanny Taylor, author of _Eastern Hospitals, Tyborne, Religious Orders,_ etc., etc. Boston: Patrick Donahoe. Pp. xi. 215.

The original work, of which this volume is a very neat reprint, was favorably mentioned in _The Catholic World_ for September, 1867. Hence we need not enter into details. It is enough to say that the author, leaving the beaten track of ordinary tourists, devoted herself to the visitation and inspection of the various charitable and religious institutions of Ireland, the number and excellence of which amply vindicate "the warmth of Irish hearts and the depth of Irish faith." This volume gives the result of her examination. It unfolds not a new, but to many an unexpected, phase of Irish character, and will well repay a perusal, from which few can rise without being benefited thereby.

Choice of a State of Life. By Father C. G. Rossignoli, S. J. Translated from the French, 1 vol. 16mo, pp. 252. Baltimore: John Murphy & Co. 1868.

This is a well-reasoned little treatise on vocations, or the choice of a state of life, an important matter too little thought of in our day, when material things have the upper hand, and spiritual things are made of so little account. Many, no doubt, fitted by their talents and called by an interior voice to the priesthood or the religious state, neglect the call; and others again, quite unfit, thrust themselves forward, allured by some prospect of worldly advancement. This little book clearly exposes the motives which should govern us in the choice of a state of life. If read in a calm and undisturbed state of mind, we do not doubt it will do a great deal of good, and induce many to embrace the better part which shall not be taken away from them.

Margaret: A Story of Life in a Prairie Home. By Lyndon. New York: Charles Scribner & Co. 1868.

A pleasantly told story of everyday life. The interest in the narrative is well sustained throughout; the incidents natural, yet effectively introduced; and the characters strongly marked and sufficiently diversified. "Life in a prairie home," however, if here faithfully described, differs materially from what it is generally supposed to be. The incidents are such as to be equally possible in any village in any one of the original thirteen states.

Elinor Johnston: Founded on Facts; and Maurice and Genevieve, or The Orphan Twins of Beauce. Philadelphia: Peter F. Cunningham. Pp. 136.

Two charming stories for children, tastefully got up, if we except an occasional inequality in the pages and carelessness in typography, which we hope to see avoided in future volumes. There is no reason why books intended for children should not be as creditable in appearance as those for adults. That this can be done is proved by the beautifully uniform series just issued by the Catholic Publication Society.

Books Received.

From John Murphy & Co., Baltimore:

The First-Class Book of History, designed for pupils commencing the study of history, with questions; adapted to the use of academies and schools. By M. J. Kerney, A.M., author of Compendium of Ancient and Modern History, Columbian Arithmetic, etc., etc., etc. Twenty-second revised edition. Enlarged by the addition of Lessons in Ancient History, 1 vol. 16mo, pp. 335.

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From P. O'Shea, New York:

O'Shea's Popular Juvenile Library. First series. 12 vols., illustrated.

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The Catholic World.

Vol. VII., No. 41.--August, 1868.

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A New Face On An Old Question.

A few months ago I described a visit which I had recently paid to a friend of mine in the country, and repeated a little of the conversation we then had together upon subjects especially interesting to Catholics. [Footnote 177]

[Footnote 177: See _The Catholic World_, March, 1868; article, "Canada Thistles."]

I was so well pleased with what I saw and heard on that occasion that I resolved to spend a few more days with him; and last month, as soon as the warm weather set in, I presented myself one evening at his hospitable door, valise in hand, and was soon comfortably installed as a guest. If I found his house an embodiment of domestic comfort during the winter, it was still more delightful, now that the lawn and meadows wore the brilliant green of early summer, and the prairie-roses, climbing over the great, roomy piazza, shook down perfume into the open windows, and drew around the place the ceaseless song of bees and the whir of the restless little humming-bird. The library which had charmed me so much when the blazing wood-fire shed a ruddy glow of comfort over the bookshelves and the big writing-table, and the tempting arm-chairs, was a thousand times more attractive, now that green branches and bunches of roses filled the old-fashioned fire-place, and windows, open to the floor, let in the breath of new-mown hay, while creepers and honeysuckles kept off the glare of the sun, and waved gently in and out with the south-west breeze. Here we used to sit and chat on warm afternoons, and our conversation generally turned upon the religious topics in which we were both so much interested. One day we were talking about the great improvement of late in the style of discussion on the Catholic question. "We don't hear so much of the old slanders," said my friend, "but there is rather an inquiry into the reasons of our success and the best methods to meet us. Whenever that inquiry is conducted honestly and thoroughly, it is found that the only way to meet us is, to come over boldly to our side and fight under our banner. As an illustration of what I have said," continued he, picking up a pamphlet from the table, "take this sermon on 'Christ and the Common People,' by the Rev. Mr. Hinsdale, a Protestant clergyman, of Detroit. He states the subject of his discourse boldly enough: 'We start,' he says, 'with the _confessed failure of Protestantism_ to control spiritually the lives, and to mould religiously the characters, of the millions. {578} What are the reasons?' He declares that Protestantism has scarcely won a foot of ground from Romanism in more than two hundred years. 'Geographically, it is where it was at the close of the century in which Luther died. Neither is Protestantism stronger religiously or politically than it was in the seventeenth century; some deny that it is as strong' Nor can it be claimed that it is now making any material gains in any of these directions.' Again: 'In the Protestant countries, no ground has been wrested from false religion or irreligion within a hundred years;' and in the principal American cities the Protestant denominations are unquestionably losing ground. There is good authority for stating that in Cincinnati, for instance, the communicants in the Protestant churches are fewer by two thousand than they were twenty years ago; yet the population of the city has increased during the interval by something like a hundred thousand. Well, Mr. Hinsdale being, as I should judge, a gentleman of common sense and honesty, does not try to relieve his mind from the pressure of these disagreeable facts by cursing the Catholics, but sets himself to work to find out the reasons for the greater prosperity of our church. I need not read them to you; for of course the great reason of all--the assistance of Heaven--he does not perceive; but he makes some significant admissions. He tells his people that Catholicism is the especial religion of the poor, and that Protestantism is restricting itself daily more and more closely to the rich; and he quotes a saying of Theodore Parker's: '_If the poor forsake a church, it is because the church forsook God long before._' I am a Protestant of the Protestants,' Mr. Hinsdale adds, 'but have no hesitation in affirming that in some particulars we should stand rebuked before Romanists this hour; none in declaring that in some respects the Romish priest understands the methods of Christ better than the evangelical preacher.' Now, when the alarm of Protestants at the increase of our churches takes such a form as this, I believe that good results must flow from it."

"No doubt you are right," said I; "but I am afraid few of the anti-popery preachers are like this gentleman of Detroit. Here, for example, is an address, delivered at the last anniversary of the American and Foreign Christian Union, by the Rev. Dr. Talmadge, of Philadelphia. He begins with the admission that the cause of popery is still flourishing, 'although in the attempt to destroy it there has been expended enough ink, enough voice, enough genius, enough money, enough ecclesiastical thunder, to have torn off all the cassocks, and to have extinguished all the wax candles, and to have poured out all the holy water, and to have rent open all the convents, and to have turned the Vatican into a Reformed Dutch church, and the convocation of cardinals into an old-fashioned prayer-meeting, and to have immersed the pope, and sent him forth as a colporteur of the American and Foreign Christian Union. But somehow there has been a great waste of effort. The plain fact is,' he continues, 'that Romanism has to-day, in the United States, tenfold more power than when we first began to bombard it.' {579} And the moral he draws from this survey of the situation is, that the Protestants had better 'change their style of warfare,' and introduce into the fight the principle of holy love, and the example of charity and devotion. Nothing could be more sensible than this remark of his: 'Bitter denunciation on the part of good but mistaken men never pulled down one Roman Catholic church, but has built five hundred. There is only one way to make a man give up his religion, and that is by showing him a better.' Brave words, you say, and so they are. Yet this very sermon is full of just the sort of bitter denunciation which the preacher denounces. The whole address is a condemnation of the speaker himself--one of the finest pieces of unconscious satire I ever read. I don't believe _The Observer_ itself could do the raw-head and bloody-bones business better than Dr. Talmadge does it."

"Never mind. Get these people to admit the principle of honest and gentlemanly dealing in religious controversy, and you may leave their practice to reform itself. For one man who was impressed by Dr. Talmadge's swelling invectives, I make little doubt that there were five who carried away in their hearts his advice to be charitable, courteous, and just. The English Nonconformist preacher, Newman Hall, who travelled through the United States recently, told his congregation on his return home that one of the greatest dangers of Protestantism nowadays was injustice toward Roman Catholics. I am afraid that his advice was not much relished in England, for you know injustice to Catholics is one of the pet foibles of Englishmen; but it is not so bad here. The American people are naturally fond of fair play. You have only to convince them that a certain course of conduct is unjust, and they will change it of their own accord."

"Do you mean to say, then, that you believe reason and logic are henceforth to supersede violence and slander in the discussion of the Catholic problem?"

"Not entirely, of course. But I believe that falsehoods are rapidly losing their efficacy in polemics, and that Protestants recognize this fact and are preparing to adapt themselves to the altered conditions of the conflict. And I do not mean to insinuate that as a class they do this merely from policy. Most of them probably used to believe the old standard lies; at least, they did not _dis_believe them. They repeated them by rote, because they had been brought up to do so, and they never thought of stopping to inquire into their authority. Now that the slanders have ceased to serve a purpose, it is naturally easier to convince those who used to profit by them that they _are_ slanders. What I mean to say is, that the tendency of our time is toward fairness and good sense in religious disputes. You and I, for example, are quite young enough to remember when 'Romanism' was popularly regarded as an unknown horror, no more to be tolerated than the plague or the yellow fever. It was not thought to be a question open for debate. A Protestant would no more have dreamed of examining the merits of popery than the merits of hydrophobia. But now it is a very common thing for our adversaries to admit that we have done wonderful service to humanity in our day; that in some particulars we have done and are still doing more than any other denomination; only we belong to a past age and ought now to give way to fresher organizations. {580} I remember a rather striking sermon which I read in a Detroit newspaper, the other day, on the 'irrepressible conflict' between Catholicism and Liberalism, by the Rev. Mr. Mumford, a Unitarian clergyman. The greater part of the discourse was as illiberal as anything could be. Mr. Mumford saw in the Catholic Church a tremendous engine of oppression, and thought it was scheming to get control of the negroes in the Southern States, and through them to direct the politics of the whole country--"

"He saw no danger in the great influence which Methodism has acquired over the colored people, did he?"

"No; and he forgot to mention that the Catholic Church is almost the only one in America which has never been tainted by the intrusion of politics. Well, I was going on to say that, with all Mr. Mumford's prejudices and absurdities, he had the honesty to acknowledge that the Catholic Church is really entitled to the gratitude of mankind, and declared that he was glad it had secured some foothold in America, 'to act as a restraint upon the intolerance of the Protestant churches.'"

"I am afraid that you rather exaggerate the importance of admissions like these. They are so often made merely for rhetorical effect! They are little patches of light artfully thrown into the picture to heighten the effect of the shadows."

"I know that I don't refer to them as proofs of a willingness to examine the nature and grounds of Catholic doctrine, though I believe that there is much more of such willingness than there used to be, but as an evidence that a spirit of fairness and good-breeding is beginning to prevail in religious controversy; and from that spirit I cannot but expect good results."

"So far I have no doubt you are right; and one of the good results, it seems to me, must be the gradual extinction (or possibly the reform) of denominational newspapers of the old bludgeon-school. _The Observer_ must go out of fashion whenever reason comes in. There will be no room for the religious brawlers when those who differ in creed learn to talk over their differences in a common-sense way. Don't you think there is a change in the tone of the press already?"

"The secular press certainly has improved wonderfully in its treatment of Catholics. About the religious periodicals I am not so sure: some of them are tamer than they were formerly, but the old stand-bys lash their tails as furiously as ever, and the less they are heeded the louder they roar. But that is only natural. You see the same thing at the theatres. When a play ceases to draw very well, the single combats become doubly fierce and the red-fire is frequent. The violence of the denominational organs must not be taken as an evidence of the sentiment of society. If they really led the opinions of their readers, we should have an anti-Catholic crusade every year. I wonder if you have noticed, however, that some of the Protestant religious papers which have usually been mild in their tone have been roused of late to an unaccustomed bitterness against us?"

"Yes, and I hardly know how to account for it."

"I think the explanation is this. The calm discussion of Catholic questions, as we said before, must logically lead to the discovery of Catholic truth. There are Protestant writers who see this and do not want to see it. They perceive whither the current is bearing them, and they struggle against it. They rail at the church by way of protest against the growth of an unwelcome, dimly foreseen conviction, as an encouragement to their tottering unbelief, just as boys whistle to keep up their courage. {581} Have you ever seen a dying sinner try to fight off death? It is in some such hopeless effort as his that _The Liberal Christian_ and a few other journals are now engaged. I do not say that they understand this themselves. I do not charge them with absolutely resisting the progress of conviction, or, to speak more exactly, the resistance is instinctive rather than voluntary; but they feel or suspect, perhaps without fully comprehending, that, if they keep on as they are going, they must come pretty soon to the Catholic Church, and that provokes them. _The Liberal Christian_, you know, is edited by Dr. Bellows, an accomplished gentleman, who was thought some years ago to exhibit a decided leaning toward the church. I am not prepared to say whether this supposition was correct or not; but it is certain that he saw more clearly and exposed more boldly the inherent defects and logical tendencies of Protestantism than any other Protestant I can remember, and in one of his published sermons he declared that Unitarians (his own sect) had more sympathy with Catholicism than with any other form of religion. It might seem strange to find him among the foremost revilers of that very Catholicism; but my theory explains it. The hostility which glistens in his letters and runs mad, sometimes, in the miscellaneous columns of his paper, is the revolt of his Protestantism against the progress of unwelcome ideas--an effort of his unregenerate nature, so to speak, to throw off something which does not agree with it. Ah! how many men have trod in the same path he is now following, and have been led by it to the bitter waters of disappointment! He saw the fatal gulf into which the Protestant bodies were plunging. He felt that hunger of the spirit which nothing but the church of God ever satisfies. He raised a cry for help, and when he found that there was no help except from the Holy Catholic Church, he turned his back upon her, and bound himself down once more with the narrow bonds of what is called Unitarian 'liberalism.' And now, of course, he misses no opportunity of declaring his detestation of the succor which he has refused. He has failed in his aspirations after a mock church, and naturally he vents his disappointment on the real one. He fancies that he is moved by principle, when he is really instigated by pique. He imagines that he is an earnest, honest seeker after an answer to what he well terms 'the dumb wants of the religious times,' when he is--but I have no business to judge his motives. That is God's affair. We must presume that he is courageous and sincere, and that whenever he finds the right road he will boldly walk in it. Nine years ago, Dr. Bellows delivered an address before the alumni of the Harvard Divinity School, on 'The Suspense of Faith,' which was generally supposed to indicate his wish to engraft a ritual and a priesthood upon the Unitarian denomination, bringing it perhaps nearer to Episcopalianism than to any other system of worship. There was no such thought in his mind, I am sure; though his sentiments, had they been acted upon, might have led many men through Episcopalianism into the Catholic Church. I will not weary you with the whole of it; but let me read a few lines which have a special application to what we have been saying. {582} He is trying to account for the fact that Unitarianism is in a posture of pause and self-distrust and he says: 'If, with logical desperation, we ultimate the tendencies of Protestantism, and allow even the malice of its enemies to flash light upon their direction, we may see that _the sufficiency of the Scriptures turns out to be the self-sufficiency of man_, and the right of private judgment an absolute independence of Bible or church. No creed but the Scriptures, practically abolishes all Scriptures but those on the human heart; nothing between a man's conscience and his God, vacates the church; and with the church, the Holy Ghost, whose function is usurped by private reason: the church lapses into what are called religious institutions, these into Congregationalism, and Congregationalism into individualism--and the logical end is the abandonment of the church as an independent institution, _the denial of Christianity as a supernatural revelation,_ and the extinction of worship as a separate interest. There is no pretence that Protestantism, as a body, has reached this, or intends this, or would not honestly and earnestly repudiate it; but that its most logical product is at this point, it is not easy to deny. Nay, that these are the _tendencies_ of Protestantism is very apparent.' When he comes to speak of Unitarianism as the representative and most logical exponent of Protestantism, he expresses himself in a still more remarkable way. Religion, he thinks, like everything else in the world, has been constantly making progress, and Unitarianism has always been in the van. Now this progress seemed to have reached its limit; there is a pause, a partial recoil, in some cases a turning back to the formalism and ritual worship of Rome, in others a headlong rush into the abyss of pure rationalism. In fact, Dr. Bellows believes that to create an equilibrium in the relations between God and man, two opposing forces are in operation--a centrifugal force, which drives man away from submission to divine authority, that he may develop his own liberty and functions of the will, and a centripetal force, which leads him to worship and obedience. These are represented respectively by Protestantism and Catholicism, and he seems to think them destined to alternate--perhaps for all time, though about this his meaning is not very clear. 'Is it not plain,' he says, 'that, as Protestants of the Protestants, we are at the apogee of our orbit; that in us the centrifugal epoch of humanity has, for this swing of the pendulum at least, reached its bound? For one cycle we have come, I think, nearly to the end of our self-directing, self-asserting, self-developing, self-culturing faculties; to the end of our honest interest in this necessary alternate movement.'"

"That means, if it means anything that Protestantism has done its work, at least for the present age; that it has accomplished all it can; and there is nothing left for man but a return to the centripetal force, or to the Catholic Church."

"Exactly: that would be the logical complement of the position he assumed in the curious discourse from which I have been quoting; but the misery is that he had not the courage to be logical. Ah! how well I remember the impression produced at the time by that sad, sad cry of weariness and disappointment which went up from his pulpit when he perceived that the toil, and speculation, and uneasiness of years had brought him to no goal; that he had developed man's faculties without finding a use for them; that he had achieved an intellectual freedom without knowing what to do with it; that, as he well expressed it himself, '_there was no more road_ in the direction he had been going.' {583} Many, as we have seen, when they reached that point on their journey whence this whole dismal prospect was visible, turned back to the church which their fathers had forsaken, and there found peace; and Dr. Bellows had stated so boldly the miseries of his own situation that it was no wonder people thought he too would follow that course. But he set himself about finding a new road, imagining a new church which was to arise at no distant day, and combine the most conservative of liturgies with the most radical of creeds. It was to be constituted on strictly centripetal principles. Speculation having proved empty, worship was to be essayed as a change. Doubt being but sorry fare for a hungry soul, there was to be a good deal of faith, and preaching not being a gift of all men, place was to be made for prayer. What that church was to be, how it was to arise, and when it was to make its appearance, he did not pretend to say. But it must come soon, because 'the yearning for a settled and externalized faith' was too strong to be left unsatisfied. It was to be, I must suppose, a mingling of the revelations of our Saviour with the dreams of Luther, Calvin, Fox, and Swedenborg; because, as Dr. Bellows says in one of his lectures, 'the religious man who has no vacillations in his views, who is not sometimes inclined to Calvinism, sometimes to Rationalism, sometimes to Catholicism, sometimes to Quakerism, has an imperfect activity, a dull imagination, and a timid love of truth; for all these faiths have embodied great and interesting spiritual facts which the free and earnest explorer will encounter in his own experience, and find more vividly portrayed in the history of these sects than in himself.' It was to possess a fixed creed, but nobody was expected to believe in it, for 'inconsistencies of opinion' are to be expected of everybody, and doubt, fear, and scepticism are actually desirable, provided they are 'the work of one's own mental and spiritual activity, and not of mere passive acquiescence in the forces that one encounters from without.' It was to be a _true_ church, of course, yet a false church also; because Dr. Bellows declares that 'truth is too large to be surrounded by any one man or any one party,' and there are always two great parties in religion as there are in politics, 'and each has part of the truth in its keeping;' so that, of course, neither can be wholly right. He wanted his church to be a historical church, for Christianity is a historical religion, and 'a faith stripped of historic reality, disunited from its original facts and persons, does not promise to live and work in the human heart and life.' He seemed to have forgotten that history is the growth of time, and cannot be conferred upon a new-born infant. The future church must have rites and ceremonies, for without them religion hardly 'touches our daily habits and ordinary career,' and is, like Unitarianism, 'an unhoused, unnatural, and disembodied faith.' It must be a visible church, yet without a priesthood; a divinely instituted church, yet without authority; receiving its doctrines by divine revelations, yet only true in part; eternal, yet changeable, I am not surprised that Dr. Bellows has not yet found it."

"Surely he never uttered any such extraordinary farrago as you have been putting into his mouth?"

{584}

"Not in those words, of course, nor with that collocation of thoughts; but all that I have said you will find either in his _Suspense of Faith_, or in the volume of sermons published under the title of _Re-Statements of Christian Doctrine_, (New York, 1860.) I have represented, as fairly as possible, the vagueness of his aspirations and the inconsistency of his principles. It is only clear that he wanted to be a Protestant and a Catholic at the same time. He was shocked at the results of his own centripetalism, and he longed for a visible church, with a tangible creed and a set form of worship; only he wanted to make the church himself; not to be the founder of a new sect--he disclaimed that, and was unwilling even to change the form of service in his own congregation--but to dream about it, to speculate upon what it ought to be, to mould and influence opinion, until, by a seemingly spontaneous movement, the new church should arise from the midst of the people. Poor man! He sees, by this time, that nobody feels the want of this new church, and nobody believes in it; and he hates the true church, partly because it is a continual reproach to him, bringing to mind a duty unfulfilled and a happiness unappreciated, and partly because it continually revives his disappointment."

"I have serious doubts, however, whether Dr. Bellows ever comprehended the beauty of the Catholic religion half so well as many people supposed that he did. Read his books with a little care, and you will see that he never took but the most superficial view of religion: he never got at the core of it. Religion to him--as to how many others!--was a thin philosophy which amused his intellect, a sentimental poetry which tickled his aesthetic instincts; it was not a _life_. Of that vital Christianity which comprehends the whole relationship between God and man, which is both a creed, a worship, and the very essence of devout life, his heart seems to have been void."

"Yes, he says something almost equivalent to this in his sermon on 'Spiritual Discernment.'[Footnote 178]

[Footnote 178: _Re-Statements of Christian Doctrine_.]

'All the triumphs of Protestantism,' he declares, 'the universal improvement of private and public morality, of public education, respect for the individual, have grown out of the increasing care to keep the church and the world apart--religion and other interests distinct subjects of thought and attention.' And the word 'world' here he does not use in its bad sense, but merely as synonymous with secular affairs. Again he says, that 'the Catholic Church succeeded wonderfully in blending life and religion together, faith and daily usage, pleasure and worship, philosophy and the Gospel;' and this, he thinks, was its great fault, while the great merit of Protestantism was, that it carefully separated what the church had so carefully melted together. That gives you the real old Puritan idea of piety--a something to be put on at stated times, and then put off again, like the long faces which old-fashioned Protestants pull for Sunday wear; to have no intimate connection with daily life, but to be kept carefully apart, like the best coat which our ancestors used to lay by in lavender leaves, to be worn on days of ceremony. What is the good of a religion which does not blend with work-a-day life? of a faith which is not felt in daily usage? of a worship which must be kept apart from our pleasures, from our business, from any of our honest pursuits? {585} Why, the very beauty of religion is, that it shall be in man's heart at all times and in all places. If it cannot accompany us everywhere, if it can only live in the artificial atmosphere of Sunday meetings, it is not worth having. The danger against which we have most to guard is not, Dr. Bellows thinks, that of forgetting our religion, but that of growing too familiar with it. His God is an awful rather than a loving God, and our sin against him is not that we go so far away from him, but that we bring him so near to us. In effect he tells us to fetch out our piety once a week or so, on stated occasions, but not to let it interfere with our daily walk and conversation, for that would be sacrilege."

"All this shows, as you say, that he has no comprehension as yet of the true nature of religion; and shall I tell you why he is so slow to acquire it? I believe that he is not really in sympathy with Christianity."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh! he is nominally a Christian, of course. He would be horrified if you told him he was not. But he has no sympathy with the religion of Christ. Our Saviour, in his opinion, was only the expounder of a system of ethics, and, to tell the truth, it is not clear to me wherein the Christ of Unitarianism is essentially superior to Socrates or Benjamin Franklin. The worship of our Lord Dr. Bellows emphatically denounces as rank 'idolatry.' We may only reverence him as a creature specially favored by the Almighty, and a teacher to whose word we owe the most profound respect. Take away from your religious system the idea of God in the person of his divine Son perpetually present with the faithful, and helping them to bear the burdens of humanity which he himself has borne, and it is but a cold, cheerless, fallacious belief which is left you. It is no longer religion; it is only a false philosophy. Devotion vanishes; faith, hope, and love are exchanged for a code of rules of behavior; and God withdraws from the world into the impenetrable mystery of the heavens, where the voice of prayer indeed may reach him, but his presence is never felt by man, and his love never fills the heart. He is no longer the dear Lord of the Christian saints, but the Allah of the Moslems."

"You have hit it exactly; and now let me tell you that ever since Dr. Bellows set out on the foreign tour in which he is still occupied, I have watched for the record of his impressions of Oriental life, feeling certain, from what I knew of him, that he would find an attraction in Mohammedanism which he never saw in Christianity. I was not mistaken. He is not a polygamist: he has no taste for a sensual heaven; I don't suppose he prefers the Koran to the Bible; and I never heard of his keeping the inordinate fasts of Ramadan; still, the creed of Islam seems, in its main features, to have caught his fancy, and he loads it with indirect praises, which he never thought of bestowing upon any form of Christianity. Let me read you an extract from one of his recent letters to _The Liberal Christian_:

"'These people,' he says, referring to the Egyptians, 'know nothing of Christianity which ought to give it any superiority in their eyes over Mohammedanism. When the Arabian prophet commenced his marvellous work, there is little doubt that he was animated by the sincere enthusiasm of a religious reformer. Mohammed recognized both dispensations, the Mosaic and the Christian; and his intelligent followers to this day speak reverently of the Christ. They evade the authority and use of our Scriptures, by asserting that they have been thoroughly corrupted in their text. A learned Mohammedan in India, however, has just written the introduction to a new Commentary on our Bible, in which he ably refutes the Mussulman charge of general corruptness, and adduces all the passages quoted out of the Old and New Testaments in the Koran. {586} But what have Mussulmans seen of Christianity to commend it greatly above their own faith? Is it alleged that Mohammedanism has owed its triumphs and progress to the sword? Is it the fault of Christians if the Cross has not advanced by the same weapon? What infidel rage of the Crescent has ever exceeded the fanatical soldiering of the Crusades, and what has Coeur de Lion to boast over Saladin in enlightenment or appreciation of the Christian spirit? And if we come to bowing, and fasting, and washing, and external forms, _I confess that the degrading prostrations, and crossings, and mummeries of the Greek and Catholic churches, with the gaudy trappings of robes and jewels, the worship of saints and images, and the deification of a humble Jewish woman, appear to me to have nothing in the presence of which Mussulmans could feel the lesser reasonableness, purity, or dignity, or the lesser credibility of their own unadorned and simpler superstition._ Compared with Catholic and Greek legends, the Koran is a model of purity and elegance of style, and _its worst superstitions do not much exceed in grossness the popular interpretation given to monkish fables._ As it respects ecclesiastical interference and tyranny, Mohammedanism is a whole world in advance of Romanism or the Greek Church. It is essentially without priest or ritual, in any Catholic sense. The Mussulman is his own priest. He finds Allah everywhere, and he has only to turn toward Mecca, and bow in prayer, and his field, his boat, the desert, is as good an altar as the mosque. It is truly affecting to see the fidelity of the common people to their faith, the apparent heedlessness of observation, the absorption in their prayers, the careful memory of their hours of devotion.'

"And, speaking of the absence of symbols and rites in the mosques, he adds: 'Surely there is something grand in this simplicity, _and something vital in a faith which, aided by so little external appliance, has survived in full vigor twelve hundred years'_"

"Why don't he admire the vitality of the devil? Satan has survived in full vigor a good deal more than twelve hundred years."

"That would be about as logical. But is it not melancholy to see how far a man whom we would like to respect can be carried by his uncontrolled vagaries! He demanded a 'historical church:' there is only one in Christendom, and that he will not have; and now it almost seems as if he felt an occasional temptation to search for one _outside_ of Christendom. Protestantism, he finds, has run its course. Catholicism he will have nothing to do with. What, then, is left him, if he will be a religious man at all? That seems to be the question which perplexes him and the small but intelligent school of thinkers of whom he is the representative. As the Jews are still waiting for the Christ they crucified eighteen hundred years ago, so the Bellows school are watching for the coming of that Christianity which they have already rejected. And both, it seems to me, are sick at heart with hope long deferred."

"Yes; we hear little now of the confident prophetic tone in which Dr. Bellows some years ago discoursed of the glories of the new religion of humanity, and predicted a resettlement of worn-out creeds and a revival of suspended faith. He writes now rather of the desolation of the present than of brightness which he discerns in the future. And this brings us back to the point from which we started. While Protestant theologians in general are discarding vituperation, there are certain of our opponents who show us a bitterness to which they were not formerly accustomed, because they have been disappointed in their own religious aspirations, and have a vague, half-conscious, and wholly unwelcome impression that the Catholic Church alone is capable of satisfying them. Dr. Bellows, for instance, travels through Europe and finds that Protestantism is everywhere lifeless. He is bold enough to say so; but he takes his revenge in the next breath by trying to show that the Catholic Church is no better. {587} He is powerless to arrest the decay which is destroying his own organization, but he seems to find a melancholy compensation in attacking Catholicism. He reminds me of what the boy said when he was thrashed by a school-fellow: 'If I can't whip you, I can make faces at your sister.' He visits Paris, and confesses that 'Protestantism makes next to no headway' in France, and is torn by internal dissensions. He goes to the heart of Protestant Germany, and finds the general aspect 'one of painful decay in the faith and spirituality of the people.' All over the continent, he observes that where the Catholic faith has died out, 'nothing vigorous has shot up in its place,' and the masses of the population are 'without aspiration, devoutness, or faith in the invisible.' 'Protestantism, as it appears here, is a chilled, repulsive, ungrowing thing, entering very little into the national or the social and domestic life, and apparently not destined in any of its present forms to animate the passions or win and shape the hearts and lives of the middle classes. ... _Out of the present elements of faith and worship in Germany I see no prospects of any healthy and contagious religious life arising.'_ Nay, what is worse than all, the peculiar form of Protestantism upon which, if upon any. Dr. Bellows would rely for the regeneration of Europe, is in no better way than the others. 'It does not appear,' he says, 'that the liberal element in the Protestantism of Germany, I mean that branch of its Protestantism which we should consider 'most in sympathy with Unitarianism, is very earnest or creative. It seems still rather a negation of orthodoxy than an affirmation of the positive truths of Christianity. ... Forced to take positive ground, I fear that a large part of this extensive body _would be compelled to abandon Christian territory altogether._' From Berlin he writes that 'the whole life of the national church is sickly and discouraging;' from Strasburg, that Protestantism 'must learn some new ways before it will become the religion of the people of France, Italy, or even Germany;' from Vienna, that the Protestantism of Austria is 'essentially torpid and unprogressive, presenting nothing attractive or promising.' These passages, and many more of similar purport, we may take as equivalent to the little boy's confession that he could not whip his antagonist. When it comes to the other part, the making faces at his sister, I am bound to say that Dr. Bellows shows more temper than strength. In Vienna, he deplored the lukewarmness of the Catholic people all through Germany, yet, in several previous letters, he had contrasted their zeal in church-going with the indifference of the Protestants. He accuses the clergy of avarice, though in Rome he compliments the priests for their personal merits, their 'seriousness, decorum, and fair intelligence.' He declares that 'the Catholic Church is an artful substitute for anything that a human soul ought to desire;' that she is 'the chief hinderance to progress;' that she has 'glorified the blessed Mother into the Almighty;' that she 'mutters spells and practises necromancy at her altars,' and all that kind of thing, which I need not repeat, because we have heard it in almost the very same words scores of times before. But the most curious of all his angry attacks was made--where, think you? Why, on a steamer in the Levant, where there was nothing whatever to provoke him: where the onslaught was so perfectly gratuitous that it burst upon the calm flow of his letter like a thunderbolt rending the summer sky. Here it is:

{588}

"'Roman Catholicism, weak in every member, is prodigious in its total effectiveness, because it is a unit. It is quietly seizing America, piece by piece, state by state, city by city. In a new state like Wisconsin, for instance, it has the oldest college, the largest theological school, the best hospitals and charities, the finest churches; and what is true of Wisconsin is equally true of many other Western states. Protestantism, with a hundred times the wealth, intelligence, public spirit, and administrative ability, by reason of its sectarian jealousies and divisions can have no parallel successes, and is losing rapidly its place in legislative grants and in public policy. The Irish Catholics spot the members of state legislatures who vote against the appropriations they call for, and are able in our close elections to defeat their return. Representatives become servile and pliable, and Romanism flourishes. A Quaker gentleman of wealth, in the West, (the story is exactly true,) married a Vermont girl who had become a Catholic in a nunnery where she was sent for her education. It was agreed that, if children were given them, the boys should be reared in the faith of their father, the girls in that of their mother. _The Vermont mother gave her husband ten girls, but never a son!_ Eight of them grew up Catholics, married influential men, and brought up their children Catholics, and in some cases brought over their husbands, and so the Roman Church was recruited with Protestant wealth and Quaker blood to a vast extent. So much for sending Protestant girls to Roman Catholic seminaries, and then complaining that so many Protestants are lost to the superstitions of Romanism! There is an apathy about the Roman Catholic advances in the United States among American Protestants, which will finally receive a terrible shock. There is no influence at work in America so hostile to our future peace as the Roman Catholic Church. The next American war will, I fear, be a religious war--of all kinds the worst. If we wish to avert it, _we must take immediate steps to organize Protestantism more efficiently_, and on less sectarian ground.'

"Well, upon my word, the conduct of that Vermont girl was abominable. I suppose Dr. Bellows thinks she never would have been artful enough to swindle her husband out of all his expected boys if she had not been brought up in a convent. 'So much for sending Protestant girls to Roman Catholic seminaries!' I should think so, indeed!"

"The story is very ridiculous; but the moral Dr. Bellows draws from it is worse than ridiculous. If we wish to avert a religious war, he says, 'we must take immediate steps to organize Protestantism more efficiently, and on less sectarian ground.' That means that Protestantism must maintain an overwhelming preponderance in this country by fair means or foul. If it cannot convert the papists with the Bible, it ought to knock them on the head with a bludgeon. And the same atrocious sentiment is still more plainly expressed by an Irish writer in _The Liberal Christian_ of Feb. 29th, who says, 'Popery and Fenianism are Siamese curses, withering every noble and humane feeling wherever they exist. ... _They deserve no toleration; they should receive no mercy._' There's a 'liberal' Christian for you, with a vengeance!"

"Well, we can afford to ridicule such fears and threats; but it is very sad. Here, where nearly all honest people seem to have made up their minds to reform their bad language, and be as polite in discussing sacred questions as in talking over secular affairs, a sect which professes toleration and fairness beyond all others goes back to the old style of polemical blackguardism. I can appreciate the unfortunate position of the liberal Christians, when, having pushed ahead so far, they find that there is 'no more road' in that direction, and can understand that only one of two courses may seem open to them, either to berate the Catholics or to join them; but the instruction which the barrister received from his attorney when the law and the facts were both against him, 'Abuse the other side,' does not apply so well to religion as to jury trials. We must have a different style of argument if anybody is to be converted or improved by the discussion.

{589}

Nellie Netterville.