Chapter XI.

The Mountains Whence Help Cometh.

Mr. Granger was one of those persons whom we miss more than we expect to, their influence is so quiet, their stability has so little of hardness. As has been beautifully said, such characters are "like the water-lily, fixed yet floating." We do not know how much we rest on them till the support is withdrawn.

They heard from him constantly, the letters being directed to Mr. Lewis, but intended for all the family.

Evidently his good spirits had not deserted him. Never before had he been so much alive, he wrote. The excitement, the uncertainty, the very restraints which reminded of power, and of great interests at stake, all kept his thoughts in a brisk circulation, and threw the bile off his mind.

Miss Dora had, however, her separate correspondence, letters directed to herself, which Miss Hamilton read to her, and answered from her dictation.

In those days the child learned a new prayer: "O Mother in heaven, take pity on me who have no mother on earth, and whose father has gone to the wars. Watch over him, that I may not be left an orphan. Pray for him, and for me, and for whoever loves us best. Do not forget me, O Mother! for if you do, my heart will break."

"Who is it that loves us best?" the child asked the first time she said this prayer.

"I do not know," was the reply. "We can never be sure who loves us best. But God knows, and the good Mother can find out."

"I thought it was you," said Dora. Margaret's voice sank to a whisper. "Perhaps it is, dear."

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In a few weeks Mr. Southard also left then, not cheerfully, but with a gloom which he took no pains to conceal.

And the few weeks grew to many weeks, and months multiplied. The summer was gone, and the autumn was gone, and winter melted like a snow-flake on the mantle of time. When our eyes are fixed in anxious longing on some future day, the intermediate days slip through our fingers like sands through an hour-glass, and keep no trace of their passage.

If, when the spring campaign opened, and both the absent ones were in active service, our friends watched with some sinking of the heart for news, it was no more than happened in tens of thousands of other homes. Heart-sickness was by no means a rare disease in those days.

The soldier in charge of the soldier's news-room on Kneeland street became very much interested in one of the few visitors who used to go there that summer. Nearly every say, surely every day when there had been a battle, a pale-faced young lady would open the door, enter quickly, and without looking to right or left go directly to the frames that held the lists of killed and wounded, and read them through from end to end. The soldier got to have an anxious feeling about this lady. Unnoticed by her, he watched her face while she read, and hushed his breath till he saw that terrible look go out of her eyes. The lists finished, she would pull her veil down, sigh wearily, and go out as quietly as she had entered.

"When she finds the name she is looking for, I hall see her drop," he thought.

But Margaret did not drop, though often enough she was in danger of it, as her eyes fell on some blurred name, or some name very like the one she dreaded to see.

It was too wearing. Both flesh and spirit were sinking under this constant strain. Where was the help that religion was to give her? Leave everything to God, trust all to him, she was told. But how? Her thoughts were clenched in these interests; and, in spite of faith, it seemed as though, if she should let go her hold, they would fall. She found that her religion was only of the surface. It had grown in the sunshine, and was not rooted against the storm. She tried to put into practice the precepts she listened to, but the daily distractions of life constantly neutralized her efforts. There was but one way, and for the first time Margaret made a retreat.

The place selected was a convent a little out of the city.

Here in this secluded asylum was all that her soul needed for its restoring; quiet, leisure, the society of those whose lives are devoted to God, and, to crown all, the presence of the blessed sacrament of the altar.

One feels very near heaven when one hears only praying voices, sees only happy, peaceful faces, is looked upon only by kind eyes, and can at any hour go before the altar, alone, undisturbed by those distractions which constantly environ our ordinary worship. How still we become! In that presence how our little troubles and sorrows exhale, as mists lift from the rivers at sunrise, and leave all clear and bright! How cramped and feverish all our past life has been! Everything settles into its true place. Sorrow and death lose their sting. We are safe, for we partake of the omnipotence of God. To think that the same roof that shelters our heads when we lie down to sleep shelters also the sacred head of the Son of God--that drives every other thought from the mind. {458} It is marvellous, it seems incredible, and yet the wonder of it is lost in the sweetness. The moonlight coming in at the window lies white and silent on the bare white floor. You rise to kiss that luminous spot, for just beneath is the altar. Peace rises to exultation, for you perceive more and more that the Father holds us all in his hands, those near and those afar, and that we have but to lift our eyes, and we shall behold the mountains whence help cometh. We want to run out and tell everybody. It seems as if we have just discovered all this, and that no one ever knew it before. We forget that we are sinners. It isn't much matter about us any way. We will think of that afterward. We will make acts of contrition when we get away from here. Now we can make only acts of adoration and of joy.

The superior of the convent directed Margaret's retreat, and on the last morning of it she and all the nuns received communion, and there was the benediction after mass.

The others had gone out, but Margaret still lingered before the altar. Out in the early sunshine, the trees rustled softly, and the breeze waved the curtains of the chapel windows. Occasionally, one of the nuns would come to the door, look in, and go away again smiling, though Miss Hamilton's breakfast was spoiling over the fire, and there was a gentleman waiting in the parlor for her.

"She is in the chapel at her devotions," the sister had told him.

"Don't disturb her on any account," he had answered. "There is no haste."

Margaret was not praying, was not thinking; her soul was silent, lost in God, like a star in the day.

Presently she came out, and, meeting one of the nuns in the hall, embraced her tenderly. "Sister," she said, "this is the most beautiful world that ever was made."

The gentleman had been waiting some time when he heard a step, and in the door there stood a slight, black-robed lady with a veil thrown over her head, a bright face, and a smell of incense lingering about her. She lifted both hands when she saw him.

"My cup runneth over!"

"You are not a nun?" asked Mr. Granger.

"You're not an apparition," she returned. "Oh! welcome!"

"And now," he said, delighted to see her so happy, "if you are ready, we will go home. I have only a few days' furlough, and I want to make the most of it."

Margaret went to take a hasty leave of the nuns, and also to step into the chapel for one moment.

Then she went out from under that happy portal, and down the steps to the carriage that was waiting for them. One of the sisters stood in the door looking after her, and others here and there in the grounds looked up with a pleasant word of farewell as she passed. She stooped to gather from the lower terrace a humble souvenir, two or three grass-blades and a clover-leaf, then stepped into the carriage. As they drove slowly down the avenue, she looked up into the overhanging branches and repeated:

"'Above him the boughs of the hemlock trees Waved, and made the sign of the cross, And whispered their Benedicitis.'"

The family were in raptures over Mr. Granger's return. They could not look at him enough, listen to him enough, do enough for him. "And how nice you look in your uniform!" said Margaret, feeling as if she were about six years old.

"And how nice you look in anything!" he retorted, at which they all laughed. It took but little to make them laugh in those days.

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Mr. Granger, on his part, was as merry as a boy. He was full of adventures to tell them, glad to be at home, happy in their confidence and affection, and hopeful of the future.

Margaret could scarcely believe her own happiness. She would turn away, shut her eyes, and think, "I have imagined it all. He is hundreds of miles away, I do not know whether he is sick or well. He may be in peril. He may be dead. O my friend! come home, come home! Are we never to see you again?"

Then, when she had succeeded in tormenting herself sufficiently, when her heart was sinking, and her eyes overflowing with tears, she would turn quickly, trembling between dream and reality, and see him there alive and well, and at home.

"Oh! there he is, thank God!"

And so every day she renewed in her vivid imagination the pain of his absence and the delight of his return, till too soon the day came when she no longer dared to play such tricks with herself, for he was again gone out of their sight. But the lessons of the retreat were not forgotten, and every morning brought refreshment.

To Be Continued.

Sauntering.

Saunterer, (from _saint terre_,) a pilgrim to holy lands or places.--_Thoreau_.

Would that I were, if not like the king of Ava--lord of the twenty-four umbrellas--at least the owner of one, was my thought. I was in Paris, that paradise of many good Americans who are _not_ defunct. Three thousand and odd miles from home, in the streets of a strange city, with an imperfect knowledge of any foreign tongue, not daring to say _parapluie_ to the most obsequious shopman, and the rain was pouring down like a douche.

I had no devotion to St. Swithin--not a particle. I respected him in a vague way as a successor of the apostles, whose name is in the calendar; but I was always inclined to mention him with a smile on account of his hydropathic propensities. I am a perfect Oriental as far as a warm bath is concerned, but I never could endure the gentlest shower-bath, and the thought of St. Swithin, in his wet grave under a waterspout, always made me shudder. This peculiar sensitiveness always made me suspicious of the lightest summer cloudlet, and led me to make for years a series of minute observations on the weather, till I became deeply versed in mackerel clouds, mare's tails, and such sinister prognostics. I used to imagine myself so sensitive to the dryness and moisture of the atmosphere, and to its density and rarity, that I was quite above barometers. I was a barometer to myself. A foreknowledge of the weather was my strong point, or one of my strong points, when at home in the new world. There I had a full view of the heavens that bend over us all, down to the very horizon on every side. The rarity of the American atmosphere, its lofty heavens, with its luminous spheres, are full of skyey influences, which tell not only upon the very plants, if we observe them, but upon ourselves, if we heed the silent lesson. {460} I always knew what those clouds meant, gathering over the far-off north-wood hills at the west, and I felt the very mist as it began to rise around Mount Agamenticus, in the east, like sacrificial clouds around that altar of the renowned St. Aspinquid. I seldom made a false prediction, and was consequently approached with considerable deference by provident neighbors, especially before a storm. But somehow, I lost this prestige as soon as my foot was off my native heath. Here, in a compact city, with the tall houses and narrow streets shutting the great blue eye of heaven till it became a mere line, like a cat's eye at mid-day, I felt myself utterly at the mercy of nature; I gave myself humbly up to St. Swithin, to whom of old I was rather defiant. A haughty spirit goes before a fall. Humiliations are good for the soul. I think I must consider mine a case of special providence; for there is nothing more soothing to mortified vanity or spiritual pride, or even in dire calamity, than the conviction that ours is an instance of special providence.

On one of those doubtful days in October, when the air is murky and a light mist from the Seine pervades every part of the city, but which were not always, as I had found, indicative of rain, I sallied forth from the Hotel Meurice to wander around the French capital with no special object in view. I discarded my guide-book, tired of being the victim of square and compass. To be told to admire, whether an object appealed to my peculiar tastes or not, was quite opposed to my notions of American independence, and sure to rouse a certain spirit of contradiction in me--a bad trait, I fear, but a fault acknowledged is half cured; so I make a clean breast of it to test the truth of the old saying. I turned, therefore, a blind eye to all the palaces, and gardens, and fountains, and went around feasting my eyes on the forbidden vanities of the world which my god-parents had renounced for me at baptism, but which were glittering delightfully in the booths of this Vanity Fair; not that I cared much for them, to tell the truth, but from a sheer feeling of perversity. There must be some powerful charm in them, or they would not be put down in every religious chart as quicksands to be avoided. Perhaps I was in danger of being stranded among them, and it was, after all, a case of special providence, when, as I was pursuing my way, or rather any way in my ignorance of the city, and moralizing on these things, or demoralizing, of a sudden it began to pour. For an old weather-wise like me to be thus caught, was very humiliating; and in my consternation, I found myself enjoying one of the high and mighty prerogatives of the king of Ava, as aforesaid. _Que faire?_ I should have said, being in France. Looking around, I saw the open door of a church, in which I gladly took refuge. In benighted, "popish" lands, mother church often affords a place of bodily refuge, as well as moral. It was the church of St. Germain l'Auxerrois, to which I had wandered back, and which from this time became my favorite church in spite of the bad repute of the bells. Passing from the gay streets into these cool shades is like passing for a moment, as it were, from time into eternity. All light and frivolous thoughts--all vanity and littleness die away with the noise of the world, at the very entrance. The mind is elevated. We partake of the grandeur of the edifice, and, for a few moments at least, our nature is ennobled. {461} Only great and lofty ideas should wander beneath such arches. Only souls full of noble and magnificent ideas could have designed them. There are truly sermons in these stones, of which one never grows weary--sermons in the grand old _vitraux_, rich with saintly forms, and in the gloom, inspiring sweet and solemn reverie.

"I love the gloom; I love the white-robed throng; I love the flood of most religious song That tosses all its choric waves afar To seek and search each quaint-carved crevice there. The music surges to each singing star, And bears the soul to heaven's own upper air, Sweet crushed to happy tears; but chiefly where Peace, dove-like, broods above clasped hands of prayer."

The Catholic is no longer in a foreign land when he enters a church. The altar, the cross, the Madonna, above all, the tabernacle, with it twinkling lamp of olive oil, are his old familiar friends, and all there, and his heart is at home. He feels a bond of universal brotherhood with all these worshippers before the altar. And then the dear old Latin service! I never thoroughly realized at home the advantage of a universal language in which the whole church could lift up her voice, as with one accord, throughout the world. That language--one of those which were consecrated above the head of the dying Saviour--is associated with all the holiest and tenderest memories of a Catholic. He cannot remember when he first heard it from the lips of holy mother church. It is one of his mother tongues. Each word has a new significance in this foreign land, and the whole service a new meaning. I have heard people exclaim at the rapidity of the opening service of mass, not knowing its significance. Every act and word in our sublime ritual has its meaning to him that enters into its spirit. Dr. Newman says, in his own beautiful way:

"I declare nothing is so consoling, so piercing, so thrilling, so overcoming, as the mass, said as it is among us. I could attend masses for ever and not be tired. It is not a mere form of words; it is a great action, the greatest action there can be on earth. It is not the invocation, merely, but, if I dare use the word, the evocation, of the Eternal. He becomes present on the altar in flesh and blood, before whom angels bow and devils tremble. This is that awful event which is the end and is the interpretation of every part of the solemnity. Words are necessary, not as means, but as ends. They are not mere addresses to the throne of grace; they are instruments of what is far higher, of consecration, of sacrifice. They hurry on as if impatient to fulfil their mission. Quickly they go; the whole is quick, for they are all parts of one integral action. Quickly they go, for they are awful words of sacrifice; they are a work too great to delay upon, as when it was said in the beginning, 'What thou doest, do quickly.' Quickly they pass, for the Lord Jesus goes with them, as he passed along the lake in the days of his flesh, quickly calling first one and then another. Quickly they pass, because, as the lightning which shineth from one part of the heaven unto the other so is the coming of the Son of Man. Quickly they pass, for they are as the words of Moses, when the Lord came down in a cloud, calling on the name of the Lord as he passed by, 'The Lord, the Lord God, merciful and gracious, long-suffering and abundant in goodness and truth.'

"And as Moses on the mountain, so do we too 'make haste and bow our heads to the earth and adore.' So we all around, each in his place, look out for the great advent, 'waiting for the moving of the water.' Each in his place, with his own heart, with his own wants, with his own thoughts, with his own intention, with his own prayers, separate but concordant, watching what is going on, watching its progress, uniting in its consummation; not painfully and hopelessly following a hard form of prayer from beginning to end, but, like a concert of musical instruments, each different, but concurring in a sweet harmony, we take our part with God's priest, supporting him, yet guided by him."

The words being, then, only used as means, as instruments of consecration, it is not at all necessary for the people to follow the words of the priest; but, entering into the spirit and meaning of each part of the sacrifice, abandon themselves each one to his own devotions. {462} While the church is exceedingly particular about the exact following of the liturgy by the clergy, it allows the greatest latitude to the devotions of laymen. All the sects that have a form of prayer, or extempore prayers, afford far less liberty to those who join therein than the church. Their service is nothing to you unless you join in its forms, which leave no liberty of soul. Whereas at mass, while some use a prayer-book with a variety of beautiful and touching devotions in harmony with the service going on at the altar, others simply say the rosary, and others again use no form whatever, but, following the celebrant in spirit, abandon their hearts in holy meditation and mental prayer according to the inspiration of the moment. Thus our holy services never become a mere form. They are always new, new and varied as our daily wants, as our fresh conceptions of what worship is due Almighty God, and of the nature of the holy oblation in which we are participating.

The church of St. Germain l'Auxerrois was once the frequent recipient of royal munificence, being for a long time the royal parish, and it was the most sumptuously adorned in Paris. Sculptors and painters vied in filling it with the choicest works of art. It was not much injured at the revolution, but narrowly escaped destruction in 1831. The anniversary of the death of the Duc de Berri was to be commemorated by services for the repose of his soul; but a mob surrounded the church, and destroyed everything in it. It was afterward closed till 1838, when it was reopened for public worship.

It has some poetical associations as well as historical; for here M. de Lamartine is said to have hung up the long locks that Graziella had shorn from her beautiful head, and sent to be suspended in one of the churches of his belle France. And perhaps this was the one to which he referred in the following words:

"When the last hour of the day has sounded from thy lofty towers, when the last beam has faded away from the dome, when the sigh of the distant organ dies away with the light, and the nave is deserted by all but the Levite attentive to the lamps of the holy place, then I come to glide under thy obscure arches, and to seek, while nature sleeps, Him who never slumbers! The air which the soul breathes in thy aisles is full of mystery and peace. Let love and anxious cares seek shade and solitude under the green shelter of groves to soothe their secret wounds. O darkness of the sanctuary! the eye of religion prefers thee to the wood which the breeze disturbs. Nothing disturbs thy foliage. Thy still shade is the image of eternal peace."

I loved to think the poet found here the source of the inspirations which are embodied in his _Harmonies Religieuses_ which are the delight of every tender and religious soul.

There is in one of the transepts a beautiful font of pure white marble, executed by M. Jouffroy from a model by Madame de Lamartine and presented by her to this church. The basin is surmounted by three expressive figures, Faith, Hope, and Charity, supporting a cross.

This church with its perfumed air, its subdued light, and its quiet recesses incentive to piety, so charmed me by its contrast with the gay world without, and revived all the fervor of early religious impressions, that I did not leave it till I had resolved to commence each remaining day of my stay at Paris, by going to a different church till I had visited them all, like Horace Walpole. And should I even visit them like him as a mere amateur of art, I could not fail to receive some inspiration that would leave me better for the rest of the day. {463} The hours thus passed in the churches seemed to consecrate the day, and left a perfume in my heart that nothing in the world could wholly dissipate. They became the happiest and most profitable of my life, both morally and intellectually.

"For thou dost soothe the heart, thou Church of Rome, By thy unwearied watch, and varied round Of service, in thy Saviour's holy home. I cannot walk the city's sultry streets, But the wide porch invites to still retreats, Where passion's thirst is calmed, and care's unthankful gloom."

"There, on a foreign shore, The homesick solitary finds a friend: Thoughts, prisoned long for lack of speech, outpour Their tears, and doubts in resignation end."

One morning I went to St. Merri's, where St. Edmund, Archbishop of Canterbury, when a young student at Paris, used to go to assist at the midnight office. A friend had given me his practical little book entitled _The Mirror of the Church, _and I took it with me to read in a place he had loved. In reading it I was struck by what he says of the Lord's Prayer, the great prayer of the middle ages, and the prominence he would have us give it in our devotions. He says:

"The Pater Noster surpasses all other prayers in excellence, dignity, and utility. It was made by God himself; hence the injury done to Jesus Christ the Son of God when curious or rhymed prayers are preferred to that composed by him who knows the will of the Father, and better than we what prayer is most acceptable to him, and what we most need. How many deceive themselves in multiplying the forms of prayer! They think they are devout, but they are only carnal in their affections, for every carnally-minded person naturally delights in the vain curiosity of words. Be then prudent and discreet in this respect. I know you will bring forward St. Augustin, St. Gregory, and other saints to oppose me, who prayed according to the affections of their hearts. I am certainly far from blaming them. I only blame the practice of those who, from a spirit of pride or curiosity abandon the prayer made by the Lord himself for those which the saints have composed. Our Lord himself says, And when you are praying, speak not much as the heathen do, for they think they are heard for their much speaking. You therefore shall pray in this manner, Our Father, etc."

We Catholics are often accused of elevating the creature above the Creator, and reproached for saying ten Hail Marys to one Our Father in the beautiful devotion of the Rosary, as if we had no other. This extract from St. Edmund does not support the accusation, and he was a prelate of the dark ages--the thirteenth century. But then he was an Englishman, and we all know the Anglo-Saxon race did not fall in Adam, and only a little way in Peter!

In justice to St. Edmund I will add that he was so devout to Our Lady that, early in life, he consecrated himself to her, and wore, in memory of this consecration, a ring with Ave Maria upon it. He related this on his death-bed, that his example might be followed by others, and was buried with the ring on his finger.

There is an interesting chapel in St. Merri's Church, dedicated to St. Mary of Egypt, which is beautifully frescoed by Chasserian, depicting the touching old legend, with its deep moral significance, of

"That Egyptian penitent whose tears Fretted the rock, and moistened round her cave The thirsty desert."

The poet tells of a miraculous drop which fell in Egypt on St. John's day, and was supposed to have the effect of stopping the plague. Such a drop fell on the soul of this renowned penitent.

"There's a drop, says the Peri, that down from the moon Falls through the withering airs of June Upon Egypt's land, of so healing a power, So balmy a virtue, that even in the hour That drop descends, contagion dies, And health reanimates earth and skies! Oh! is it not thus, thou man of sin, The precious tears of repentance fall. Though foul the fiery plagues within, One heavenly drop hath dispelled them all!"

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St. Mary of Egypt is one of a long line of penitents who, after the example of Magdalen, have given proofs of their repentance in proportion to their sins and to the depth of their sorrow, and thus rendered the very scars on their souls so many rays of light.

Le Brun painted one whose frailties are "linked to fame" as Magdalen, and at her own request. The universal interest felt in her story, and the sympathy it always excites, induced me to visit a place that cannot be disconnected from her memory--the chapel of the Carmelites in the Rue d'Enfer, where she took the veil. I refer to Madame de la Vallière, whom Madame de Sevigné calls "la petite violette qui se cachait sous l'herbe."

A priest was just commencing mass when I entered the chapel. I knelt down by the tomb of the Cardinal de Bérulle, who used to come here to pray in the chapel of St. Magdalen, having a great devotion to that saint. It was difficult to resist the distractions that were inevitable in such a spot, but in which I would not indulge till the holy sacrifice was over. The choir of nuns was separated from the chancel by a grating which was closely curtained. There is always a certain charm in everything that savors of mystery. Whatever is hidden excites our curiosity and interest. That forbidding grate, that curtain of appalling blackness, were tantalizing. They concealed a world in which we had no part. Behind them were hearts which had aims and aspirations and holy ambitions, perhaps, we know not of. They led a life which is almost inexplicable to the world--hidden indeed in God. The chapel was so still, save the murmur of the officiating priest, that you might have supposed no one else there. But after the Agnus Dei, came out from that mysterious recess a murmur from unseen lips like a voice from another world. It was that of the nuns all saying the Confiteor together before going to holy communion. That murmur of _mea culpâ, mea culpâ_, seemed like the voice of penitence from La Sainte Beaume, or the voice of past times repeating the accents of the repentant La Vallière. There she lived and prayed and did penance for thirty-six years, longer than Magdalen in her cave, "son coeur ne respirant que du côté du ciel," thus displaying a remarkable strength of volition, and therefore of character; for "What is character but a perfectly formed will?" says Novalis. Before that altar she used to come two hours before the rest of the community to pray, and in cold weather she, that had been brought up in luxury, was often found senseless on the pavement of the choir when the rest of the nuns came to the chapel.

We read that the tears of Eve falling into the water brought forth pearls, and we cannot doubt that the tears through which our penitent viewed her past life helped obtain for her the pearl of great price. One instance of her austerity is well known. One Good-Friday, meditating in the refectory, during the meagre repast of the day, on the vinegar and gall given to the dying Saviour when he was athirst, she recalled the pleasures of her past life and particularly of the time when, returning with the court from the chase, being thirsty, she drank with pleasure of some delicious beverage which was brought her. This immortification, so in contrast with the vinegar and gall of the Saviour, filled her with lively sentiments of repentance and humiliation, and she resolved never to drink again. {465} For three weeks she did not taste even a drop of water, and for three years she only drank half a glass day. This severe penance, which was unsuspected, brought on a fit of illness and caused violent spasms in the stomach, which reduced her to a state of great feebleness. Besides that, she suffered greatly from rheumatism, but she never ceased to share in the labors in the community. She died in 1710, aged nearly sixty-six years, having passed thirty-six years in the convent. Her life here was one long Miserere which was surely heard in heaven. Her soul had to pass through the deep waters; but she took fast hold of that "last plank after shipwreck"--repentance. Everything went to feed the stream of her sorrow. Every new grace gave her a new conception of the guilt of sin and awoke new regrets for lost glory. So she shut herself up in the garden of myrrh. She sheltered herself in the _creux du rocher_ from the waves of memory that swept over her soul. In that dark night of her soul she looked tremblingly out over the wide sea of her sorrows with a heart like the double-faced Janus, looking into the past and toward the future, memory and hope struggling in her heart. Over that dark sea rose the moonlight of Mary's face--our Lady of Mount Carmel--a narrow crescent at first, but growing larger and brighter every day. And the great luminous starry saints with their different degrees of glory studded the heavens that opened to her view. And so the morning came when the voice of Jesus spoke: Many sins are forgiven her because she hath loved much.

There is an accent of sincerity, with no savor of cant, in the well-known reply of Soeur Louise de la Misericorde when asked if she was happy in the convent: "I am not happy, but I am satisfied." How few in the world can even say with sincerity that they are satisfied. Dr. Johnson said, "No one is happy," but satisfaction is certainly reasonable happiness. Carlyle says, "There is in man a higher than love of happiness. He can do without happiness, and instead thereof find blessedness." That happiness alone is real which does not depend on contingencies. It is reasonably satisfied with the present, and has a constantly increasing hope in the future. Such was the happiness Madame de la Vallière found among the pale-eyed votaries of the cloister, a satisfaction of the soul which became perfect happiness when death came to her after so many years of dying.

I wonder if there was no perfume left in the dried rose leaves in her heart causing it to faint ofttimes by the way. A person of so much sensibility must have had a wonderful capacity for suffering. That her memory was ever alive to the past is evident from the unrelenting austerity of her life, from her well-known reply when informed of the death of her son, and from her requesting Le Brun to paint her as Magdalen.

Remembering so many proofs of her conversion, we, too, say, Neither do I condemn thee. No stone will I cast on thy grave; no reproach on thy memory: for repentance effaced every earthly stain, and thou art now sharing the joy there is in heaven over one sinner that repenteth. Tears of penitent love mingled with those of virgin innocence at the foot of the cross. Let them still mingle there; we will not regard them with distrust or disdain. We too have need to cry:

"Drop, drop, slow tears I And bathe those beauteous feet. Which brought from heaven The news and Prince of peace. Cease not, wet eyes, For mercy to entreat:

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To cry for vengeance Sin doth never cease. In your deep floods Drown all my faults and fears: Nor let his eye See sin but through my tears."

Every one who looks deeply into his own heart finds a motive of charity for the faults of others. A monk of Cluny hung up in his cell the picture of a famous debauchee under which he placed his own name. The surprised abbot asked the reason. It was to remind him what grace alone prevented him from becoming. We are all miracles of grace. It may be restraining or transforming. We are not the less in need of it than those who have apparently sunk to lower depths.

All these things passed through my mind while lingering in the chapel of the Carmelites. In that chapel had resounded the grand tones of the great Bossuet at the profession of Madame de la Vallière, with his usual refrain--the emptiness of all earthly things. "Away, earthly honors!" he said on that occasion, "all your splendor but ill conceals our weaknesses and our faults; conceals them from ourselves, but reveals them to others."--"There are two kinds of love," he added, "one is the love of ourselves, which leads to the contempt of God--that is the old life, the life of the world. The other is the love of God, which leads to the contempt of ourselves, and is the new life of Christianity, which, carried to perfection, constitutes the religious life. The soul, detached from the body by mortification, freed from the captivity of the senses, sees itself as it is--the source of all evil. It therefore turns then against itself. Having fallen through an ill use of liberty, it would be restrained on every side, by frightful grates, a profound solitude, an impenetrable cloister, perfect obedience, a rule for every action, a motive for every step, and a hundred observant eyes. Thus hemmed in on all sides, the soul can only fly heavenward. _Elle ne peut plus respirer que du côté du ciel_"--a beautiful expression, recalling the lines from an old manuscript poem in the _Bibliothèque Royal:_

"Li cuers doit estre Semblans à l'encensoir Tous clos envers la terre Et overs vers le ciel."

The heart should be like a censer, closed toward earth and open toward heaven; and such is the heart of the real spouse of Christ.

When Bossuet had finished his discourse and the black veil was placed upon the head of La Vallière, the whole audience wept aloud. The Duchess de la Vallière was now Louise de la Miséricorde, vowed to the rigorous life of the Carmelites, to fasts and vigils, to sackcloth and ashes.

Philosophers say no motion is ever lost, and that every act is photographed somewhere in the universe. Think of swelling the choral song that will go on vibrating in the air for ever; of sighs of penitence that go on sighing through space for ever in the ears of a merciful God; of attitudes of adoring praise and love, which are somewhere imaged, to be revealed at the last day as a page in the great book that will decide our eternal fate. How much better to be thus perpetuated than idle words, vain songs, and all the graces of fashion only intended to please the eye of a fellow-mortal.

After all, there is something in such a life that appeals to the instincts of our nature. Even those who condemn it cannot but admire. At least, they find it poetical. Who does not feel an increased sentiment of respect for Dr. Johnson as he stands with bared head, in the rain, where his father's book-stall was, in the market place at Uttoxeter, to expiate an act of early disobedience to his father? {467} "The picture of Samuel Johnson," says Carlyle, "standing bare-headed in the market-place is one of the grandest and saddest we can paint. The memory of old Michael Johnson rising from the far distance, sad, beckoning in the moonlight of memory. Repentance! repentance! he proclaims as with passionate sobs--but only to the ear of heaven, if heaven will give him audience."

"O heavy laden soul! kneel down and hear Thy penance in calm fear; With thine own lips to sentence all thy sin; Then, by the judge within Absolved, in thankful sacrifice to part For ever with thy sullen heart!"

The Physical Basis Of Life. [Footnote 128]

[Footnote 128: _New Theory of Life_. Identity of the Powers and Faculties of all Living Matter. A Lecture by Professor T. H. Huxley. _New York World_, Feb. 18th, 1869.]

We know this rather remarkable discourse only as republished in the columns of _The New York World_, where it had a sensational title which we have abridged. Professor Huxley's name stands high among English physicists or scientists, and his discourse indicates considerable natural ability, and familiarity with the modern school of science which seeks the explanation of the universe and its phenomena without recognizing a creator, or any existence but ordinary matter and its various combinations. The immediate purpose of the professor is to prove the physical or material basis of life, and that life in all organisms is identical, originating in and depending on what he calls the protoplasm.

The protoplasm is formed of ordinary matter; say, carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen. These elements combined in some unknown way give rise to protoplasm; the protoplasm gives rise to the plant, and, through the plant, to the animal; and hence all life, feeling, thought, and reason originate in the peculiar combination of the molecules of ordinary, inorganic matter. The plant differs from the animal, and the animal from man, only in the different combinations of the molecules of the protoplasm. We see nothing in this theory that is new, or not as old as the physics of the ancient Ionian school.

The only novelty that can be pretended is the assumption that all matter, even inorganic, is, in a certain sense, plastic, and therefore, in a rudimentary way, living. The same law governs the inorganic and the organic world. But even this is not new. Many years ago, Ralph Waldo Emerson asserted the identity of gravitation and purity of heart, and we ourselves are by no means disposed to deny that there is more or less analogy between the formation of the crystal or the diamond and the growth of the plant. It is not, perhaps, too much to say that the law of creation is one law, and we have never yet been convinced of the existence of absolutely inert matter. Whatever exists is, in its order and degree, a _vis activa_, or an active force. Matter, as the _potentia nuda_ of the schoolmen, is simple possibility, and no real existence at all. {468} There is and can be no pure passivity in nature, or purely passive existences. We would not therefore deny a certain rudimentary plasticity to minerals, or what is called brute matter, though we are not prepared to accept the plastic soul, asserted by Plato, and revived and explained in the posthumous and unfinished works of Gioberti under the term _methexis_, which is copied or imitated by the _mimesis_, or the individual and the sensible. Yet since, as the professor tells us, the animal can take the protoplasm only as prepared by the plant, must there not be in inorganic matter a preparation or elaboration of the protoplasm for the use of the plant?

The professor speaks of the difficulty of determining the line of demarcation between the animal and the plant; but is it difficult to draw the line between the mineral and the plant, or between the plant and the inorganic matter from which it assimilates its food or nourishment? Pope sings,

"See through this air, this ocean, and this earth, All matter _quick_, and bursting into birth;"

but we would like to have the professor explain how ordinary matter, even if _quick_, becomes protoplasm, and how the protoplasm becomes the origin and basis of the life of the plant. Every plant is an organism with its central life within. Virchow and Cl. Bernard by their late discoveries have proved that every organism proceeds from an organite, ovule, or central cell, which produces, directs, and controls or governs the whole organism, even in its abnormal developments. They have also proved that this ovule or central cell exists only as generated by a pre-existing organism, or parent, of the same kind. The later physiologists are agreed that there is no well authenticated instance of spontaneous generation. Now this organite must exist, live, before it can avail itself of the protoplasm formed of ordinary matter, which is exterior to it, not within it, and cannot be its life, for that moves from within outward, from the centre to the circumference. Concede, then, all the facts the professor alleges, they only go to prove that the organism already living sustains its life by assimilating fitting elements from ordinary matter. But they do not show at all that it derives its life from them; or that the so-called protoplasm is the origin, source, basis, or matter of organic life; or that it generates, produces, or gives rise to the organite or central cell; nor that it has anything to do with vitalizing it. Hence the professor fails to throw any light on the origin, matter, or basis of life itself.

It may or it may not be difficult in the lower organisms to draw the line between the plant and the animal, and we shall urge no objections to what the professor says on that point; we will only say here that the animal organism, like the vegetable, is produced, directed, and controlled by the central cell, and that this cell or ovule is generated by animal parents. There is no spontaneous generation, and no well authenticated instance of metagenesis. Like generates like, and even Darwin's doctrine of natural selection confirms rather than denies it. It is certain that the vegetable organism has never, as far as science goes, generated an animal organism. Arguments based on our ignorance prove nothing. The protoplasm can no more produce or vitalize the central animal than it can the central vegetable cell, and, indeed, still less; for the animal cannot, as the professor himself asserts, sustain its life by the protoplastic elements till they have been prepared by the vegetable organism. {469} Whence, then, the animal germ, organite, or ovule? What vitalizes it and gives it the power of assimilating the protoplasm as its food, without which the organism dies and disappears?

Giving the professor the fullest credit for exact science in all his statements, he does not, as far as we can see, prove his protoplasm is the physical basis of life, or that there is for life any physical basis at all. He only proves that matter is so far plastic as to afford sustenance to a generated organic life, which every farmer who has ever manured a field of corn or grass, or reared a flock of sheep or a herd of cattle, knows, and always has known, as well as the illustrious professor.

We can find a clear statement of several of the conditions of life, both vegetable and animal, but no demonstration of the principle of life, in the professor's very elaborate discourse. Indeed, if we examine it closely, we shall find that he does not even pretend to demonstrate anything of the sort. He denies all means of science except sensible experience, and maintains with Hume that we have no sensible experience of causes or principles, all science, he asserts, is restricted to empirical facts with their law, which, in his system, is itself only a fact or a classification of facts. The conditions of life, as we observe them, are for him the essential principle of life in the only sense in which the word _principle_ has, or can have, for him, an intelligible meaning. He proves, then, the physical basis of life, by denying that it has any intelligible basis at all. He proves, indeed, that the protoplasm, which he shows, or endeavors to show, is universal--one and the same, always and everywhere --is present in the already existing life of both the plant and the animal; but that, whatever it be, in the plant or animal, which gives it the power to take up the protoplasm and assimilate it to its own organism, which is properly the life or vital power, he does not explain, account for, or even recognize. With him, power is an empty word. He nowhere proves that life is produced, furnished, or generated by the protoplasm, or has a material origin. Hence, the protoplasm, by his own showing, is simply no protoplasm at all. He proves, if anything, that in inorganic matter there are elements which the living plant or animal assimilates, and into which, when dead, it is resolved. This is all he does, and in fact, all he professes to do.

The professor makes light of the very grave objection, that chemical analysis can throw no light on the principle or basis of life, because it is or can be made only on the dead subject. He of course concedes that chemical analysis is not made on the living subject; but this, he contends, amounts to nothing. We think it amounts to a great deal. The very thing sought, to wit, life, is wanting in the dead subject, and of course cannot by any possible analysis be detected in it. If all that constituted the living subject is present in the dead body, why is the body dead, or why has it ceased to perform its vital functions? The protoplasm, or what you so call, is as present in the corpse as in the living organism. If it is the basis of life, why is the organism no longer living? The fact is, that life, while it continues, resists chemical action and death, by a higher and subtler chemistry of its own, and it is only the dead body that falls under the action of the ordinary chemical laws. There is, then, no concluding the principle or basis of life from any possible dissection of the dead body.

{470}

The professor's answer to the objection is far from being satisfactory.

"Objectors of this class," he says, "do not seem to reflect ... that we know nothing about the composition of any body as it is. The statement that a crystal of calcspar consists of carbonate of lime is quite true, if we only mean that, by appropriate processes, it may be resolved into carbonic acid and quicklime. If you pass the same carbonic acid over the very quicklime thus obtained, you will obtain carbonate of lime again; but it will not be calc-spar, nor anything like it. Can it therefore be said that chemical analysis teaches nothing about the chemical composition of calc-spar? Such a statement would be absurd; but it is hardly more so than the talk one occasionally hears about the uselessness of applying the results of chemical analysis to the living bodies which have yielded them. One fact, at any rate, is out of reach of such refinements and this is, that all the forms of protoplasm which have yet been examined contain the four elements, carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen, in very complex union, and that they behave similarly toward several reagents. To this complex combination, the nature of which has never been determined with exactness, the name of protein has been applied. And if we use this term with such caution as may properly arise out of comparative ignorance of the things for which it stands, it may be truly said that all protoplasm is proteinaceous; or, as the white, or albumen, of an egg is one of the commonest examples of a nearly pure proteine matter, we may say that all living matter is more or less albuminoid. Perhaps it would not yet be safe to say that all forms of protoplasm are affected by the direct action of electric shocks; and yet the number of cases in, which the contraction of protoplasm is shown to be effected by this agency increases every day. Nor can it be affirmed with perfect confidence that all forms of protoplasm are liable to undergo that peculiar coagulation at a temperature of 40 degrees--50 degrees centigrade, which has been called "heat-stiffening," though Kuhne's beautiful researches have proved this occurrence to take place in so many and such diverse living beings, that it is hardly rash to expect that the law holds good for all."

This long extract proves admirably how long, how learnedly, how scientifically, a great man can talk without saying anything. All that is here said amounts only to this: the conclusions obtained by the analysis of the dead body cannot be denied to be applicable to the living body, because we know nothing of the composition of any body organic or inorganic, as it is. Therefore all life has a physical basis! Take the whole extract, and all it tells you is, that we know nothing of the subject it professes to treat. "All the forms of protoplasm, which have yet been examined contain the four elements, carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen in very complex union." When chemically resolved into these four elements, is it protoplasm still? Can you by a chemical process reconvert them into protoplasm? No. Then what does the analysis show of the nature of your physical basis of life? "To this complex union, the nature of which _has never yet been determined_, the name of protein has been applied." Very important to know that. Yet this name protein names not something known, but something the nature of which is unknown. What then does it tell us? "If we use this term [protein] with such caution as may properly arise out of our comparative _ignorance_ of the things for which it stands, it may truly be said that all protoplasm is proteinaceous." Be it so, what advance in knowledge, since we are ignorant of what protein is? It is wonderful what a magnificent structure our scientists are able to erect on ignorance as the foundation.

The professor, after having confessed his ignorance of what the alleged protoplasm really is, continues:

"Enough has, perhaps, been said to prove the existence of a general uniformity in the character of the protoplasm, or physical basis of life, in whatever group of living beings it may be studied. But it will be understood that this general uniformity by no means excludes any amount of special modifications of the fundamental substance. The mineral, carbonate of lime, assumes an immense diversity of characters, though {471} no one doubts that under all these protean changes it is one and the same thing. And now, what is the ultimate fate, and what the origin, of the matter of life? Is it, as some of the older naturalists supposed, diffused throughout the universe in molecules, which are indestructible and unchangeable in themselves; but, in endless transmigration, unite in innumerable permutations, into the diversified forms of life we know? Or is the matter of life composed of ordinary matter, differing from it only in the manner in which its atoms are aggregated. Is it built up of ordinary matter, and again resolved into ordinary matter when its work is done? Modern science does not hesitate a moment between these alternatives. Physiology writes over the portals of life,

'Debemur morti nos nostraque,'

with a profounder meaning than the Roman poet attached to that melancholy line. Under whatever disguise it takes refuge, whether fungus or oak, worm or man, the living protoplasm not only ultimately dies and is resolved into its mineral and lifeless constituents, but is always dying, and, strange as the paradox may sound, could not live unless it died."

Suppose all this to be precisely as asserted, it only proves that there is diffused through the whole material world elements which in certain unknown and inexplicable combinations, afford sustenance to plants, and through plants to animals, or from which the living organism repairs its waste and sustains its life. It does not tell us how carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen are or must be combined to form the alleged protoplasm, whence is the living organism, nor the origin or principle of its life. It, in fact, shows us neither the origin nor the matter of life, for it is only an actually living organism that uses or assimilates the alleged protoplasm. There is evidently at work in the organism a vital force that is distinguishable from the irritability or contractility of the protoplasm, and not derived from or originated by it. Undoubtedly, every organism that falls under our observation, whether vegetable or animal, has its physical conditions, and lives by virtue of a physical law; but this, even when we have determined the law and ascertained the conditions, throws no light on the life itself. The life escapes all observation, and science is impotent, if it leaves out the creative act of God, to explain it, or to bring us a step nearer its secret. Professor Huxley tells us no more, with all his science and hard words, than any cultivator of the soil, any shepherd or herdsman, can tell us, and knows as well as he, as we have already said.

In the last extract, the professor evidently prefers, of the two alternatives he suggests, the one that asserts that "the matter of life [protoplasm] is composed of ordinary matter, is built up of ordinary matter, and resolved again into ordinary matter when its work is done." This the professor applies to man as well as to plants and animals. Hence, he cites the Roman poet,

"Debemur morti nos nostraque."

But we have conceded the professor more than he asks. We have conceded that all matter is, in a certain sense, plastic, and living, in the sense of being active, not passive. But the professor does not ask so much. We inferred from some things in the beginning of his discourse that he intended to maintain that his protoplasm is itself elemental, and pervading all nature. But this is not the case; he merely holds it to be a chemical compound formed by the peculiar chemical combination of lifeless components. Thus he says:

{472}

"But it will be observed that the existence of the matter of life depends on the pre-existence of certain compounds, namely, carbonic acid, water, and ammonia. Withdraw any one of these three from the world, and all vital phenomena come to an end. They are related to the protoplasm of the plant, as the protoplasm of the plant is to that of the animal. Carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen are all lifeless bodies. Of these, carbon and oxygen unite in certain proportions and under certain conditions, to give rise to carbonic acid; hydrogen and oxygen produce water; nitrogen and hydrogen give rise to ammonia. These new compounds, like the elementary bodies of which they are composed, are lifeless. But when they are brought together, under certain conditions they give rise to the still more complex body, protoplasm, and this protoplasm exhibits the phenomena of life. I see no break in this series of steps in my secular complication, and I am unable to understand why the language which is applicable to any one term of the series may not be used to any of the others."

But here is a break or a bold leap from a lifeless to a living compound. No matter how different are the several chemical compounds known from the simple components, the new compound is always, as far as known, as lifeless as were the several components themselves. Hydrogen and oxygen compounded give rise to water, but water is lifeless. Hydrogen and nitrogen, brought together in certain proportions, give rise to ammonia, still a lifeless compound. No chemist has yet, by any combination of the minerals, carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen, the constituents of protoplasm, been able to produce a living plant or a living organism of any sort. How then conclude that their combination produces the matter of life, or gives rise to the living organism? There seems to us to be a great gulf between the premises and the conclusion. Certain combinations of carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen produce certain lifeless compounds different from themselves, _therefore_ a certain other combination of these same elements produces the living organism, plant, or animal, or originates the matter, and forms the physical basis of life. If the professor had in his school days reasoned in this way, his logic-master, we suspect, would have set a black mark against his name, or, more likely, have rapped him over the knuckles, if not over his head, and told him that an argument that has no middle term, is no argument at all, and that "Transitio a genere ad genus," as from the lifeless to the living, is a sophism.

The professor is misled by his supposing that what is true of the dead body must be true of the living. Because chemical analysis resolves the dead body into certain lifeless elements, he concludes that the living body is, while living, only a compound of these same lifeless elements. That is, from what is true of death, he concludes what must be true of life. But for this fallacy, he could never have fallen into the other fallacy of concluding life is only the result of a certain aggregate or amalgam of lifeless minerals. Our scientists are seldom good logicians, and we have rarely found them able, when leaving traditional science, to draw even a logical induction from the facts before them. This is wherefore they receive so little respect from philosophers and theologians, who are always ready to accept their facts, but, for the most part, unable to accept their inductions. The professor has given us some valuable facts, though very well known before; but his logical ineptness is the best argument he has as yet offered in support of his favorite theory that man is only a monkey developed.

In the extract next before the last, the professor revives an old doctrine long since abandoned, that life is generated from corruption. "Under whatever disguise it takes refuge, whether fungus or oak, worm or man, the living protoplasm not only ultimately dies and is resolved into its mineral and lifeless constituents, but is _always dying, and, strange as the paradox may sound, could not live unless it died._" {473} We know that some physiologists regard the waste of the body, which in life is constantly going on, and which is repaired by the food we take, as incipient death; but this is only because they confound the particles or molecules of matter of which the body is externally built up, and which change many times during an ordinary life, with the body itself, and suppose the life of the body is simply the resultant of the aggregation of these innumerable molecules or particles. But the life of the organism, we have seen, is within it, and its action from the centre, and it is only its life, not its death, that throws off or exudes as well as assimilates the material particles. The exudation as well as the assimilation is interrupted by death. Why the protoplasm could not live unless it died is what we do not understand.

The professor, of course, not only denies the immortality of the soul, but the existence of soul itself. There is for him no soul but the protoplasm formed of ordinary matter. All this we understand very well. We understand, too, that on his theory the protoplasm assimilated by the organism to repair its waste, renews literally, not figuratively, the life of the organism. But how he extracts life from death, and concludes that the protoplasm must die, as the condition of living, passeth our comprehension. We suppose, however, the professor found it necessary to assert it in order to be able to reason from the dead subject to the living. If the protoplasm were not dead, he could not by chemical analysis determine its constituents; and if the death of the protoplasm were not essential to its life, he could not conclude the constituents of the living protoplasm from what he finds to be the constituents of the dead protoplasm. But this does not help him. In the first place, the waste of the living organism is not death nor dying, though death may result from it. And the supply of protoplasm in the shape of food does not originate new life, nor replenish a life that is gone, but supplies what is needed to sustain and invigorate a life that is already life. In the second place, the vital force is not built up by protoplastic accretions, but operates from within the organism, from the organite or central cell, without which there could be no accretions or secretions. The food does not give life; it only ministers sustenance to an organism already living. No chemical analysis of the food can disclose or throw any light on the origin, nature, or constitution of the organic life itself.

It is this fact that prevents us from having much confidence in chemical physiology, which is still insisted on by our most eminent physiologists. In every organism there is something that transcends the reach of chemical analysis, and which no chemical synthesis can reproduce. Take the professor's protoplasm itself. He resolves it into the minerals, carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen: but no chemist can by any possible recombination of them reproduce protoplasm. How then can one say that these minerals are its sole constituents, or that there are not other elements entering it which escape all chemical tests and, indeed, are not subject to chemical laws? Chemistry is limited, and cannot penetrate the essence of the material substance any more than the eye can. It never does and never can go beyond the sensible properties of matter. Life has its own laws, and every physiologist knows that he meets in the living organism phenomena or facts which it is impossible to reduce to any of the laws which are obtainable from the analysis of inorganic or lifeless matter. {474} It is necessary then to conclude that there is in the living organism present and active some element which, though using lifeless matter, cannot be derived from it, or explained by physical laws, be they mechanical, chemical, or electrical. The law of life is a law _sui generis_, and not resolvable into any other. We must even go beyond the physical laws themselves, if we would find their principle.

As far as human science goes, there is, where the nucleus of life is wanting, no conversion of lifeless matter into living matter. The attempt to prove that living organisms, plants, animals, or man are developed from inorganic and lifeless matter, though made as long ago as Leucippus and Democritus, systematized by Epicurus, sung in rich Latin verse by Lucretius, and defended by the ablest of modern British physico-philosophers, Mr. Herbert Spencer, in his _Biology_, has by the sane part of the human race in all times and everywhere been held to be foolish and absurd. It has no scientific basis, is supported by no known facts, and is simply an unfounded, at least, an unsupported hypothesis. Life to the scientist is an insolvable mystery. We know no explanation of this mystery or of anything else in the universe, unless we accept the creative act of God; for the origin and cause of nature are not in nature herself. We have no other explanation of the origin of living organisms or of the matter of life. God created plants, animals, and man, created them living organisms, male and female created he them, and thus gave them the power to propagate and multiply each its own kind, by natural generation. The scientist will of course smile superciliously at this old solution, insisted on by priests and accepted by the vulgar; but though not a scientist, we know enough of science to say from even a scientific point of view that there is no alternative: either this or no solution at all. The ablest men of ancient or modern times, when they reject it, only fall into endless sophisms and self-contradictions.

Professor Huxley admits none but material existences, concedes that the terms of his proposition are unquestionably materialistic, and yet denies that he is individually a materialist.

"It may seem a small thing to admit that the dull vital actions of a fungus, or a foraminifer, are the properties of their protoplasm, and are the direct results of the nature of the matter of which they are composed. But if, as I have endeavored to prove to you, their protoplasm is essentially identical with, and most readily converted into, that of any animal, I can discover no logical halting place between the admission that such is the case, and the further concession that all vital action may, with equal propriety, be said to be the result of the molecular forces of the protoplasm which displays it. And if so, it must be true, in the same sense and to the same extent, that the thoughts to which I am now giving utterance, and your thoughts regarding them, are the expression of molecular changes in the matter of life which is the source of other vital phenomena. Past experience leads me to be tolerably certain that, when the propositions I have just placed before you are accessible to public comment and criticism, they will be condemned by many zealous persons, and perhaps by some of the wise and thoughtful. I should not wonder if 'gross and brutal materialism' were the mildest phrase applied to them in certain quarters. And most undoubtedly the terms of the propositions are distinctly materialistic. Nevertheless, two things are certain: the one, that I hold the statement to be substantially true; the other, that I, individually, am no materialist, but on the contrary believe materialism to involve grave philosophical error."

{475}

If what he has been from the first endeavoring to prove, and here distinctly asserts, is not materialism and consequently by his own confession, "a grave philosophical error," we know not what would be. "This union of materialistic terminology with the repudiation of the materialistic philosophy," he says, further on, "I share with some of the most thoughtful men with whom I am acquainted." His terminology is, then, better fitted to conceal his thought than to express it. He may repudiate this or that materialistic system; he may repudiate all philosophy, which he, of course does, yet not his terminology only, but his thought, as far as thought he has, is materialistic. Nothing can be more materialistic than the conception of life, sense, sentiment, affection, thought, reasoning, all the sensible, intellectual, and moral phenomena we are conscious of, as the product of the peculiar arrangement or combination of the molecules of the protoplasm, itself resolvable into the minerals, carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen.

The scientific professor defends himself from materialism, by asserting that both materialism and spiritualism lie without the limits of human science, and by denying the necessity of a substance, whether spirit or matter, to underlie and sustain--we should say, produce--the phenomena, and the necessary relation of cause and effect, or that we do or can know things under any relation but that of juxtaposition in space and time. He falls back on the skepticism of Hume, and takes refuge behind his ignorance. He is too ignorant either to assert or to deny the existence of spirit, and though he may not be able to prove the phenomena in question are the product of material forces, nobody knows enough of the nature and essence of matter to say that they are not; and in fine, he in the first part of his discourse is only stating the direction in which physiology has for some time been moving. After all, what is the difference, or rather, what matters "the difference between the conception of life as the product of a certain disposition of material molecules, and the old notion of an Archaeus governing and directing blind matter within each living body?"

But if matter lies out of the limits of science, and the professor is unable to say whether it exists or not, what right has he to call anything material, to speak of a material basis of life, or to represent life and its phenomena as the product of "a certain disposition of material molecules"? What, indeed, has he been laboring to prove through his whole discourse, but that the phenomena of life are the product of ordinary matter? After this, it will hardly answer to plead ignorance of the existence and properties of matter. If matter be relegated to the region of the unknowable, his whole thesis, terminology and all, must be banished with it, for it retains, and can retain, no meaning.

Nor will it answer for the professor to take refuge in Hume's skepticism, and say he is not a materialist, because he admits no necessary relation between cause and effect, or that there is within the limits of science, any power or force, or _vis activa_, which men in their ignorance call "cause," actually producing something which men call "effect." If he says this, what becomes of his thesis, that life and even mind are the _product_ of a certain disposition of material molecules, or of "the peculiar combination of the molecules of the protoplasm"? If he denies the existence, or even the knowledge of causative, that is, productive force, his thesis has no meaning, and all his alleged proofs of a physical basis of the vital and mental phenomena must count for nothing. {476} Every proof, every argument, presupposes the relation of cause and effect. When that relation is denied, and the two things are assumed to have with each other only the relation of juxtaposition, no proposition can be either proved or disproved. The professor, after having asserted and attempted to prove his materialistic thesis, cannot, without gross self-contradiction, plead the skepticism of Hume in his defence. If he holds with Hume, he should have kept his mouth shut, and never stated or attempted to prove his thesis.

Whether we are or are not able to prove that life, sense, and reason do not originate in the peculiar "combination of the molecules of the protoplasm," is nothing to the purpose. It is for the professor to prove that they do. He must not base his science on our ignorance, any more than on his own.

But our space is exhausted and we must close. Taken, as we have taken him, on what he must concede to be purely scientific ground, and brought to a strictly scientific test, the professor's thesis must be declared not proven, and to be destitute of all scientific value. We have met him on his own ground, and have urged no arguments against him drawn from religion or metaphysics; we have simply corrected one or two mistakes in his science, and assailed his inductions with pure logic. If he has not reasoned logically, that is his fault, not ours, and neither he nor his friends have any right to complain of us for showing that his inductions are illogical, and therefore unscientific. Yet we are bound to say that the professor reasons as well as any of his class of scientists that we have met with. No man can reason logically who rejects the [Greek text], that is, logic itself, and nothing better than Professor Huxley's discourse can be expected from a scientist who discards all causes and seeks to explain the existence and phenomena or facts of the universe, without rising from second causes to the first and final cause of all.

Two questions are raised by this discourse, of great and vital importance. The one as to the _nexus_ between cause and effect, in answer to Hume's skepticism, and the other as to spirit and matter, and their reciprocal relation. We have not attempted the discussion of either in this article; but should a favorable occasion offer, we may hereafter treat them both at some length.

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Two Months In Spain During The Late Revolution.

Gibraltar. October 7.

At an early hour yesterday we left Cadiz, which did indeed look like a "silver cup floating on the water," as the Spaniards say of it. As the steamer bore us away, the rising sun upon its white towers and cathedral dome, the belvideres which adorn the roof of every house, (making each look like a church,) the lovely green alameda, the distant mountains, the pretty white towns on the shore, the hundreds of vessels in the sparkling bay, all made an enchanting scene, from which we were recalled to the miseries of sea-sickness! From time to time, we crept upon deck to see the fine sea view, and when we came to Tarifa, near the straits, the scene was magnificent. On one side, the mountains of Africa, Tangier in the distance; on the other, the mountains of Spain and the Moorish-looking town of Tarifa, with an island on which is the lighthouse and defences standing directly in the mouth of the straits; so that it seemed as if a long line of vessels with their white sails spread were encompassing the island. In sight, at one time, were eighty sail. Every nation under the sun seemed represented, as they saluted one another with their flags. Among the rest, Sweden and Norway. We landed at Gibraltar under a glorious sunset. The farewell beams lighted the mountains with a tint of gilded bronze. Gibraltar, opposite these, was like a huge gray mountain, and behind it the sky was of the palest rose color, melting into blue where it touched the water. The town is on the side and at the foot of the "Rock," (a place of sixteen or twenty thousand inhabitants,) and above it are the famous galleries cut through the rock, from which we could see the noses of the great guns peeping from the port-holes, range after range, one above another, till the top is reached, where is the Signal.

The Rock of Gibraltar is 1430 feet high, and about three miles long--a great gray sphinx jutting into the water. It is joined to the mainland by a narrow slip of sand, capable of being submerged if necessary. Upon this neck of land is the "neutral ground," (a narrow strip,) where, side by side, the fair British sentinel and the sunburned Spaniard keep their "lonely round." We mount upon donkeys to ascend the "Rock," passing through the wonderful "galleries" which, at an immense expense, have been cut into the solid rock, where, with the guns, are depositories for powder, balls, etc. Some of these galleries are over a mile and a quarter long, lighted by the port-holes, which, in passing, gave us glimpses of the loveliest of landscapes. Leaving the galleries, we ascend by zigzag paths to the Signal; at every turn feasting our eyes upon the wonderful panorama spread out below us, which is seen in perfection from the summit. Here we looked down upon two seas, the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, and two worlds, Europe and Africa! Spain on one side, with the snowy heights of the Alpujarras and Sierra Nevada; at our feet, the town of Gibraltar, with the lovely alameda, its green trees and bright gardens, the glorious bay crowded with shipping--men-of-war, school ships, steamers, and every small craft; and, seemingly, but a stone's throw across lay Ceuta, at the foot of that other "Pillar of Hercules" which rises 2200 feet, and looks like a mountain of bronze, while Gibraltar is of gray granite. {478} These two great pillars were considered in the olden time the end of the world--the Tarshish of the Bible; the Calpe of the Phoenicians, who erected here Calpe (carved mountain) and Abyla.

Tarik, the one-eyed Berber chief, took Gibraltar in 711, and called it after his own name, Ghebal Tarik, from whence comes Gibraltar.

While upon the "Signal," we signalize the event by taking a lunch of delicious English cheese, bread and butter, (the first butter we have had in Spain,) and such ale! And while thus agreeably engaged, we hear that an American man-of-war is coming into port, which proves to be the flagship of Admiral Farragut; so we repair to the rampart to see the ship saluted by the town, and then by the British frigate Bristol, to both of which the Yankee replied in gallant style. It was a fine sight, and, altogether, the scene a most remarkable one. Down by the neutral ground, some English officers playing cricket looked like ants in the sunshine; the blue guard-tents of the English sentinels, and the white ones of the Spaniards, were little specks, and the Christian and Jewish cemeteries were like checker work on the greensward.

How longingly we looked toward the purple mountains of Africa, and that beautiful city of Tangier which we had hoped to visit! but the quarantine, still in force, obliged us to abandon the idea. It would have been _something_ to set foot in another continent! Ceuta, which belongs to Spain, and is but a prison-house, could not tempt us. Tearing ourselves from this wonderful scene, we descended by the other side of the mountain and entered the city by beautiful gardens near the alameda, seeing below us the government houses, store-houses, magazines, and many fine residences embowered in gardens of tropical trees and plants; whole hedges of geraniums and cactus lined the roadside, and almond trees, dates, and oranges. We passed a convent-school with beautiful and extensive gardens. In the evening there is music on the alameda, where are trees and statues, and marble benches, on which sit the motley population of this strange place; Moors in turbans, bare-legged Highlanders, officers in scarlet, Andalusians in the red faja, Irishmen fresh from their native isle, ladies in French bonnets and English round hats next the Spanish mantilla and ever-moving fan. Gibraltar is a free port, and every people and kindred meet here for trade. The garrison is very large, about three thousand men in time of peace; for the Spaniards see the occupation of this important point in their country with great jealousy, and would gladly seek occasion to win it back. And every now and then the subject is mooted in the English parliament of giving it up, as it is a most expensive appendage to the English people, and can bring little benefit save to their pride.

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Malaga Hotel Alameda.

October 8.

Leaving Gibraltar at an early hour, and passing the forest of ships in the bay, we soon see the last of the pillars of Hercules and the African coast. The sea is calm, and the coast of Spain along which we come is most beautiful. There is something peculiarly interesting in the mountains of Spain; they seem to rise hill upon hill till they grow to be mountains, and instead of the blue of most southern countries they are of a mulberry hue--seldom with trees, and reminding one of the purple moors of Scotland. The steamer is crowded with families returning from Gibraltar, whither they had fled to get out of the way of the revolution.

We find a busy, crowded city, a lovely bay with mountains in the background, an old Moorish castle overlooking the city, and a beautiful alameda, with trees, and statues, and marble seats, upon which we look from the windows of our delightful hotel.

October 9.

The first thing to-day is to drive to a lovely villa, (that of the Marquis de Casa Loring,) in whose garden we see every fruit and flower and tree of the tropics. Bananas and mangoes, the coffee-tree, the magnolia and India-rubber trees, and among all these we found, and ate, ripe persimmons!--that homely fruit of old Virginia, found amidst all these oriental splendors; and sweeter were they than even the oranges which we gathered from their overladen trees. Returning, we paused to see another villa, from whence is a more extensive and beautiful view of the mountains, the city and the sea, and the fertile plateau upon which Malaga lies, and which is said to rival even the famous huertas of Valencia and Murcia in variety and luxuriance of vegetation. The cemetery gives another favorite point of view, and the old Moorish castle (Gibralfaro) has even a finer one; but the day is too warm to attempt the ascent. The castle dates from 1279, and the lower portion, (the Alcazaba,) which is connected with it, is supposed to be of Phoenician origin; Malaga having been first a Phoenician colony, and afterwards Roman. Of the remains of the Roman period, we saw two interesting bronze slabs in a pavilion of the Villa Loring this morning, one of them containing the municipal laws of Malaga under Domitian, and the other those of a city (Salpense) now unknown.

The interior of the cathedral, which rises upon the site of an ancient mosque, is not at all remarkable. It was begun in 1528. The church of "El Cristo del Victoria" is interesting, from the circumstance of its being built on the spot where stood the tents of the Catholic kings during the siege of 1487. On the right of the altar hangs the royal standard of Ferdinand, and on the left the one taken from the Moors. When the city surrendered, the former was hoisted on the castle, or alcazaba. Opposite this church is a small church, San Roque, the first Christian edifice built here by Ferdinand and Isabella. The crucifix which was formerly here was the one brought by their majesties, is highly revered, and is now over the high altar of Santa Victoria.

Malaga is famed for its climate, the best in Spain. It is considered drier, warmer, and more equable than that of Rome, Pau, Naples, or Nice, even superior to Madeira. Invalids flock here, and it will soon be as crowded as Nice. The extreme dryness of the air is its marked feature, and it is said that there are not ten days in the whole year when an invalid may not take out-door exercise. The evaporation is so great, the rain has no influence on the air. During nine years, it has rained only two hundred and sixty times. The "oldest inhabitant" does not remember to have seen snow, and the cold winds from the Sierra Nevada are kept off by the mountains immediately surrounding the city. {480} To show the longevity of the inhabitants, in the year 1860, twenty-nine out of five thousand deaths were of people who had lived to the ages of _ninety or a hundred_.

Granada.

October 10

This morning we leave Malaga at an early hour by rail, the road being cut through extraordinary mountain passes to Antiquera, an old Roman and Moorish town; from thence by diligence to Loja, where we again take the railway. The journey is altogether delightful, the day being cool and bright, and the mountain scenery on either side grand and beautiful. Loja is in a narrow valley, through which runs the Genil river, on one side the Periquete Hills (Sierra Ronda) and the Hacho. The Manzanil unites here with the Genil, both rapid and clear mountain streams fertilizing a lovely valley. Soon after leaving Loja, we reach Santa Fé, (Holy Faith,) built by Queen Isabella to shelter her army in winter during the siege of Granada in 1492, and called "Santa Fé" because she looked upon the war as a struggle for the faith, and believed piously in its happy issue. This little town has been the scene of many important operations and political acts. It witnessed the signing of the capitulation of Granada, and it was to this town that Columbus was recalled by Isabella when he had already reached the bridge of Piños, behind the mountains, determining to ask aid elsewhere for his great undertaking.

Darkness now fell upon us, and except one exquisite view which the setting sun gave of the snow mountains over Granada, we saw nothing till we reached this last stronghold of the Moors in Spain, and found lodgings inside the Alhambra grounds in the Hotel Washington Irving.

October 11.

We go first to the Cathedral, to hear the high mass, and pay our respects to the remains of Ferdinand and Isabella, which rest there. Driving through beautiful ornamental grounds out of the Alhambra gate, down a steep hill in the old Moorish looking city, we find the cathedral, like that of Malaga, greatly ornamented, (in the Greco-Roman style,) built in 1529. Within the sanctuary are eleven pictures by Alonzo Caño, and two of his most celebrated pieces of sculpture--the heads of Adam and Eve carved in cork. Caño was a native of Granada, and is buried in the Cathedral Bocanegra. Another of the celebrated artists of Spain was also a native here, and the cathedral has several of his pictures. But everything connected with the church sinks into insignificance when one enters into the royal chapel, where all that can perish of the great Ferdinand and Isabella lies (a small space for so much greatness, as Charles V. said.) In a crypt, below the chapel, in plain leaden coffins, with but the simple initial of each king and queen upon them, are the coffins of Ferdinand and Isabella and their daughter Joanna, with her husband Philip I. (the handsome)--the last--that very coffin which the poor crazed Joanna carried about with her for forty-seven years, embraced with such frantic grief, and would never be parted from. Nothing was so affecting as the sight of this--not even the remembrance of all Isabella's glories and goodness! So does an instance of heart devotion touch one more than even the sight of greatness. Above the vault are the four beautiful alabaster monuments, made by order of Charles V. to the memory of his father and mother and his grandparents. {481} Ferdinand and Isabella, with their statues, lie side by side; and poor Joanne la Folle looks lovely and placid (all her jealousies over) beside the husband she adored, as if at last sure that she could not be divided from him. Isabella died at Medina del Campo, (near Segovia, about thirty miles from Madrid,) but desired to be buried here in the bright jewel which she had won as well for her crown as for her God. Her body was taken to Granada in December, journeying over trackless moors amidst storms and torrents, of which the faithful and learned Peter Martyr gives account, who accompanied his beloved mistress to her last home.

The inscription which runs around the cornice tells: "This chapel was founded by their most Catholic Majesties, Don Fernando and Doña Isabel, king and queen of las Españas of Naples, of Sicily--of Jerusalem--who conquered this kingdom, and brought it back to our faith; who acquired the Canary Islands and Indies, as well as the cities of Oran, Tripoli, and Bugia; who crushed heresy, expelled the Moors and Jews from their realms, and reformed religion. The queen died Tuesday, November 26, 1504; the king died January 23, 1516. The building was completed in 1517."

The _bassi relievi_ on the altar in this chapel are very interesting, from the scenes they represent--Ferdinand and Isabella receiving the keys of Granada from Boabdil, etc. At each end of the altar are figures of the king and queen in the costume of the day, the banner of Castile behind the king. In the sacristy is the crown of Isabella, the sword of Ferdinand, the casket in which she gave the jewels to Columbus, some vestments embroidered by her own hand, and the tabernacle used on the altar where they heard mass, on which is a picture of the adoration of the Magi, by that wonderful old painter Hemling of Bruges. Lord Bacon has said of Isabella: "In all her relations of queen or woman, she was an honor to her sex, and the corner-stone of the greatness of Spain--one of the most faultless characters in history--the purest sovereign by whom the female sceptre was ever wielded."

We hear mass in the chapel of the Sagrario, a beautiful church in itself. It was on one of its three doors that the Spanish knight Hernan Perez del Pulgar (during the siege of Granada) nailed the words, "Ave Maria;" to accomplish which feat, he entered the town at dusk, and left it unharmed--nay, even amidst the plaudits of the Arabs, who appreciated the deed. He is buried in one of the chapels called "Del Pulgar."

From the Cathedral we visit the "Cartuja," once a wealthy Carthusian convent, built upon grounds given to the monks by Gonzales de Cordova--"El gran Capitan." In the refectory is shown a cross, painted on the wall by Cotan, which so well imitates wood that the very birds fly to it, and try to perch there. The church has a beautiful statue of St. Bruno upon the altar; and a larger one in the chapel of the Sagrario, by Alonzo Caño, is especially fine. The sacristy is rich in marbles from the Sierra Nevada, and the doors and other wood-work of the church and chapel are made of the most curious and beautiful inlaid work--tortoise-shell, ebony, silver, and mother of pearl--all done by one monk, who took forty-two years to accomplish it; and after so adorning this chapel, behold! the monks are driven from it.

In the church are several lovely pictures--a head of our Lord by Murillo; a copy, by Alonzo Caño, of the Viergo del Rosario in the Madrid gallery, and a copy of one of the "Conceptions" of Murillo --that one with the fair flowing hair, so very lovely.

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Returning home, we have our first view of the snow mountains, (Sierra Nevada.) How strange and how charming to be beneath a tropical sun, and with all the beautiful vegetation of Africa and the Indies, with people all eastern in dress and manners, and see above one snow-capped mountains like the glaciers of Switzerland! Owing to the proximity of these glaciers, the heat is never intolerable here, and yet the winters are so mild they seldom need fire in their sitting-rooms or parlors.

October 12.

To-day is made memorable by our first visit to the Alhambra. Situated on a high hill, on either side of which flows the Darro and the Genil, this space, which occupies several hundred acres, was formerly surrounded by walls and towers, and contained within it the palaces and villas of the Kalifs of Granada; and so numerous were these that it was called a city, Medina Alhambra. Of all these, there now remains but that portion of the Alhambra known as the summer-palace, (the winter-palace having been torn down by Charles V. to make room for a palace which he never finished.) Besides this summer-palace, there is the "Generalife," (a summer-palace built--later than the Alhambra--in 1319;) the remains of the Alcazabar, (fortress,) the Torre de la Vega, where the bell strikes the hours in the same manner as in the Moorish days, to signify upon whom devolves the duty of irrigating the "vega," the beautiful and fertile plain below; the tower of the captive; tower of the princesses; the tower of the "Siete Suetos," (seven stories;) and the Torres Bermujas, (Red Towers.) The last named are outside the Alhambra walls, but are on the same hill, and claim to belong to an older date than even the Moors or the Goths--supposed to be of Phoenician origin. The walls are entered by several gates, some Arabic, and others more modern. From these gates, you wander among stately avenues of trees, with flowers and shrubs and charming paths, through which now and then is seen a glimpse of the yellow towers, or some picturesque ruin, altogether a scene of enchanting beauty. And when upon one of the "miradors" (look-outs) or terraces which crown these towers and palaces, there lies the Moorish city at your feet, the grand snow mountains on the east, the beautiful vega stretching to the mountains on the west, down which marched the conquering Christians; and on the south lies that mountain so poetically called "the last sigh of the Moor," from which Boabdil looked his last upon the kingdom he was leaving for ever, and where his mother made him the famous reproach which has passed into history, that he did well to weep as a woman over that kingdom he could not defend as a man.

And how venture to describe the Alhambra, which has been written of by such men as Prescott and Irving! how give to any one an idea of that which is unique in the world, of the grace and beauty and wonderful variety of its adornments--the carvings like lace, the bright colored mosaics and azuelos, (tiles,) the transparent stucco work and filagree, the inlaid cedar-wood roofs, the pillars, the domes and fountains, the courts, the beautiful arches! We enter first the Court of the Myrtles, in which a large square pool, filled by a fountain at either end, is surrounded by a hedge of fragrant myrtle, and this in turn by a marble colonnade, over which is a second gallery, with jalousies, through which we could imagine the dark eyed beauties to have peeped. {483} The roofs of these galleries are of cedar-wood inlaid, and the arches and sides of exquisite wreaths and vines in stucco, with shields of the Moorish kings, mottoes and verses from the Koran, etc. This court was a place of ablutions for the kalifs.

From the Court of the Myrtles, one sees the Tower of Comares, (called from the name of its Persian architect;) and within this tower, opening from the Court of Myrtles, and preceded by its "antesala" is the Hall of the Ambassadors, the largest, highest, and most beautifully adorned of all the Alhambra. Here was the sultan's throne and reception room. On three sides, arched windows look down into the deep ravine from which the tower rises; and, beyond, upon an enchanting prospect, the old Moorish city and the verdant hills and mountains. The roof of this hall is a sort of imitation of the vault of heaven, and that of the "antesala" (called "La Barca," from being shaped like a boat) is also very elegant.

On another side the Court of Myrtles is the famous Court of the Lions, with its one hundred and thirty-six pillars of white marble, its twelve lions in the centre, supporting an alabaster basin, (a fountain.) At each end, a pavilion projects into the court, with arabesque patterns so light and graceful that the very daylight is seen through the stucco.

Opening from the Court of the Lions is the Hall of the Abencerrages, deriving its name from the legend according to which Boabdil invited the chiefs of the illustrious family of that name to a feast, and had them taken out one by one and beheaded. Others assert that they were murdered in this hall, and show the stains of blood in the marble of the fountain. As they had been mainly instrumental in placing him upon the throne, this act of ingratitude helped to his ruin. This story is generally believed, but Washington Irving has rescued the name of this "unlucky" one (_el chico_) from this unjust aspersion. His investigations prove that the crimes laid to the charge of Boabdil were in reality committed by his father, Aben Hassin. He it was who murdered the thirty-six Abencerrages upon suspicion of having conspired against him, and it was he who confined his queen in the "tower of the captive," etc.

On the east side of the Court of the Lions is the "Sale del Tribunal," (the hall of justice,) where the kalifs gave audience on state affairs. Three arches in the centre and two at either end lead into this hall, which is ninety feet long by sixteen wide, with a dome thirty-eight feet high. This is divided by arches into seven rooms, all profusely ornamented, and in the ceilings of several recesses are paintings of Moors, with cimeters, castles, etc. In one of these rooms is the famous Alhambra vase of porcelain, four feet three inches high, which was found full of gold. In another small room are three tombstones, one of Mohammed II., and one of Yusef III., found in the tomb-house of the Moorish kings, near the Court of the Lions, in 1574. They have long and elaborate inscriptions, one of which reads thus:

"In the name of God, the most merciful and clement!

"May God's blessing for ever rest with this our king!

"Health and peace!

"Gentle showers from heaven come down on this tomb, and give it freshness, and the orchard spread its perfume upon it. What this tomb contains is wine without admixture, and myrtles. Reward and pardon be granted to him who lies within.

"It was God's pleasure that he should dwell amid the garden of delights.

"Those that inhabit those happy regions come forth to meet him with palms in their hands.

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"If thou wouldst know the story of him who lies in the tomb, listen. He was a prince above all in excellence. May God give him sanctity!

"He was cut down into the dust. Yet the Pleiades themselves are not his equals.

"Unavoidable fate took up arms, and aimed at the very throne of the empire.

"Oh! how great was his fame. His excellence, how high! and unbounded his virtues!

"For Abul Hadjaj was like the moon that points out the road to take, and when the sun went down its brightness beamed no less from his eyes.

"Abul Hadjaj showered down tokens of his liberality. But drought is come; his liberality has ceased; his crops are gathered.

"His generosity is forgotten; his halls are lonesome; his ministers silent, and his rooms deserted.

"But it was God's pleasure, the merciful one, (may he be glorified,) to take him into the eternal dwelling when he deprived him of life.

"Here lies he softly, within this narrow tomb, but his real dwelling is the heart of every man.

"Why should I not pray God that the rain should moisten his tomb with its abundant dew? for the rain of his liberality showered down upon all without ceasing.

"Was he not filled with the fear of God, with gentleness and wisdom? Amongst his qualities, were not virtue, liberality, and magnificence one part?

"Was he not the only one that with his science cleared up all doubts?

"Was not poetry one of his attributes, and did he not deck his throne with verses like strings of pearl?

"Was he not always stout, and held his ground in the battle-field?

"How many enemies his sword repelled!

"But Ebn Nasr, his successor, is certainly the greatest among all monarchs of the earth.

"May God protect him!

"For he is most generous and victorious; besides, he distributes rewards generously. He has saved the kingdom from ruin, and restored it to its former greatness."

The Hall of the Two Sisters takes its name from two white slabs of equal size in the pavement. Here are beautiful arches, windows with painted jalousies, a fountain, and a wonderful roof, composed of three thousand pieces in little miniature domes and vaults, all colored in delicate blue and red with white and gold. From this hall, indeed quite from the Court of the Lions, one sees through a series of arched entrances into the "Corredor de Lindaraja," in which room are thirteen little cupolas, and the Mirador de Lindaraja (a boudoir of the sultana) looks upon the garden of Lindaraja, with flowers, and fountains, and orange-trees.

On the opposite of this lovely garden, and looking into it, are the rooms occupied by Washington Irving, those built by Philip V. for his beautiful queen, Elizabeth of Parma, whom the Spanish call "Isabel Farnese." Several corridors here lead to modernized parts of the building--" the queen's boudoir," a chapel made by Charles V. out of the mosque, and a lofty tower, used by the Arabs as an oratory for the evening prayer, and from which the view is superb--the "Generalife" with its white towers, the woods of the Alhambra, the Darro far below in the deep gorge, and, beyond and above all, the snow-capped Sierra Nevada.

The "Patio de la Mosquita" (the court of the mosque) has only the remains of its beautiful roof.

From this to the baths is a long corridor leading to the Chamber of Rest, which has just been restored by Sig. Contreras, the able architect who is repairing the whole building, by order of the queen. This has a fountain in the centre, marble pillars all round, a gallery above, where the musicians played and sung while the bather inclined upon the cushions below; within were the marble baths of the sultan, the sultana, etc.

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"Generalife" means garden of pleasure, and here garden above garden rises upon the mountain side, through which the Darro rushes noisily, being brought by a little canal quite through the mountain. In one of the rooms are some interesting portraits of the kings and queens of Spain. Ferdinand and Isabella, Philip the handsome, Jeanne la Folle, Charles V. and Isabella, Don John of Austria, etc.; and in a second room a series of portraits of the Dukes of Granada, whose descendant, now married to an Italian nobleman of Genoa, owns this lovely place. The founder of this house was a converted Moor, and to his descendants (the houses of Venegas and Granada) Philip IV. made this a perpetual grant. In one of the many gardens are some cypress-trees planted by the Moors, seven hundred years old. Under one of these, a love story is said to have been enacted, of which the beautiful Sultana Zorayda is the heroine. Amongst the portraits in the picture gallery is one of Boabdil, fair and handsome, with yellow hair, and a gentle, amiable look. He may not have had the qualities fitted to the terrible emergency in which he was placed, when domestic contention and misrule had so weakened his empire as to make it difficult to struggle against the growing greatness of Ferdinand and Isabella; but he must have possessed qualities which won for him the love of his people, for many years after his time, the Moors who still lingered about Granada sung the plaintive song said to have been composed by Boabdil himself, relating his misfortunes and his sorrows, spoke of him reverently, and lamented his fate.

It is said he lived to see his children begging their bread at the door of the mosques in Fez. He was killed in Africa, fighting the battles of the prince who gave him shelter.

We hasten from the Generalife to see the sunset from the Torre de la Vega, which is the finest view we have had of the city--the Vega with the lovely rivers winding through it, and the grand mountains beyond. As the sun declined, from the many church bells came the "Ave Maria," soft and musical from the great distance below.

The guide points out the hospital founded by St. John of God, (a Portuguese saint,) the founder of the brothers of charity now spread all over Europe. According to the guide, the saint asked the king for as much land, on which to build this hospital, as he could enclose in a certain number of hours. Of course he was miraculously assisted; and by working all night, he took in so great a space that the king became alarmed. Here he built this hospital and the church in which he is buried. He lost his life rescuing a drowning man, and died blessing Granada.

Tuesday.

Spent the whole morning in the Alhambra, wandering amid its beauties, feasting upon its romantic memories, and reading at intervals the charming legends connected with every spot so delightfully told by Washington Irving. In the hall of the tribunal, we read his account of the entrance of the triumphant Ferdinand and Isabella, and fancy the scene when Cardinal Mendoza celebrated the first mass here.

Seated in the Court of the Lions, we meditate upon the cruel death of the noble Abencerrages, and lean from the window of the Tower of Comares, down which the good Ayesha let her infant son Boabdil escape, to save him from the jealous fury of her rival Zorayda.

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And then, in the later days of the beautiful Elizabetta of Parma, we recall the scene where the hypochondriac Philip persists in being laid out for dead, and can only be brought to life by the voice and lute of the fair maiden, "the Rose of the Alhambra."

In contrast to the Alhambra are the remains of the palace begun with such magnificence by Charles V., of which only the walls remain. Within their vast area and amongst its marble pillars, muleteers were depositing their billets of wood, and burdens of dirt and ashes! _Sic transit gloria mundi_.

We go to look at that which has lasted longer, the church built by him near by, and called Sta. Maria del Alhambra. Wandering on, we find ourselves amongst the ruins of the Franciscan convent (still within the Alhambra walls) which was destroyed by the French in 1809-11, when so much of the Alhambra was injured.

Led by a little boy, and following the wall, we come upon a plantation of cactus, with its red and yellow fruit, which a man is gathering with great scissors, to prevent its prickings. A woman politely cuts and pares some for us to taste. It is sweet and juicy; is much eaten by the poor, who call it "Tuños." They also make from it a palatable drink--a sort of beer. Hans Andersen has written a pretty sonnet to the cactus, which seems especially applicable to this time and occasion.

"Yes, yellow and red are the colors of Spain; In banners and flags they are waving on high; And the cactus flower has adopted them too, In the warm sunshine to dazzle the eye. Thou symbol of Spain, thou flower of the sun, When the Moors of old were driven away, Thou didst not, like them, abandon thy home. But stayed with thy fruit and thy flowers so gay. The thousand daggers that hide in thy leaves Cannot rescue thee from the love of gain; Too often it is thy fate to be sold, Thou sunny fruit with the colors of Spain."

Here we find ourselves at the tower of the "Siete Suelos," through which Boabdil passed when he left the Alhambra for ever. It is said that he asked of Isabella that the door might be walled up, so that no one should ever pass through it after him, and his conquerors acceded to his request. Returning through one of the many beautiful paths leading to our hotel, we diverge to look at a view which presented itself, and find we are near the villa of Señora Calderon. Here, terrace above terrace rises in view of the mountains, and on the summit is an artificial lake, with bridges and boats, and winding walks, and flowers and fruits, and statues and fountains--everything to make a perfect paradise.

At night, we have a gypsy-dance. The chief of his troop is the finest guitar player in Spain--there can be no better in the world--a tall, dark, grave man, who received our plaudits with kingly grace; he looked as if in sorrow over the degradation of his people, who are here in great numbers, living in wretched quarters on a hillside, in holes or caves in the ground.

The dancers were four lovely, graceful girls, modestly dressed, and several men, all dark, with large, soft eyes and white teeth. A youth in short jacket, with broad red faja (sash) and the peculiar Andalusian hat, danced a solo of strange fashion, with many movements of the body, and the extraordinary gestures which belong to all. The feet move in short steps--a sort of "heel and toe"--while the body sways to and fro, and the hands and arms move gracefully and expressively. The men had tambourines and the women castanets, and the wild airs to which they danced were accompanied with their voices. The variety of dances and songs was curious and interesting, and often descriptive. At the end of each dance, the girls came round and saluted all, gentlemen and ladies, by passing one arm over the neck.

{487}

Wednesday.

Drive about the city, the public squares, etc., and visit the remains of the old Moorish bazaar which occupies a square intersected by narrow lanes, every one of which is beautifully ornamented with pillars and arabesque work.

The alameda, planted in long avenues of trees which meet overhead, beyond which one catches a view of the Snow mountains, and beside which flows the Genil river, can not be excelled in beauty.

The church and hospital of St. John of God is most interesting. Over the door are these words of the saint, "Labor, without intermission, to do all the good works in your power while time is allowed you." The hospital is built round a large court, with fountains and gardens, and a double row of corridors in which sat the sick poor, clean and comfortable. It communicates with the church, which has several good pictures, and a head of St. John the Baptist, carved by Caño.

In a richly ornamented chapel behind the great altar is the body of the saint in a silver casket. The remains of St. Feliciana are also here, as well as many other relics. In an adjoining room is seen the identical basket in which the saint carried provisions to the poor.

The church was built by contributions sent by one of the order from South America. The cedar-wood doors are said to be made from the logs in which the concealed treasures were brought over.

We climb to the top of the "Torres Bermujas," outside the Alhambra walls, from whence is another splendid view--a curious old ruin, dating from the time of the Phoenicians. It is said to have been a stronghold of the Jews, who made a colony here during their persecutions by the Romans; and being treated with equal cruelty by their Gothic conquerors, they invited in the Moors, betrayed the city to them, made terms for themselves, and thus brought upon themselves the eternal enmity of the Spaniards, who treated them with great rigor after the conquest, and finally banished them. In the story of the three beautiful princesses, this tower plays an important _rôle;_ here were confined the captive Spanish knights who eloped with the Infantas, (daughters of Mohammed the left-handed,) and beyond, rising above the deep, romantic ravine, is the Tower of the Princesses, beneath which the knights sang their tales of love.

Madrid, Hotel De Paris.

Friday, October 16.

Yesterday (my feast) and the feast of the great Spanish Saint Teresa was celebrated by our most sorrowful departure from Grenada! At three o'clock in the morning, we descend the hill of the Alhambra, and ruefully mount to the top of a Spanish diligence, and squeeze into what they call the "coupe"--an exalted place behind the coach-box, from whence one looks down upon the ten mules who drag this lumbering vehicle, see all their antics, observe the rash manner in which they tear down precipitous heights, and mount steep ascents, having the comfortable certainty that in no event of danger could we possibly descend from this lofty perch and save ourselves!

A "special providence," however, guards the Spanish diligence, to say nothing of the three "conductors"--the postillion who rides in front, the individual who sits on the box with gold lace and red on his cap, and who smokes leisurely, let what will happen, only occasionally speaking to the mules, calling them by name, and urging them on with a sound like "ayah!" and the boy who runs alongside shouting, screaming, and plying the whip, now jumping on the front of the diligence to rest a moment, now hanging on by one hand to the side doors or behind; active as a cat he springs up and down while the vehicle is at full speed, keeping one all the while in terror for his safety.

{488}

Such is the Spanish diligence from the "coupé." In the interior, shut out from the front view, one only hears the united voices of the "conductors," and it is less exciting. We who are above, however, have the advantage of a fine view of the mountains, (the Sierra Morena,) over which we pass by a smooth and beautiful road.

Jaen is the only place of importance which we see, an old Moorish town with histories and legends, a fine cathedral, and a Moorish castle on the height above. From this, a few hours brings us to Menjibar, where we take the railway at six P.M., and reach Madrid about eight the next morning. At Menjibar, we bid adieu to our young American friend, who had journeyed with us since leaving Cordova, and parted with the Scotch and German ladies whom we had encountered at various points.

Madrid is filled with people. General Prim is in this hotel, is modestly refusing to be made dictator, and proposing that Spain shall have, as heretofore, a king. We shall see how long it will be before (like Caesar) he is overpersuaded, and reluctantly assumes power.

Topete (the admiral who, at Cadiz, brought over the fleet) is also in Madrid; and Serrano, the prince of the traitors, is president of the provisional government. The table d'hôte is crowded with men of the press, (letter-writers of all nations,) giving their several impressions of matters to the gullible "public," and interpreting events to suit the taste of their readers. We ask one of these (a witty Frenchman) if he writes for _Le Monde_. "Oui, Madame, pour tout le monde." Amongst the motley crowd, we distinguish the letter-writer of the _London Times_, and him of the New York _Times_, with whom we make acquaintance, and who having lived a long time in France, and being of Irish extraction, is very little of an American in appearance and manner.

Saturday, October 17.

Madrid is a modern city with fine buildings and shops, many handsome streets and squares, and a beautiful promenade, called the Prado, (meadow.) The principal of these squares is the "Puerta del Sol," upon which this hotel opens, and which is always thronged with people, and is all life and bustle. This being the head and front of the revolution, and General Prim being in the house, the doors are besieged by beggars and revolutionists. As we walk the streets, in many shop-windows are vulgar caricatures of the queen and the priests. This is adding insult to injury, and the very essence of meanness--to take away her throne, and then aim at her character as a woman. It is refreshing to find that the best people we see--the best born, the best bred, and the best educated--defend her from these aspersions, and are loyal to her, and to the throne.

Sunday, October 18.

We hear high mass in the church of the "Calatrava," (an ancient order of knighthood,) where are crowds of pious looking men. Certainly it will be difficult for the revolution to rob these people of their religion. For a time they may be intoxicated with the excitement of the change, but the reaction must come, when the sober second thought will bring them back to their true friends. {489} Now, the banishment of the Jesuits, the best and most learned teachers, the confiscation of church property, and the destruction of churches initiates the new order of things. Yesterday, an English gentleman (one of the noisiest supporters of the revolution) told us how the junta had given two places of great trust and importance into the hands of two of the lowest and most vulgar and ignorant of the bull fighters; and thus this class of people who have helped on the revolution must be rewarded. We hear, to-day, that General Prim has offered to promote, one grade, every officer of the army lately opposed to him. To their honor be it spoken, every one refused such promotion.

To Be Continued

Translated From The French.

Sister Aloyse's Bequest.

I.

How delightful it is to sit under the grand old trees of the courtyard on this charming mid-summer evening! The light breeze is redolent with the fragrance of the new-mown hay, and the leaves seem to quiver with joy in an atmosphere heavy with sunshine. The swallows pursue each other in play with short, wild cries, and in the foliage of the linden-tree that brown bird, the nightingale, tries her brilliant cadences, drowned at times by the shouts of the children at their sports answering her in the silences, whom without doubt they understood and admired. The children, happy as the birds, dance and whirl about, just like those motes one frequently sees rising up in a sunbeam. The nuns, sombre and silent figures, watch them, contemplating life in its flower and carelessness. This court-yard where the children play and the birds sing belonged formerly to a monastery of the order of St. Benoit; but now to a cloister built out of its ruins, where the virtues of ancient days flourish under the shelter of modern walls, which are hallowed by the memories of the past.

Some young girls, no less pleased with the gambols of the children, were walking in groups to and fro under the vaulted arches which encircled the court, talking and laughing merrily; but whenever they approached a nun reclining in an easy chair, by an involuntary impulse they lowered their voices. She was a poor invalid, who had been brought out to enjoy the sweet odors and the pleasant warmth of the evening. She appeared to be nearing the end of life, though still young. For the paleness of her cheeks, the emaciation of her body, and the transparent whiteness of her hands, all proclaimed the ravages of a long and incurable illness. There was no more sand in the hourglass, no more oil in the lamp, and her heart--like a timepiece about to stop--was slacking its pulsations. One could not help but see that Sister Aloyse retained a very powerful fascination in the beauty which her terrible illness had not been able to efface. Her dark blue eyes had not lost their almond-shape or sapphire hue. {490} Her figure was still elegant, seen under the loose robe which wrapped her like a winding-sheet; and her voice was as sweet and agreeable as in former days.

At first she felt a little better upon being brought into the garden; but she still suffered, and neither the pure air nor the mildness of the beautiful evening had revived her. She sat in silence, absorbed, perhaps, in those last thoughts, which she did not confide even to herself, and which, to one who is about departing, seem to give a glimpse of those unknown shores which are yet so near to her who waits them.

What is she thinking of? Of her past without remorse; of her future without terror? Does she regret anything which she has renounced for her God? Does one last thread hold captive this celestial bird? I cannot say. She appears sad; yet her companions, always so affectionately attentive, do not seem to be surprised. For Sister Aloyse had always been characterized, even in the more beautiful days of her youth, by a kind of melancholy. She resembled an angel of peace, but yet an angel who weeps.

One young girl, who was walking under the arches, regarded her with great interest; and finally, leaving the group by whom she was surrounded, approached the nun, dropped on her knees in the grass before her, and, looking in her face, said earnestly:

"Well, my sister, are you better this evening?"

Sister Aloyse blushed slightly, just as porcelain is tinged with a faint rose-color when a flame is passed behind it, and answered in a voice sweet and low:

"Thank you, Camille, I am not well, and I shall never be any better till I come into the presence of our Lord. Look! does it not seem indeed as if the gates of heaven were opening yonder?"

She pointed to the west, then filled with the glory and splendor of purple and gold and flame colors.

"Yet one cannot go there," answered Camille in a caressing tone.

"Oh! yes; provided the great God will receive us. And something warns me that I shall shortly go to him."

Both now became silent, Camille sadly regarding her companion. Educated in this convent, she had always been accustomed to see Sister Aloyse there, where she was much beloved. She would like to have given her some pleasure, but what could she give, or what could she say, to a person so detached from earthly things, and whose aspirations were fixed on joys eternal?

The nun was still thinking, praying perhaps; and after a long silence she said,

"Camille, you must come and see me some time before I go away from here. But now good-night, dear!"

Two nuns now came forward to help the sister into the house, while Camille, who had gathered some white roses, carried them to Aloyse, saying,

"They are from my own little garden, my sister; therefore take them, I pray you."

"Willingly," said Aloyse, "and I will offer them to the Holy Virgin. And, Camille, do not forget to remember me in your prayers tonight."

II.

"Go, my child," said the old abbess to Camille, "go to the infirmary and see Sister Aloyse; she has something to say to you."

"Is she going to die?" asked Camille with tears in her eyes.

{491}

"She will go to her eternal home soon, but not to-day. Have no fear, child, but go and listen carefully to what she tells you."

Camille with agitated heart (for this poor heart is so quickly stirred at sixteen years!) ascended the staircase which led to the cells of the nuns. She passed through a long corridor out of which opened the little doors, all of which, instead of a number or design, bore some holy image or pious inscription. At the end of this corridor she found the infirmary, a large room, quiet and retired, whose windows opened upon the court and garden below. At this moment it was almost vacant; she found only one bed occupied, that of Sister Aloyse, who, as she had no fever, had been left by the infirmarian while she attended vespers in the chapel. Camille noiselessly approached the bed, the curtains of which were half drawn so that Aloyse could see out. She was sitting up supported by her pillows, and her hands were joined before her on the cross of her rosary. She smiled on the young girl, who timidly embraced her; and then Camille very earnestly asked her why she had sent for her to come to her bedside instead of any other of the girls, or her friends or companions; for she was afraid, as one naturally dreads what is unknown. The nun fixed upon her those searching eyes which seemed to look through and beyond anything present, and said with much sweetness,

"Sit down, Camille; I have something to say to you." She hesitated, but finally said, "You have never heard any one of your family speak of me?"

"Never," answered the child, somewhat surprised. "I have known something of your family--your father," she said with an effort. "But it was a long time ago, a very long time--before you were born. I was related to your grandmother, Madame Reville."

"I never saw her, but I have seen her great portrait," said Camille.

"Yes, it hangs in the red drawing-room, does it not?" asked Sister Aloyse with a sad smile. "Ah! well. Madame Reville received me into her family as a lady's companion--a reader--for I was poor, and needed some home. Your father did not live at home with his mother, but he came there very frequently."

Here she paused, breathing with difficulty, but continued:

"He wished to marry me; Madame Reville was opposed to it; he insisted. I saw he would disobey his mother; I was afraid for him; I was afraid for myself. So I prayed to the good God. He did not reject my afflicted and desolate heart, but he--the Divine Consoler--called me into this home, and placed this holy veil as a barrier between the world and myself. Here I found peace, purchased sometimes with bitter suffering, but real; for it filled the depths of my heart; it was the price of my sacrifice. And I was able to see, in the clear light which streamed from the cross, how all joy is deceitful, and all pleasure empty and false. After two years had passed, I came to consecrate myself with irrevocable vows to God's service, when the friends who now and then came to see me, and public report, which in our day finds its way even into the cloister, told me of the only thing which had still power to afflict me. For, Camille, your father--but what can I say to you who bear his name! M. Reville, angry at my departure, and grieving for the loss of the poor creature that I am, sought forgetfulness in dissipation. Undoubtedly, he forgot me--I trust and hope he did--but he also forgot his God! {492} Your father is not a Christian; nay, he is an enemy to Christianity! Ah! since the day when I first knew that our prayers did not meet in the pathway to heaven, how have I wept, how have I prayed, how have I done penance! Alas! my tears, my blood, my vigils, my sufferings--all have not prevailed, and I am pierced to the depths of my heart with the terrible reflection."

She was unable to continue; her voice died upon her lips, while tears, clear and burning, rolled down her cheeks. Camille, kneeling by her bedside, wept too; for she began to see what this self-denying heart had suffered.

"My child," finally said the sister after a long silence, "I shall soon die, and there will then be no one to pray for him, since your mother, who ought especially so to do, is dead. You love your father, don't you?"

"Yes, with all my heart!"

"Well, then, promise me that you will unceasingly pray for his conversion--that you will offer for him your every action and your every pain; promise me that there shall always be a suppliant voice to take the place of poor Aloyse's, which will soon be hushed in death--to cry 'mercy!' Think of what it is to have a soul and an eternity, and that soul your father's!"

She had seized the hands of the child in both her own, and fixed upon her a look in which the last forces of her life were concentrated. "Promise!" said she. Camille thought a moment--her young face wore a grave and stern expression. Finally, raising one arm toward the crucifix, she said in a distinct voice: "I solemnly promise you, my sister, I will continue what you have commenced. I will pray, I will labor all my life for his conversion." A ray of heavenly light illumined Sister Aloyse's countenance, and she sank back upon her pillows, murmuring, "I can die now."

Two days later she passed away, with a peace and serenity worthy of the blamelessness of her whole life, though in breathing her last she cried, "Have mercy!"

Was it of herself she thought?

III.

Many years have passed away. The grass grows thick and green upon the bed of clay where sleeps Aloyse. Camille, grown into a fine young woman, keeps house for her father. She has travelled with him, she has seen the world, its balls and its routs, but she has never forgotten the promise made to Sister Aloyse. This promise has banished the strength of her limbs and of her youth. She has become serious all at once. She has given to her life but one aim, and that sublime and difficult, and from that moment when the struggle which had animated the life of Aloyse passed into her own all her actions, all her thoughts, had been devoted to the redemption of one soul. At first overflowing with the thoughtless and enthusiastic zeal of youth, she would talk to him of that religion whose arguments her heart found so natural, and which seemed to her so irresistible. Her father would laugh at her, and she would cry; she would persist, however, until he became so angry that she was frightened. Finally she decided to be more quiet in the future, and to leave to God the conduct of her cause. But with what vigils, with what prayers, what sighs, what agony of heart, and with what fervent desire did she ask God for that precious soul! And what vows did she make to the Blessed Mother! What flowers she offered upon her altar! {493} What prayers, in which she thanked God for the kindness that had given mortals this all-powerful Mediatrix! Her father's guardian angel, what careful conversation did she hold with him! How she labored and prayed for that of which he never thought!

As years pass, Camille's piety becomes more rigid; self-denial joins itself to acts of earnest charity, in their turn supplemented by generous alms!

One would naturally ask why Camille, rich and young, charming and admired, should rise so early in the morning, should spend so many hours upon her knees in church? Why she went with the Sisters of Charity to visit the sick, why her attire was so plain and simple, why her room was so little ornamented, why she labored without any relaxation, and finally, why with so interesting an appearance and conversation she preferred so severe a life? No one upon earth could answer these questions except the guardian angel who writes down these noble acts to the account of their forgetful subject, her unrepentant father.

But she accomplished nothing, although the rigors were not for herself, though she maintained, for her father, this piety united with a tenderness which only made her more sweet and affectionate. His hard heart did not open to the rays of divine grace, nor to the timid smiles of his child. The taste for amusement, born of a desire for forgetfulness, had chased from his heart, at the same time with a pure love, the belief in holy things. The heavenly flame had been quickly extinguished beneath the ashes of pleasure; and, like many other children of his age, he had neglected to believe through fear of being compelled to be good. Bad society and bad literature had completed the work of headlong dissipation; and neither marriage nor paternity had reclaimed him. His birth, fortune, and indisputable talents raised him to public offices. And, to be consistent with his principles, and congenial to his friends, he had to be inimical to all religion. The seminaries; the Brothers of the Christian Doctrine; the Sisters, hospitallers or teachers; the free establishments; the Carmelites, who ask nothing of a person; the Clarisses, who ask only a piece of bread; the Little Sisters of the Poor, who gathered food for their old men; the foreign missions; the sermons in Lent in the parish; the general indulgences granted by the pope; the cardinals in the senate; and the Capuchins who went barefooted--were all equally the objects of his strong aversion. He read continually the _Journal des Débats_, the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, and the liberal journal of his department--of that department in which he played a prominent part. Shall we say, in excuse for him, that his impiety had never been tried by adversity; and that he had found the world so delightful that he had wished to live for ever in it? In youth he had lived in the midst of noisy pleasures. In more advanced life he lived for comfort, for his house--cool in summer, warm in winter, splendid at all times--for his grand dinners, his good wine, his fine horses and elegant equipages. He enjoyed exquisitely those excellent things which the public generally esteem, but in which divine grace does not much appear. The memories of youth he did not often recall. He now scarcely recollected the name of that poor cousin whom he had once loved so passionately, but who had never forgotten him, who, even in the arms of death, had displayed an angelic love. One day Camille spoke of Sister Aloyse, and added,

{494}

"Was she not related to us, father?"

"Yes, yes--a romantic affair! She threw herself into a convent; she became weary even there!"

He took several turns through the room with a preoccupied air, and finally stopping before the great picture of his mother--a withered and haughty figure--he said,

"My mother did not love this poor Aloyse much! Poor girl! What a charming voice she had! A voice which ought to astonish the convent when she chants the _Miserere!_ She will sing no more; she has a pain in her chest. Zounds! The discipline of the convent! What a pity for this pretty Aloyse to be buried alive! On the stage she would equal Malibran!"

And this was all! The remembrance of Aloyse was only that of a young girl who could sing charmingly, and who, perhaps, might have commanded a situation in a theatre!

He loved his daughter; but, for all that, she troubled him, and he was anxious that she should marry, so that he might be relieved from the care and responsibility. She did not oppose his wishes, for she did not feel that God appointed her to lead the life of a nun; but she wished her husband to be a Christian, and said so to her father. He only shrugged his shoulders and cried,

"Still these absurd ideas!"

The Christian, however, presented himself, and at twenty-two Camille Reville became Madame de Laval.

IV.

Camille is now no longer twenty. Her youth has passed on swift wings, and white is beginning to streak her dark hair; but her pleasant face preserves the repose of former days. She has been blessed with mixed and imperfect happiness, such as every one tastes in this world. For in this life the black squares are never far distant from the white ones; and in its tangled skein the dark threads are woven in by the side of brighter colors. She had lived most happily with her husband. Together they had laughed over their little children's gambols, and together wept over them in sickness. They had brought them up with the labor and care which, in our day especially, accompanies all true Christian education. Their eldest daughter, Amelia, had been married about a year; and they were now very happy in expectation of her approaching maternity. The second daughter was finishing her education in the same convent of Benedictines where her mother had been in her youthful days. Their son André was in a polytechnic school, and their youngest, Maurice, was pursuing his Latin studies in his native village.

Through the disappointments and joy of her life, through days of rain and days of sunshine, Camille had pursued one thought faithfully--the grand aim which she had proposed to herself in early life, her father's conversion. As a young wife she had prayed with her husband, for his heart beat in unison with hers. As a young mother, she had taught her children to pray with her. And now, having reached the autumn of life, she still prayed--prayed constantly; but as yet her prayers had received no answer.

The old man lived with her; and every moment she surrounded him with care and tenderness. She watched him and brooded over him more like a mother than like a daughter. And it was hard indeed for her, that this old man of sixty-six years would not listen to any serious conversation, would only rail at holy things, and would learn no lesson from either life or death. And she was ever obliged to turn his words from their real meaning, and interpret his jeers and sarcasms so that they would not shock her innocent little children. {495} At this moment we find Camille in the drawing-room with her father, who is half asleep before a great fire, with the _Débats_ at his feet. She is sewing on some linen for the coming baby; but twice stops to read two short letters received that morning from two of her absent children. After a thousand details about boarding, upon the compositions in history, upon the new piece of tapestry which Clotilde had just begun, upon the sermons delivered by a new father whose name she did not know, she went on to say: "I never forget, dear mother, to pray with you--you know why! It seems to me that the moment is approaching when the gentle God will answer us--as if grandpapa was going to be astonished that he had been able to live so long without thinking of God!"

The second letter was from André, and would have been unintelligible to any one who did not possess the key to a school-boy's language. But at the end there was a passage which Camille kissed again and again: "Dear mamma, I love you, and I always pray with you, just like you." A stick of wood which just now rolled down with a great noise awoke M. Reville, who, after rubbing his eyes, asked his daughter, "Where is Maurice?"

"He is skating. Do you wish me to take his place, and do anything to amuse you?"

"No, thank you. But stop, you may read instead; read this discussion in the Chambers upon the military law."

Camille took the paper and read slowly; and the old man's eyes were still closed when the violent ringing of the door-bell woke him up completely, and made Madame de Laval start.

"What is the matter with you?" asked her father.

"I do not know; only the sudden ringing frightened me."

She jumped up and ran into the hall, and at the same instant her husband entered from the street. She moved toward him, but suddenly stopped, frozen with an inexplicable horror. M. de Laval's face was of an ashy paleness; he tried to speak, he stammered--the words died upon his lips, and his wife, in one of those quick transitions which thought makes, believed he was going to fall dead at her feet.

"What ails you?" she cried, reaching out her arms toward him. "Do not be frightened, Camille," said he; "but Maurice--"

He was unable to finish.

"Maurice!" she echoed. "Where is he? Why does he not come home? O great God! he is dead. He is drowned!"

M. de Laval had now somewhat recovered himself, and he explained: "He rescued a child who was drowning, and was wounded in the head. They are bringing him home. My dear Camille, keep up heart! He lives! God will restore him to us!"

She staggered and looked at her husband with fixed eyes.

"Have courage," he cried.

The servants, already called together by the sad news, had opened the gates to the relatives and the friends who were coming in every direction, and also to those who were bringing Maurice. They bore him on a litter, covered with a mattress, and his head, all bloody, with eyes wide open, rested upon a pillow made of the coats of the brave men; while behind the litter walked a man all covered with blood. He was the father of the child whom Maurice had saved at the price of his own life.

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The boy was quickly placed upon the bed, and the physicians were soon by his side, followed by the parish priest. Camille, kneeling beside him, saw, as in an evil dream, the surgeon dress the wound which Maurice had in the temple, and afterward talk in a serious manner to the other physicians behind the curtain. She saw the priest go up to Maurice, and, after talking to him in a low voice, bend over him and raise his hands in the benediction of the dying, and immediately after give him the holy oils. As in a dream she heard her husband's voice saying, "Dear wife, the good God wants him! Look at our Maurice."

She then looked at him. Maurice, aroused by the words of the priest, had regained complete consciousness, and knew that he was dying. He seemed more than tranquil--happy; and, looking around on all present, said,

"Good-by, papa; I only did what you taught me."

He then discovered the father of the rescued child, who had concealed himself behind M. de Laval. "Give my love to your little boy," said he.

His eyes then sought for his mother. She got up, and, bending over him, took him in her arms. "Dear mamma, make me an offering for dear grandpapa's conversion. Say to him--" He stopped. His mother saw the light fade from his eyes, and knew that his breath was hushed in death. For a long time she remained holding him in her arms, like that more desolate of mothers, bathing him with her tears, and unable to listen to the comforting words of either husband or father, both of whom were overwhelmed with grief. At last, her piety, those religious sentiments which had always animated her life, prevailed, and she said aloud,

"Yes, my God! I accept the sacrifice, and I sacrifice him for my father. Save him, Lord, save him!"

Two days later they buried poor Maurice, the whole village attending his funeral.

The same evening the priest, who had been with him in his last moments, presented himself to Madame de Laval, and said:

"You are afflicted, but your prayers are heard. Divine grace has pursued your father, and this very morning, when the body of your child was yet in the house, he called me to him and made his confession. He could hold out no longer, he said to me. Rejoice then, madam, in the midst of your grief."

She did indeed rejoice, though she still wept.

"O Aloyse," said she, "and my dear Maurice! They are then taken away, but at what a price!" "Thank God!" cried the priest. "He separates a family here only to reunite them in eternity!"

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From Les Etudes Religieuses

The Second Plenary Council Of Baltimore, And Ecclesiastical Discipline In The United States. [Footnote 129]

[Footnote 129: _Concilii Plenarii Baltimorensis II. Acta et Decreta. Baltimorae_, 1868.]

[Introductory Note--The periodical from which the following article has been translated is one of the highest character, published at Paris under the editorial supervision of the Jesuit fathers. The account which it renders of the late Council of Baltimore is made doubly valuable from the fact that it is the work of a foreign, and therefore an impartial, judge. We have been obliged to make a few corrections in the article. Several of these were suggested by the Most Rev. President of the Council, and the rest were required by obvious and quite natural inaccuracies of a writer living in a foreign country.]

The superior of the Grand Seminary of Baltimore has recently done us the honor of transmitting, in the name of his archbishop, [Footnote 130] a copy of the _Acts of the Council_ held in that city in 1866. He asks us to make known the contents to the readers of the _Etudes_. It gives us pleasure to accede to this request.

[Footnote 130: Mgr. Spalding, Archbishop of Baltimore, is the author of several interesting publications on the religious history of the United States. He has published two essays concerning the legislation of the early Protestant colonies respecting divine worship. In their legislation is to be found intolerance running to the most cruel extremes, and this almost until the Revolution of 1776. Besides these, he is the author of _Evidences of Catholicity, Sketches of Early Catholic Missions in Kentucky,_ and _Spalding's Miscellanea_.]

On the eve of the great event which the Catholic world expects at the close of this year, it seems to us that there are few subjects more interesting, or more worthy to be treated of, than the present. The very organization of the present council, at which forty-six bishops were present, will give us a fair idea of what is to be done when all the prelates of all countries and churches are convened. Moreover, the decisions made in such an imposing assembly will not fail to clear for us some obscure points. But, better than all, the collection of decrees will make us comprehend the situation of Catholicity in the immense territories of the new world, where it is called to such a lofty destiny.

On the 19th of March, 1866, the Feast of St. Joseph, Mgr. Spalding, using the powers received for this purpose from the sovereign pontiff, convoked at Baltimore a Plenary Council, [Footnote 131] to be opened on the second Sunday of October, in the same year.

[Footnote 131: A council is called plenary at which the bishops of several provinces are assembled. After a general or oecumenical council there is nothing more solemn. The present is the second of this character which has been held at Baltimore. The first took place in 1852.]

If any bishops were prevented from appearing personally, they were to be represented by proxies furnished with authentic powers. The day having come, after a preliminary congregation, held the evening before to clear up certain details, the council opened with a grand, solemn, and public procession; in which figured forty-four archbishops and bishops, one administrator apostolic, two mitred abbots, together with the most distinguished of the American clergy. It was a spectacle alike new and imposing for that great city. More than forty thousand people met to witness it. {498} In the streets through which the procession passed, there was scarcely a house which was not decorated. This was undoubtedly one of the grandest and most beautiful Catholic demonstrations which has yet been seen in that land of liberty, where all sects and communions find a rendezvous. The council furnished one of those striking lessons which the good sense of Americans does not forget, and which by little and little will lead them to understand that where there is unity there is also life.

Every deliberative assembly has need of order; the fathers began by tracing a plan for themselves; these are its principal dispositions.

Every day the particular congregations of theologians were to meet together. These were to discuss among themselves and judge, in a preliminary manner, the measures proposed. The result of their deliberations, gathered by a notary, with the votes and motives alleged for or against, in case of a disagreement, was then to be transmitted to the bishops. These, again, held private congregations where they occupied themselves solely with questions already debated by the theologians. _A procès verbal_ was made, by the secretaries, of what passed in these meetings. A new examination and judgment was made in this second instance; yet these preliminary discussions decided nothing; all was to be referred to the general congregations, and, finally, to the sessions of the council, where the decrees received their last form, and the sanction which makes them obligatory.

As to the order which was to reign in their deliberations, the bishops found nothing better fitted to their purpose than a small portion, clearly stated, and well defined, of the rules called parliamentary, and consecrated under that name in the public assemblies of their land. Each had the right of proposing whatever he would, provided he did so by writing and in the Latin tongue; but a motion made by a member could not become a matter of deliberation, unless another prelate joined the first in making the demand. None was at liberty to depart from the prearranged schedule, nor from the title which formed the object of present discussion. As to the rest, the greatest liberty of opinion was not only accorded, but counselled, as long as the orators confined themselves to the limits of propriety. If any one transgressed these, or prolonged his discourse uselessly, any member could demand a call to order; the _promotor_ was charged with executing the laws of order, but, in cases of doubt, final decision belonged to the president.

Before publication in the sessions, the decrees were submitted to general congregations; when not only the bishops but also the theologians might set forth their opinions, with only this provision, namely, that those should be first heard who formed the commission on which had previously devolved the consideration of the subject then under discussion. Such are the simple and precise dispositions which served to maintain order in so great an assembly.

The apostolic delegate had by right four theologians; the archbishops, three; the bishops, two; some, however, contented themselves with only one. They were divided into seven congregations or bureaux, among which was divided the matter which was to occupy the attention of the council. [Footnote 132]

[Footnote 132: This matter comprised the following subjects. _1. _De Fide Orthodoxa, deque erroribus serpentibus;_ 2. _De Hierarchia et regimine Ecclesiae;_ 3. _De Personis Ecclesiasticis;_ 4. _De Ecclesiis bonisque ecclesiasticis tenendis tutandisque;_ 5. _De Sacranentis;_ 6. _De Cultu Divino;_ 7. _De Disciplinae uniformitate promovenda;_ 8. De Regularibus et monialibus; 9. De Juventute instituenda pieque erudienda; 10. De Salute animarum efficacitis promovenda; 11. De Libris et ephemeribus; 12. De Societatibus Secretis._

Several congregations occupied themselves with two of these subjects at once because of their connection. In the council were added a thirteenth congregation, on the creation of new bishoprics, and a fourteenth, on the execution of the decrees.]

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Each congregation was presided over by a bishop; it had, besides, a vice-president and an ecclesiastical notary, charged, as we have seen, with the care of transmitting to the prelates the result of these deliberations. For the council itself were chosen a chancellor archdeacon, a secretary with assistants, a notary, who was to assist those who discharged the same function in the particular congregations; two _promotors_, one a bishop, the other a priest, charged with maintaining order and observance of rule in the sessions and public meetings; finally, judges, who were to pronounce on motions of absence, or on differences which might arise. Severe penalties were laid on all who should leave before the work of the council should be finished.

This rapid glance at the organization of this assembly and at its plan of operations seems to us necessary, in order to understand the labor accomplished by it.

The chief task of the council was to fix, I had almost said to create, [Footnote 133] ecclesiastical discipline throughout the entire extent of the United States.

[Footnote 133: If the writer had said this, he would have made a great mistake. While the United States formed one province, many provincial councils were held at Baltimore; and since the creation of the other provinces they have been regularly held in each one, and the principal points of discipline have thus been long since effectually settled.--ED. C.W.]

Amid a population so diverse in origin, manners, character; amid the manifold influences produced by the heterogeneous mixture of conflicting sects in which each Catholic congregation is obliged to live, it would seem difficult to establish uniformity. Moreover, the spirit of modern times is in every respect so different from that of bygone ages, private and public institutions have undergone such modifications, that the application of the canon law meets on all sides obstacles apparently insurmountable. The prelates of North America have legislated with such prudence, with such a perfect union of ideas and sentiments, that their churches will hereafter possess in the collection of their decrees a complete code of laws. [Footnote 134] These "acts," printed in a convenient form, are to be used as a text-book in all the seminaries, and this text, with the comments of the professor will, we are assured, suffice for the entire course of canon law. Apart from some inconsiderable differences regarding days of fasting and feasts of obligation, [Footnote 135] all the churches will hereafter have a common law and the same customs. Assuredly, one can scarcely comprehend the vastness of this result, and we are undoubtedly convinced that the Second Plenary Council of Baltimore is destined to a memorable place in the history of Catholicity in the United States.

[Footnote 134: The present council had at heart to re-collect in its acts the legislation fixed by preceding councils. The decrees taken from these are recognized by a different style of print. An appendix gives _in extenso_ all the important portions, above all, those which have come from Rome. Thus all the ecclesiastical legislation of the United States is to be found in a single volume.]

[Footnote 135: The prelates had addressed a petition to Rome that uniformity on this point might be established. The answer which had been returned was, that it was better to respect the existing customs of each diocese, and that, if modifications were to be made therein, each bishop might have separate recourse to the holy see. But the feast of the Immaculate Conception was declared a feast of patronage and obligation throughout the whole of the United States.]

The dogmatic part of the acts has not and could not have the same importance, since a national council, however numerous, generally does naught but state the faith already defined; nevertheless, on this very ground, we find declarations very interesting, and which deserve to command the attention of the Christians of Europe.

It is to the united fathers, and, after them, to the assisting theologians, that the merit of this great work is due. {500} Still, we cannot refrain from noticing Mgr. Spalding, Archbishop of Baltimore and apostolic delegate. Called to the presidency of the council by a special brief of the pope, dated February 16th, 1866, instructed, moreover, by the Propaganda, which recommended to his zeal several important points, he it is who has prepared the matter of the decrees, and has brought together in advance all the elements which have entered into this vast construction. Under his wise and prudent direction, his brethren in the episcopate have made their choice. With the assistance of the secretaries and other officers of the council the edifice rises, to which Rome gives the finishing touch, changing a small number of the materials, and consecrating it with her supreme authority.

Into this sanctuary, built with so much care, I invite the readers of the _Etudes_ to enter, persuaded that we shall find therein much to admire and at the same time much to learn.

I.

The first chapter is consecrated to dogma. It treats of the faith and of the errors which are contemporaneously opposed to it. The prelates here recall the precept, imposed on all, of embracing the truth, and entering the haven of the true church. No safety is to be hoped for outside of this ark which God guards and conducts. However, they add, as to those who are plunged invincibly in error, and who have not been able to see the light, that the Supreme Judge, who condemns no man, save for his own faults, will assuredly use mercy toward them, if, although strangers to the body of the church, they have, nevertheless, with the assistance of grace, fulfilled the divine commandments, and professed those Christian truths which they were able to know. [Footnote 136]

[Footnote 136: Tit. i. p. 6.]

Such is the Catholic doctrine and the just principle to which all our pretended intolerance is reduced. The council recognizes the rights of reason as well as those of sound faith. It inserts at length in its decrees the four propositions formulated in 1855 by the Congregation of the Index, against traditionalism. At the same time it restates the condemnation pronounced by Gregory IX. against the system of Raymond Lulle, which expresses a thought too common in our day, namely, that faith is necessary to the masses, to vulgar and unlettered people, but that reason suffices for the intelligent man of study, and constitutes true Christianity.

We notice in this chapter the solicitude of the bishops to place in the hands of the faithful a version of the Bible in the vulgar tongue. To this end they recommend the Douay translation, already approved and circulated by their predecessors. Far from opposing these efforts, the Congregation of the Propaganda, in the response addressed to the Archbishop of Baltimore with the revision of the acts of the council, lays great stress on the necessity of doing this. The congregation directs the prelate to compare anew the different English editions, to avail himself of other Catholic translations, if there be any, in order that we may have in English a faithful and irreproachable text of all our sacred books, and that this version may be spread throughout all the dioceses of America. Here we have a peremptory answer to those Protestants who, at this late hour, reproach Catholics with interdicting the reading of the Holy Scriptures.

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On the question of future life, the fathers declared against those who deny the eternal duration of punishment, or so mitigate its severity that there remains no longer any proportion between the chastisement and the gravity of the offence. Then they rapidly review that multitude of religious sects and errors, which are nowhere so numerous or so different as in that classic land of free thought. Indifferentism, which considers all religions as equal; Unitarianism, which rejects the divinity of our Lord Jesus Christ; Universalism, which denies the eternity of punishment after death; finally, pantheism and transcendentalism, which destroy the personality of God, such are the latest forms and last consequences of free inquiry. What a contrast to these is the spectacle which Catholic truth affords; that full, complete, and unchanging Christianity, affirming itself, with full consciousness of its truth, in the face of a thousand systems which cannot withstand it and a thousand communions that fail to comprehend what it really is! All serious hearts in America must be stuck by such a difference. The Council of Baltimore has again made manifest where lies the strength that will triumph over all, and what is to be the "church of the future." The excesses of "Magnetism" and "Spiritism" have been carried beyond what the fathers consider the limits of morality. With regard to the first, they undertake to promulgate the well-known decisions of the sacred congregation of the council. [Footnote 137]

[Footnote 137: Encycl ad omnes episcopos contra magnetismi abusus. August 4th, 1856. Decisions of July 28th, 1847.]

As to the second, not finding any explicit precedent in acts emanating from Rome, they express their own thought and doctrine thus: "It seems certain," they say, "that many of the astonishing phenomena which are said to be produced in the spiritual meetings are inventions; that others are the result of fraud, or are to be attributed to the imagination of the mediums and their assistants, or, possibly, to slight of hand. Nevertheless," they add, "it can scarcely be doubted that some of these facts imply a satanic interference; since it is almost impossible to explain them in any other way." Then, after a magnificent exposition of the action of good and bad angels, the prelates remark that, in a society of which so large a portion remains unbaptized, it is not surprising if the demon regains in part his ancient empire. They severely censure those Catholics who take part even indirectly in the spiritual "circles." Such is the decision of the council; and, for our part, we are happy to see what we have written on this subject [Footnote 138] fully confirmed by so imposing an authority.

[Footnote 138: _Les Morts el les Vivants_. Paris, Le Clere. _Etudes_ 1862, p. 41.]

II.

The second chapter treats of the hierarchy and government of the church. The fathers begin with a profession of filial loyalty to the holy see, whose privileges they recognize and enumerate with St. Irenaeus, St. Jerome, and St. Leo the Great. They protest with what respect and love they receive all the apostolical constitutions, likewise the instructions and decisions of the Roman congregations, given for the universal church or for their own special provinces. After Pius IX. they rebuke the manner of thought and action of those who count for nothing all that has not been expressly defined as of Catholic faith, and who, embracing opinions contrary to the common sentiment of Christians, fear not to shock their ears with scandalous propositions. The temporal power of the pope, its necessity under the present circumstances, in order to assure the independence of the head of the church, is also the subject of a solemn declaration.

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Passing then to the bishops, the council affirms their double right of teaching and governing Christendom in union with the Roman pontiff, the successor of St. Peter and the vicar of Jesus Christ. According to the advice of the fathers of Trent, provincial councils are to be held every three years throughout the whole extent of the United States; for the bishops are persuaded that in these reunions are to be found the most efficacious remedies for the evils which afflict all parts of the church, when the pastors of dioceses, after having invoked the Holy Spirit, unite their wisdom to take measures most fitting to procure the salvation of souls. Accidental forms are ever changing. Formerly, the "synodal witnesses" [Footnote 139] were everywhere in use.

[Footnote 139: Ecclesiastics chosen in the provincial councils to observe the state of persons and things in their dioceses, and to make a report to the metropolitan.]

After the time of Benedict XIV. this function fell into disuse and was supplied by something else. The grave and learned pontiff makes use of these remarkable words, which the council has thought proper to reproduce:

"The customs of men are modified and circumstances are continually changing; that which is useful at one period may cease so to be, and may become even pernicious in another age. The duty of a prudent pastor, unless otherwise obliged by a higher law, is to accommodate himself to times and places, to lay aside many ancient usages, when by his judgment and the light of God he deems this to be for the greater good of the diocese with which he is entrusted." [Footnote 140]

[Footnote 140: De Synod. Dioec. L. V. c. iii. n. 7.]

As a natural corollary to provincial councils, the prelates recommend frequent holding of diocesan synods. If the extent of the diocese will not permit the priests who obey the same bishop to unite yearly, the bishop should at least convoke a synod after each provincial or plenary council, to promulgate the decrees and provide for their observance. In the meantime, ecclesiastical conferences, organized in districts, can supply, at least partly, the place of the synod. The fathers express a wish that such conferences should meet quarterly in cities, and at least yearly in rural districts, where pastors cannot easily assemble.

I pass hastily over some details to arrive immediately at a matter at once very delicate and important, that of ecclesiastical judgments. It is well known that the form required by canon law has become very difficult of application throughout the greater part of Christendom. The Council of Baltimore does not innovate. After an experience of ten years it feels bound to renew a decree made in the Council of St. Louis in 1855. [Footnote 141]

[Footnote 141: That is to say, the Plenary Council, by its enactment, extended this decree of the Provincial Council of St. Louis to the other provinces.--ED. C. W.]

"Priests suspended by sentence of the ordinary have no right to demand sustenance from him, since by their own fault they have been rendered incapable of exercising their ministry. But, in order to cut short all complaints, the fathers are of the opinion that it is more expedient, in the cases of priests and clerics, to adopt a form of trial approaching as nearly as possible the requirements of the Council of Trent. The bishop--or his vicar-general, by his order--shall choose in the episcopal council two members--not always the same--who shall serve him as counsellors, when the accused shall be called to answer before him and his secretary.

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"Together, these assistants shall have but one voice, but either can range himself on the side of the prelate against his colleague. If, however, both are of a different mind from that of the bishop or his vicar, the latter may take into his counsel a third, and that judgment shall be rendered to which he shall incline. If it happen that all the consultors named by the ordinary hold an opinion contrary to his, the case is to be transferred to the tribunal of the metropolitan, who shall weigh the motives for and against, and himself deliver sentence. And if the process refers to a subject of the metropolitan, and all his assistants are opposed to him, the cause shall be evoked before the oldest bishop of the province, and he shall have the right to decide, saving always the privileges and authority of the Holy See."

Here we see reappearing the jurisdiction of metropolitans, which in many other churches is little exercised at the present day. On the question of their authority the council furnishes another subject worthy of remark.

In enumerating the rights of archbishops in reference to their ecclesiastical provinces, the fathers have designated but three:

1. To make known to the holy see such of their suffragans as do not observe the laws of residence.

2. To call the said suffragans to a provincial council, at least every three years.

3. To have their cross borne before them in their province, and to wear the pallium therein on the days when they can wear it in their metropolitan church.

The letter written from Rome for the correction of the acts orders two other privileges of metropolitans to be re-established:

1. To supply what is negligently omitted by their suffragans in the cases determined by law; and

2. to receive appeals from the sentence of their suffragans according to the canonical rules.

If we do not deceive ourselves, there is in this correction a significant tendency.

III.

The manner of the election of bishops had already been determined by an instruction emanating from the Propaganda, dated March 18th, 1834. Since that time, at the desire of councils, several changes and modifications had been made. This is the practice consecrated and universally established since 1861: Every three years, each bishop sends to his metropolitan and the congregation of the Propaganda the list of subjects whom he judges worthy of the episcopate, with detailed information of the qualities which distinguish them.

A see becomes vacant, the bishops of the province meet in synod, or any other way, and discuss the aptitude of the candidates presented by each of them. After a secret examination, three names are sent to Rome with the _procès verbal_ of this election. On the representation thus made, the sovereign pontiff designates the one to be promoted to the episcopal dignity.

This portion of Christendom, still so new, has not yet had time to settle itself into regularly divided parishes. If our memory is faithful, we think there is no such thing as a parish, properly so called, in the whole United States. The prelates of the council express a desire to establish some, especially in the great cities; but they add that, in conferring them on the priests who administer them, they would not exempt the latter from removal; this never having, been the custom in America.

Many of the dioceses have no seminaries. The fathers wish that, if they cannot be everywhere established, each province, at least, should have its own, for the formation of which the bishops will unite their resources. Following the custom adopted in France, they separate the Little Seminary, where boys who present the conditions required by the Council of Trent are received, from the Grand Seminary, where clerics study dogmatic and moral theology, canon law, hermeneutics, and sacred eloquence. {504} The council orders the greatest efforts to be made in order to secure eminent professors. If there is an establishment common to an entire province, it should not be confined to teaching the mere elementary ecclesiastical studies, but a thorough course of exegesis and oriental languages should be commenced; and the modern systems of philosophy should be explained in such a manner that graduates should be able to resolve all the difficulties and objections of the day.

"We have now to contend," say the fathers, "no longer with the often refuted heresies and errors of a bygone age, but with new adversaries, unbelievers of a pagan rather than a Christian character, with men who count as naught God and his divine promises--and yet are not thereby prevented from having cultivated minds. According to them, the things of heaven and earth have no other meaning or value than that which reason alone assigns them. Thus, they flatter pride, so deeply rooted in our nature, and seduce those who are not on their guard. If truth cannot persuade them, since they do not care to hear, it must, at least, close their mouths, lest their vain discourse and sounding words delude the simple." [Footnote 142]

[Footnote 142: Act. tit. iii. p. 108.]

Do not these sage reflections disclose the true plan for renewing ecclesiastical studies?

We will not enter on the details of the rules established for the general life and manners of the clergy, according to their different functions. We confine ourselves to remarking that the chapter on preaching alone contains a complete little treatise on the proper manner of announcing the word of God in our times.

IV.

Questions relating to church property attract the attention of the council. In order to comprehend the arrangements determined on in regard to this matter, we must form a correct idea of the situation in which the different Christian communions stand before the American civil law.

It is well known that the legislation of most of the States is willing to accord legal personality to associations, commercial or religious. A religious society represented by trustees easily obtains incorporation; that is to say, is recognized as a person having the right to own property, to receive gifts and legacies, to a certain amount, generally far superior to what is necessary. If this sum is ever exceeded, it is easy to fulfil the requirements of the law by creating a new centre, building a new church.

Nothing then would seem more favorable than these arrangements of American law. But, as they were conceived from a Protestant point of view, they recognize the parish only, and not the diocese, which is, nevertheless, the Catholic unit. Moreover, the trustees, invested with church property, have on several occasions made outrageous and extravagant pretensions. More than once, they have believed that they possessed the right of choosing their pastors, and dismissing them, if they did not suit; they have held that they at least have the right of presenting to the bishop a priest of their own choice, and thus forcing his consent. Hence, the frequent conflicts between the parochial element and the episcopal administration. The first Council of Baltimore formerly protested against this lay interference, which it declared contrary to the teaching of the church and the discipline of every age; it decided that the compensation assigned to members of the clergy, to be provided from the funds of the parish, or by the alms of the faithful, conferred on none the right of patronage. {505} Subsequent councils return incessantly to the same question; and it has even appeared before the civil tribunals. In the diocese of New York, particularly, the disputes between the Catholic trustees and the bishop were prolonged with various results, but without interruption, from 1840 to 1863. Finally, an arrangement was concluded, and on this model the prelates wish to organize all ecclesiastical property.

"Since, in the United States, it is permitted to every citizen and foreigner to live freely and without molestation, according to the precepts of the religion which he professes--for the laws recognize and proclaim this right--nothing seems to hinder us from observing, in all their rigor, the rules established by councils and the sovereign pontiffs for the acquisition and preservation of church property. The fathers, therefore, desire to expose and set clearly before the eyes of the state the true rights of the church with regard to accepting, possessing, and defending sacred property, as, for example the land on which a church is built, or presbyteries, schools, cemeteries, and other establishments, in order that it may be legally permitted to Catholic citizens to follow exactly the laws and requirements of their church." [Footnote 143]

[Footnote 143: Act. tit. iv. p. 117.]

Hence, one of the principal dispositions of this legislation is, that the administrators of ecclesiastical property in parishes shall do nothing without the consent of the bishop. In order that this law may be observed, and that nothing more may be feared from the intervention of the secular tribunals, there is no other plan than for the bishop to place himself before the civil power, as having the right to the full administration of all property belonging to his church as a corporation sole. Some of the states have recognized this right for the future. In others it is not yet recognized. Hence they provide the best means for avoiding, or, at least, diminishing the inconvenience resulting from this state of things.

This requires that mutual securities be taken on the part of the bishop and the trustees. As soon as appointed, the prelate will make a will, and place a duplicate in the hands of his metropolitan. Besides the property of which he is sole proprietor, he will be _ex-officio_ president of all boards of trustees, who possess, in the eyes of the law, the parochial properties. Rules are established for the purpose of ensuring a conscientious choice of these, in order that they may not infringe on the rights of the parish priest, nor take any profit from the revenues of the church. Such are the principal measures relative to this important matter.

V.

In the chapter entitled _De Sacramentis_ we notice the prudence which the council wishes to be used in administering baptism to Protestants returning to the Catholic Church. Although the greater portion of the sects regard what transpires at the baptismal font as a mere ceremony, and frequently, through carelessness, baptize invalidly, nevertheless the priest must not proceed hap-hazard, nor decide on general principles, but must in each case examine carefully into particulars. Only when certain of the nullity or probable invalidity of the baptism, can he confer the sacrament, either absolutely or conditionally.

In France, discussions have lately arisen as to the proper age for administering the holy communion. Although the American child is much earlier developed than the European, the fathers of Baltimore establish as a rule that he shall not be urged at too early an age to present himself at the holy table. {506} Ten and fourteen years are the two extreme limits to which one must ordinarily be confined. Nevertheless, this rule leaves room for all legitimate exceptions, and particularly, in case of danger of death, it would be a grave fault in the pastor who would not administer the eucharist to a child capable of discerning the grace which it contains.

As their country is not a vine-growing land, and one can nowhere be fully certain of the purity of wines imported from Europe, the fathers express a desire to establish in Florida a community which shall be especially charged with the care of preparing the matter for the administration of the different sacraments, wine, oil, etc. This community can also keep swarms of bees, and furnish the different dioceses with pure waxen tapers. Meanwhile they caution priests to beware of using for the holy sacrifice the wines which are commonly sold under the names of port, sherry, Madeira, Malaga, and to choose, rather, Bordeaux, Sauterne, and others less subject to adulteration or fraudulent imitation. Moreover, as the culture of the vine progresses, it will be inexcusable to neglect having recourse to the products of the soil, or at least, not to have a moral certainty of the purity of the wines which are used.

In districts where a few Catholic families find themselves, as it were, lost in the midst of Protestants, the scarcity of priests causes many children to remain unbaptized [Footnote 144] until after marriage; an _impedimentun dirimens_ which renders the marriage null in the eyes of God and the church.

[Footnote 144: The council referred not to unbaptized children of Catholics, for such are not to be found among us, but to unbaptized Protestants, or rather pagans, with whom Catholics have contracted a civil marriage.--ED. C. W.]

They live together in good faith, notwithstanding, and when the priest, discovering the radical fault, speaks to them of renewing their agreement, it frequently happens that the unbaptized party refuses to do it. The fathers unite in requesting from the holy see power to communicate to missionaries dispensations _in radice_, of which they can make use to rehabilitate such marriages.

As preceding councils have remarked, it is certain that, in most of the provinces of the United States, the decree of the Council of Trent regarding clandestine marriages has not yet been promulgated. In some districts its promulgation is doubtful. Besides, to require the presence of a certain priest for the validity of a marriage appears to the fathers a measure attended with great inconvenience. They demand, therefore, in order to reassure consciences, and establish uniformity, to return everywhere, except in the province of New Orleans, to the ancient discipline, already universally in force. But the holy see has not seen fit to accede to this request, as appears from the answer addressed by the Propaganda to the _postulata_ of the council.

On other points uniformity is supremely desirable. For instance, the bishops earnestly desire it in that which pertains to Christian instruction and in prayer-books. A catechism is to be composed after that of Cardinal Bellarmine, adapted to the peculiar situation of Catholics in the United States. When this catechism has been approved by the holy see, it will be adopted in all the dioceses.

As to prayer-books which do not bear the express approbation of the ordinary, they ought not to be found in the hands of the faithful.

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The solicitude of the council here extends to various classes of people. Following the example of the apostle, they recommend to God those who govern; but the formulas of the church are alone to be employed in these prayers, and no one is to imitate certain sects and temples, wherein political passions and partisan rancor utter accents which dishonor God rather than contribute to his worship.

No one will neglect any precaution to free Catholic soldiers and sailors from being obliged, against their conscience, to assist at the rites of dissenting sects. The orphans are an object of special solicitude. They must be gathered into the Catholic asylums which already exist or are yet to be built. This necessity is most pressing, and appeals to the charity of all who can provide against it.

VI.

An entire chapter is consecrated to regular orders of men and women. After recalling the immense advantages which their churches have derived from the labor of religious, the fathers state certain precautions which ought to be taken in order that foundations may be stable and not precarious. Circumstances do not always permit canonical erection or establishment in a permanent manner; hence, in the agreement made between the bishop and the religious community, this clause must hereafter be added, to wit, that the latter will not quit the parish, school, college, or congregation with which it is charged, without notifying the ordinary at least six months in advance. This relates only to diocesan work, properly so called, and not to that which the religious may take up of their own accord, without any obligation to continue.

Bishops shall conform to the canonical laws, defending the rights and privileges of the religious whom they find in the territory submitted to their jurisdiction, and they will avoid giving them subjects of complaint, or motives for going elsewhere. Regulars and seculars work toward the same ends namely, the glory of God and the salvation of souls; hence, no dissension ought ever to arise between them, but harmony, unity, and fraternal love should ever reign supreme.

The council passes a magnificent eulogium on those "sisters" who preserve, in their schools, the innocence of so many young virgins, and who, during the late war, have known how to turn public calamity to the glory of God and the advantage of religion.

Who of the dissenting sects has not admired their zeal, charity, and patience in the hospitals, and may not say, "the finger of God is here"?

Various measures were adopted to assure the observance of the rules of the church on the part of the religious. The fathers have heretofore consulted as to the nature of their sacred engagements. The answers received from Rome state that, in several specially designated monasteries of the Visitantines, the vows are solemn. [Footnote 145]

[Footnote 145: These are the monasteries of Georgetown, Mobile, Kaskaskia, St. Aloysius, and Baltimore. The solemnity of the vows is there preserved according to rescripts formerly obtained from Rome.]

Henceforth, after the novitiate, simple vows are to be made, and ten years later the solemn profession will be permitted. As to other monasteries and religious houses, simple vows alone are permitted, except by special rescript from the holy see; the same rule applying to all convents of women which may be hereafter erected in the various dioceses of the United States. The fathers severely censure those who leave their monasteries and travel through the country, under pretext of collecting money for houses pressed with debt or for new foundations; they declare this to be an intolerable abuse and contrary to the true character of the religious life.

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Everywhere, to-day, but in no country more than in America, the question of schools appears most important, and claims the most lively solicitude on the part of the episcopate.

Here the council begins by firmly asserting the rights of the church. Jesus Christ said to his apostles, "Euntes docete," "Going, teach all nations." Since that time, this utterance has been understood in the sense of a mission, to be fulfilled by instruction and the exercise of spiritual maternity toward all, but especially toward youth. Frequenting such public schools as exist in the United States offers a thousand dangers. There indifferentism reigns: corruption of morals is engendered in early youth; the habit of reading and reciting authors who attack religion and heap insults on the memory of saintly personages weakens the faith in the souls of the young, while association with vicious companions stifles virtue in their hearts. The only remedy is to create other institutions, to open further opportunities to Catholic youth. Parochial schools are highly recommended, as well as the sodalities or congregations which devote themselves to the instruction of the youth of either sex.

While speaking of houses of refuge and correction, the fathers notice the numerous abductions of children which are daily made by the different sects. These are orphans, or disobedient children whom parents despair of managing. They are taken to places where their relatives can neither find nor hear from them, and their names are changed, so as not to recall them at some future day to their religion or family. Comfortably nourished, they are reared in the principles of heresy and in hatred of Catholicity. [Footnote 146] Moved with pity, several bishops have already opened houses to gather in these little unfortunates; the council desires them to be everywhere established; for if one ought to applaud the zeal of those who raise magnificent temples to God, much more should one praise those who prepare for him a spiritual dwelling of these precious and living stones.

[Footnote 146: Acts have recently been passed in the Legislature of New York which promise to be a very effectual check to the most nefarious arts of these kidnappers in this State.--ED. C. W.]

Here follows a tribute of recognition of the services rendered by the various colleges and academies which already exist in the United States. The American establishments at Rome, at Louvain, and in Ireland, are now furnishing priests and missionaries. When will it be granted to the bishops to found a grand Catholic university, which will complete all the good accomplished by these institutions? Yet this is not merely a desire; it is ardently expressed by the council; we hope the future may bring about its speedy realization. [Footnote 147]

[Footnote 147: Amen!--Ed. C. W.]

The missions are one of the most efficacious means of procuring the salvation of souls. Regulars and seculars are alike called to this great work. The council demands that a house of missionaries be founded in each diocese, for giving spiritual exercises in the parishes, above all during Lent, Advent, at the time of first communions, and the episcopal visitations. The parish priests are to co-operate cordially with these auxiliaries, and if any refuse to do so, they will be constrained by their bishop. On the other hand, all precautions are taken to avoid any appearance of interestedness, and any interference in the parochial government on the part of the missionaries.

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The idea of association, so popular at the present day, is essentially and originally Catholic. If some have used it against us, we know how to reclaim and avail ourselves of it. Hence, the fathers recommend the confraternities approved by the church, such as those of the Blessed Sacrament, the Sacred Heart, the Blessed Virgin Mary, St. Joseph, and the Holy Angels. They recommend the "Apostolate of Prayer," also, another pious association, which prays especially for the conversion of non-Catholics; they seek to develop the well-deserving undertakings of the "Propagation of the Faith" and "Holy Childhood;" they accord the highest praise to the arch-confraternity of St. Peter; finally, they add other works of piety and mercy, among them the "Society of St. Vincent de Paul," so well adapted to our times, and which has already produced such great results.

After this great encouragement, come restrictions no less called for. No new associations are to be created where ancient confraternities suffice. In case any priest desires to institute a new one, he must have a written permission from his bishop; the latter is forbidden to approve a new foundation unless he is sure that its means and aim are truly Catholic. It will be truly desirable to give such a character to the mutual aid societies to-day so numerous among the working classes.

The welfare of the negroes greatly interests the American episcopate. What a harvest is here to be gathered among these poor souls, purchased by the blood of Jesus Christ, and so well prepared by their emancipation to listen to the Gospel. Heresy spares no effort to assure herself of possessing them--another reason for earnestly seconding the desire expressed by the Congregation of the Propaganda in this respect. But the measures adopted for this end cannot be everywhere the same, and general rules are, therefore, hard to determine. The negroes must have churches either in common with or separate from the other faithful; they must have schools, missions, orphan asylums. Laborers are wanting to this harvest. The superiors of religious orders are requested to designate some of their subjects for this purpose, and secular priests, who feel this to be their vocation, to fly to the succor of this class, so destitute and so interesting. As to particular measures, provincial councils will determine in those regions where the negroes are more numerous.

VII.

Books and journals exercise such a great influence on society, both for evil and for good, that they could not fail to be the object of a special decree. After noticing the disastrous effects of an immoral press, the prelates call on all the servants of Jesus Christ, especially those who are fathers of families, to rid their houses of all noxious and dangerous books. They do not hesitate in this instance to employ the severe words of the apostle, "If any man have not care of his own, and especially of those of his house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel." I Tim. v. 8. School-books must be carefully revised, expurgated, when necessary, and submitted to episcopal approbation. A sort of permanent committee is created for this purpose, composed of the superiors of three colleges existing in the arch-diocese of Baltimore.

As to good books, their circulation should be favored as much as possible. It is desirable that associations should everywhere be formed, to employ themselves in this work. The fathers particularly recommend the "Catholic Publication Society" of New York, which has existed for some years, and has already done immense good. Committees in every city are to be formed, and affiliated to the central society, and collections are ordered to be made yearly for assisting this good work.

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Prayer-books ought always to be examined by theologians, and none should be printed without the approbation of the ordinary. This has hitherto been only a wish; hereafter it shall be a law obliging all bishops.

Among current periodicals there are many impious and immoral, some more tolerable, but very few deserving eulogy and full recommendation to the faithful. The prelates continue:

"Journals edited or directed by Catholics indirectly contributing to the advantage of religion, must exist. But for fear lest the political opinions of the writers may be attributed to ecclesiastical authority, or to Christianity itself, as often happens, thanks to the bad faith of adversaries, we desire that all should be duly warned not to recognize any journal as _Catholic_ unless it bears the express approbation of the ordinary.

"In several dioceses, there are journals furnished with this approbation, under one form or another, because the bishops require them as a means of conveying their orders or ideas to their clergy and people. Hence they are assumed to have an official character, as if the voice of the pastor were to be heard from every page and line. This is a misunderstanding, although quite general, chiefly propagated by sectarians. From it result grave and intolerable inconveniences. For, whatever may be written by these editors, who may often be controlled by passions private and political, is laid to the account of the bishop, and seems to form a part of his pastoral teaching.

"In order that such a responsibility may cease to weigh upon the episcopate, and in order clearly to set forth the relations between the ordinary and the ecclesiastical journals, the fathers declare that the approbation accorded by a bishop to a Catholic journal merely signifies that he has found in it nothing contrary to faith or morals; and that he hopes such will be the case in future; and moreover, that the editors are well-deserving men, and their writings useful and edifying. The bishop, then, is only responsible for what appears in the paper as his own teaching, counsel, exhortation or command; and for this, only when signed with his own hand." (Act. tit. xi. p. 256.)

They spoke of establishing a journal or review, solely devoted to the exposition and defence of Catholic dogma, of which the archbishops of Baltimore, New York, and perhaps other metropolitans with them, would have the ownership. The question was submitted by the council to the judgment of the ordinaries.

If the fathers wish to be free from a solidarity often compromising, they none the less recognize the services of Catholic writers. The felicitations which they address to them are borrowed from the pontifical allocution of April 20th, 1849, and from the letters apostolic of February 12th, 1866.

VIII.

The church has frequently uttered severe condemnations of secret societies, engaged in acts forbidden by religion and justice. After having recalled to mind and published anew these condemnations, the fathers add that they do not see any reason for applying them to societies of artisans which have no other object than the mutual support and protection of people of the same calling.

These must not favor the practices of condemned sects, nor proceed contrary to equity and the rights of patrons. No one must regard as even tolerated, associations which demand of those entering an oath to do whatever the chiefs command, or which would maintain an inviolable secrecy in the face of lawful questioning. If there be doubt of the nature of an association, the holy see must be consulted. No person, however high his ecclesiastical dignity, ought to condemn any society which does not fall under the censures of the apostolical constitutions. [Footnote 148]

[Footnote 148: At the request of certain bishops, this decree was to be suppressed. It was re-established in acts according to directions from Rome.]

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In the thirteenth chapter, the bishops request the erection of fifteen new episcopal sees; to wit, four in the province of Baltimore, seven in that of St. Louis, one in each of the provinces of Cincinnati, Oregon, San Francisco, and New York. They also desire the churches of Philadelphia and Milwaukee to be raised to metropolitan dignity. Excepting this last demand, this chapter has met favorable reception at Rome; and at the present moment, America counts twelve new bishoprics or vicarates apostolic.

We will not speak of the pastoral letter addressed by the bishops of the council to the faithful of their dioceses. It was published at the time in many French journals. Moreover, it merely recapitulates the measures and decrees which ought to be brought to the knowledge of all the Catholic populations. In it one perceives the accent of ardent zeal for the salvation of souls. Amid the felicitations which they address to their flock, the American prelates mingle cries of sorrow at the sight of the abuses which still exist and the souls which are lost. A warm appeal is made to families to favor the development of ecclesiastical vocations; in this country, more than in any other in the world, the harvest is immense, and arms alone are often wanting to gather it.

As to the relations between the church and the state, the fathers declare that, apart from a few brief instances of over-excitement and madness, the attitude taken by the civil power and its non-interference in religious matters is a matter for congratulation; they complain only of its not according the necessary guarantees for church property, according to ancient canons and discipline. But several States have already done what is reasonable in this respect; it is hoped that others will soon follow their example.

Such is the incomplete but at least faithful _résumé_ of the decrees of this great assembly. In reading, one is struck with the wisdom and prudence which characterize them. After the divine assistance, certainly not denied to so holy an undertaking, one here finds something of that American good sense, eminently exact and practical, which, in dealing with lofty things, seizes them principally by their positive side, and, without losing sight of principles, adapts them always to times and circumstances.

If doctrine is greatly represented in this volume, pure theory occupies but a small space. Above everything else the council has wished to be a work of organization. No less remarkable for what it has not said than for what it has said, it seems to embody the device of the poet, "Semper ad eventum festinat;" no superfluous details, no useless erudition; all bears the seal of a legislation soberly but firmly motived, wherein nothing is omitted which can enlighten and convince the mind, and nothing allowed to lengthen a text by right short, or to complicate a simple matter; a majestic monument, of simple and severe proportions, art seems therein neglected, but is by no means wanting.

If it were permissible in presence of so great a work to recur to a secondary detail, we would say that pupils of the seminaries, in studying these acts, will find in them a model of that beautiful Latinity unfortunately too rare in theological treatises.

Their task ended, the prelates had only to congratulate themselves on the success obtained. After having announced to their children that they would be more fully notified of the result in provincial councils and diocesan synods, they have been able to add, with lawful pride, that they expect all manner of good from the practical organization given for the future to the churches of this vast continent.

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The Legend of St. Thomas.

And it came to pass, in those days, that Thomas abode at Jerusalem. And in a dream the Lord appeared to him, and said, Behold, Gondaphorus, who ruleth in India, hath sent Abbas his servant into Syria, that he may find men skilful in the art of building. Go thou, therefore, and I will show thee unto him. But Thomas answered, and said, Lord, suffer me not to go into India. But the Lord answered, and said to him, Fear not, but rise up and depart; for behold, I am with thee, and when thou shalt have converted the nations of India, thou shalt come to me, and I will give unto thee the recompense of thy reward. And when Thomas heard this, he said, Thou art my Lord and I am thy servant. Let it be as thou hast said. And he went his way.

And it came to pass that as Abbas, the servant of Gondaphorus the king, stood in the market-place, the Lord met him, and said, Young man, what seekest thou? And Abbas answered, and said, Behold, my master hath sent me hither, that I might bring to him cunning workmen who shall build for him a palace like unto those that are in Rome. And when he had spoken these things, the Lord showed unto him Thomas, as that skilful and cunning workman whom he sought.

And straightway Thomas the apostle, and the servant of Gondaphorus the king, departed. And as they journeyed, the word of the Lord spake by the mouth of Thomas, and great multitudes of the Gentiles were converted and baptized. And when they came to Aden, which lieth at the going in of the Red Sea, they tarried many days.

And departing thence, they came into the coasts of India. And behold, there was a marriage in that city, and both Thomas and Abbas were called to the marriage. And the whole city was with them. And while they rejoiced together, behold, Thomas spake to the people the word of the Lord, and wrought many mighty works before them all, so that great multitudes believed and were baptized. And the daughter of the king, (whose feast it was,) and her husband, and the king also, were among them. And this was she, who, after a long time, was called Pelagia, and took the holy veil, and suffered martyrdom. But the bridegroom was called Denis, and became the bishop of that city.

And going from thence, they departed, and came to Gondaphorus the king. And to him was Thomas the apostle brought, as a cunning workman, skilled in all manner of building. And the king commanded him to build for him a royal palace, and gave him vast treasures wherewith to build it, and having done this, he went into another country.

And it came to pass, that when Thomas received the treasure of the king, he put not his hand to the palace of the king, but went his way throughout the kingdom, for the space of two years, preaching the Gospel, healing the sick, and giving his treasures to the poor.

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And after the space of two years, Gondaphorus the king returned into his own city, and when he had asked concerning his palace, Thomas answered, and said, Behold, O king! the palace is builded; but thou shalt dwell therein only in the world that is to come. Then was the king exceeding wroth, when he had heard these things, and commanded his soldiers to cast Thomas into prison, and to flay him alive, and afterward to burn his body with fire.

And it came to pass, that in those days Syd, the brother of Gondaphorus, died, and the king commanded them to prepare for him a goodly sepulchre. And on the fourth day, as they made lamentation over him, behold, he that was dead sat up and began to speak. And they were sore affrighted and amazed. But he said to the king, Behold, O king! he whom thou hast commanded to be flayed and burned is the friend of God. For lo! the angels of God, who serve him, took me into paradise, and showed to me a palace adorned with gold and silver and precious stones. And when I was astonished at its beauty, one cried out to me, and said, Behold, this is the palace which Thomas has builded for the king, thy brother. But he has become unworthy; yet, if thou thyself wouldst dwell therein, we will beseech the Lord, that thou mayest live again and redeem it of thy brother by paying unto him the treasure he has lost.

And when Gondaphorus had heard these things, he was sore afraid. And he straightway ran to the prison, and came in unto the apostle, and smote off his chains. And bringing a royal robe, he would have put it on him. But Thomas answering, said, Knowest thou not, O king! that those who would have power in heavenly things care not for that which is carnal and earthly? And when he had said this, the king fell down at his feet, confessing his sins. And Thomas baptized both him, and his brother, and all his house, and said to them, In heaven there are many mansions, prepared from the foundation of the world. But these are purchased only by faith and almsgiving. Your riches are able to go before you into these heavenly habitations, but thither they can never follow you.

And after these things, Thomas arose and departed, and came into all the kingdoms of India, preaching the Gospel, and doing many mighty miracles. And all the nations of India believed and were baptized, hearing his words, and seeing the wonders which he did.

And it came to pass that Mesdeus the king heard thereof. And when Thomas came into his country, he laid hands upon him, and commanded him to adore his idols, even the images of the Sun, which he had made. And Thomas answered, and said, Let it be even as thou hast said, if at my word the idol bow not its head into the dust. And when he had said this, the idol fell down prostrate to the earth.

And there arose a great sedition among the people, and the greater part stood with Thomas. But the king was exceeding angry, and cast him into prison, and delivered him up to the soldiers, that they might put him to death. And the soldiers, taking him, led him forth to the top of a mountain over against the city. And when he had prayed a long time, they pierced him with their spears, and, falling down, he yielded up the ghost. And his disciples, which stood by, wept for him with many tears, and, taking up his body, they wound it in precious spices, and laid it in a tomb. But the church grew and waxed mightily, and Siforus the priest, and Zuganes the deacon, whom Thomas had ordained as he went forth to die on the mountain, taught in his stead.

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Such is the legend of St. Thomas, as recited in the name of Abdias of Babylon, "bishop and disciple," [Footnote 149] in his "_ten_ books upon the conflicts of the apostles." Whatever we may think of the individual events therein detailed, the great outline of the story has much intrinsic probability, and is of no slight interest to the student of Christian history. Especially is this so in the present age, when the vast and mystic East opens her gates once more to the knock of the evangelist, and when the whole Christian world is agitated with a missionary zeal which must be comparatively fruitless, unless guided by a knowledge of the people whom it approaches, and of the religious traditions with which it must combat or agree. It is our intention in this article to suggest some of the chief facts in the ecclesiastical annals of these unknown lands, and to trace, so far as we may be able, the dogmatic genealogy of those religious notions with which the Gospel has been, and will be, there forced to contend.

[Footnote 149: Abdias of Babylon, to whom is ascribed the work mentioned in the text, is accounted among the ecclesiastical writers of the first age. He was a Jew by birth, and one of the seventy disciples of our Lord. He went with SS. Simon and Jude into Persia, and by them was made bishop of Babylon. The work which bears his name was first printed in the year 1532. Its alleged authorship, on account of its citations, and for some other reasons, has generally been denied by the learned. On this point the present writer ventures no opinion, although convinced that the tradition, as contained in _The Legend of St. Thomas_, is substantially true, and has existed in the same general outline from the earliest periods of Christian history.]

In the legend which we have repeated, and the discussion of which will occupy the present article, the scene of the labors of St. Thomas is laid in India. The tradition that he preached in Parthia and other countries of the east, and that he perished by martyrdom, is nearly as old as Christianity itself. All of the early writers are agreed that his apostolic province lay north and east of Palestine, and that the Persians, Bactrians, Scythians, and other kindred nations were entrusted to his spiritual care. But in regard to the particular regions over which he travelled, and the extent of his missionary efforts, as embraced in modern geographical divisions, there appears to be no small discrepancy between them. Thus, while certain ancient authors ascribe to him the evangelization of the entire East, Socrates and Theodoret expressly state that the Gospel was not preached in India till the fourth century, when Frumentius carried thither the knowledge of the true faith, and established a mission, of which he himself became the bishop; while some extend his wanderings to the Ganges, or even to the Celestial empire itself, others limit him within the eastern boundary of Persia, and place his death and burial-place near the city of Edessa, less than two hundred miles north-east from Antioch.

Much of this apparent disagreement, however, is explained away by the acknowledged ambiguity of the phrases under which these different countries were anciently described. "India" and "Ethiopia" seem to have been terms as loosely applied in that age as "the East," in Europe, and "the West," in America, are today; and it is not at all unlikely that, as has been the case with the latter phrase in this country, the application of the former was gradually changed as their nearer frontiers became better known, and were localized under distinct and peculiar names. The India of Socrates and Theodoret may or may not embrace the districts included in the India of Gaudentius and Sophronius; and each, in his historic statement, may be entirely accurate in fact, though contradictory to the others in his language.

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Moreover, in those early ages kingdoms were less known than nations. The ancients spoke of "Persians," "Romans," "Jews," "Egyptians," rather than of the countries in which they were supposed to dwell; while in our day, on the contrary, the explorations of geography have rendered the regions far more definite than the nations which inhabit them. For this reason, what would be comparatively a safe guide to any given locality in modern usage, would be far less reliable in writings of a thousand years ago. Thus we may well dismiss whatever doubts this seeming disagreement at first sight throws around the post-scriptural account of this apostle, or at least hold it in abeyance, to be obliterated if subsequent investigations should disclose sufficient evidence of the toils and triumphs of St. Thomas in the vast empires of oriental Asia.

It is in this _generic_ sense of the terms that "India" and "the Indies" are employed by the author of this legend, and under the singular as well as under the plural name are included many kingdoms through which the apostle travelled, from that in which he preached the Gospel at the nuptials of a king to that in which he found the mountain of his martyrdom. Each of these seems to have had its own court and king, and to have been so far independent of the others that the same religion which was maintained and promulgated by the state in one, was persecuted and condemned by the rulers of the other. It is not, therefore, to these names that we can look with any confidence of finding such vestiges of the apostle's footsteps as shall afford us a definite clue to the countries or the nations which enjoyed the fruits of his laborious love.

Such, however, is not the case with the name of King Gondaphorus to whom particularly, according to the legend, the mission of St. Thomas was directed. Until within a few years, the age, the residence, even the existence of this personage has been matter of serious controversy. The opinion most commonly received among the learned was, that "Gondaphorus" was a corruption of "Gun dishavor" or "Gondisapor," a city built by Artaxerxes, and deriving its name from Sapor or Schavor, the son and successor of its founder. [Footnote 150] As the city could have acquired this title only in the fourth century, this, among other reasons, has generally led historians to deny the substantial authenticity of the legend itself, and to regard it as the fabrication of some later age.

[Footnote 150: Gundisapor was the episcopal and metropolitan city of the province of Sarac, situated on the Tigris, six leagues from Susa. It is said to have been built by Hormisdas, the contemporary of the Emperor Constantine, and to have been called by the name of Sapor, his son, by whom it was afterward immensely enriched and beautified with the treasures which he ravished from the Roman empire.]

Recent investigations among Indian antiquities have thrown new light upon this subject, and, in this particular, at least, seem to have cleared the legend from all suspicions of fraud. Among the many coins and medals lately discovered in the East are those of the Indo-Scythian kings who ruled in the valley of the Indus about the beginning of our present era. One of these kings bore the name of "Gondaphorus," and pieces of his coinage are now said to be preserved in different collections of Paris and the East. [Footnote 151] This striking corroboration, in the nineteenth century, of a tradition which, in one shape or another, has been current in the Christian world for eighteen hundred years, can hardly fail to satisfy the most critical examiner that the legend ascribed to Abdias is, in its grand outline, entitled to a far higher degree of credit than it has been accustomed lately to receive.

[Footnote 151: Vide _Le Christianisme en Chine_, etc., par M, Huc. Paris, 1857, p. 28, etc.]

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The course of the apostle and his companion toward the east, so far as this tradition and its modern limitations have defined it, may thus be traced. Leaving Jerusalem, they journeyed by the usual route to the Red Sea, and thence along the coasts of Arabia Petraea and Arabia Felix to Aden, then, as now, a city of much commercial importance, on account of its excellent harbor and commanding situation. Here they remained for a considerable period of time, the apostle preaching the Gospel and laying foundations on which other men might build. Embarking thence, they sailed around the southern borders of the Arabian peninsula, and, crossing the Gulf of Oman, landed at one of the then flourishing cities near the mouths of the Indus. After some delay, of which St. Thomas made good use in the service of the Gospel, they pushed north-easterly into the interior to the immediate province of King Gondaphorus, where, after the labors of two years, the apostle brought the monarch and his family under obedience to the yoke of Christ. His special work thus accomplished, St. Thomas travelled into many other kingdoms on the same divine errand, and terminated his devoted and fruitful life by holy martyrdom. Thus far, the legend; and that it agrees with and is in fact the interpreter of all other traditions of St. Thomas, as well as of those various monuments which, until recently, have been unknown as teachers of Christian history, will shortly be made manifest.

The holy apostle, having once established Christianity in those parts of India which lie nearest to Jerusalem, would naturally extend his journey into more distant regions, rather than retrace his steps, and occupy, as his field of labor, a territory to which the Gospel would, without his intervention, probably be soon proclaimed. For, having in himself powers plenipotentiary for the organization and perpetuation of the church, wherever he might plant it, and being assured, as a Christian and disciple, that the zeal and perseverance of his fellow-workers might safely be entrusted with the conversion of the nations adjacent to the centres of Christian doctrine, it was simply manlike, simply apostolic, for him to set his face steadfastly toward those who, but for him, might not in many generations obtain the light of faith. If, therefore, the footsteps which we have already traced be genuine, we may with reason look for traces of the same unwearied feet in other and still more unknown lands.

And herein also, the traditions of the early ages will not disappoint us. Still reckoning by nations, rather than by kingdoms, the ancient writers tell us that St. Thomas preached the Gospel to the Parthians, Medes, Persians, Hyrcanians, Bactrians, Germanians, Seres, Indians, and Scythians. Thus in a fragment of St. Dorotheus, (A.D. 254,) "The apostle Thomas, having announced the Gospel to the Parthians, Medes, Persians, Germanians, Bactrians, and Mages, suffered martyrdom at Calamila, a city of India." Theodoret, speaking of the universality of the preaching of the apostles, says, "They have caused, not only the Romans, and those who inhabit the Roman empire, but the Scythians, ... the Indians, ... the Persians, the Seres, and the Hyrcanians to receive from them the law of the Crucified." Origen, and from him Eusebius, relates that St. Thomas received Parthia as his allotted sphere; and Sophronius mentions that he planted the faith among the Medes, Persians, Carmanians, (Germanians,) Hyrcanians, Bactrians, and other nations of the extreme east. Both the latter and St. Gaudentius declare that he suffered at Calamina in India.

{517}

The same traditions are faithfully preserved among the Christians of India. In the breviary of the Church of Malabar, it is stated that St. Thomas converted the Indians, Chinese, and Ethiopians, and that these different nations, together with the Persians, offer their adorations to God in commemoration of this devoted apostle, from whom their forefathers received the truth of Christ. The presumption of fact, which arises out of such a mass of testimony as these and other witnesses which might be quoted offer us, existing for so many ages and in countries so widely separated from each other, is surely sufficient to justify a careful study of the localities to which these different nations belonged, as indicative of the later and more extended missionary labors of St. Thomas.

According to the best authorities on the subjects of ancient geography and ethnology, all the various territories which were inhabited by the nations whose conversion has been attributed to St. Thomas lie east of the Euphrates, and, with the single exception of the Scythians, below the fortieth parallel of latitude. The Medes occupied the districts between the Caspian and Persian seas. The Hyrcanians lay on the south-east of the Caspian, the Parthians and the Bactrians lying east of them; and all three being included in the present Turkistan. The Persians held the northeastern borders of the Persian Gulf, next to the kingdom of the Medes; the Germanians, or Carmanians, lying next on the south-east, in part of what is now known as Beloochistan, and the lower corner of modern Persia. The "Seres" was a name given to the Chinese in the earliest historic ages, and embraced the vast and cultivated people who dwell beyond the Emodi, or Himalaya, mountains, and east of the sources of the Indus. The Indians and Scythians--the former occupying from the Indian Ocean and the latter from the Arctic zone--met together between the Bactrians and the Seres, and formed the Indo-Scythian races of the ante-Christian age. Calamila, or Calamina, the city near which the apostle finally rested from his labors, is on the eastern coast of Hindostan, a short distance from Madras, and has been known, at different periods, by the names of Meliapour, Beit-Thoma, and St. Thomas.

The connection of these ancient nations and countries with, and their successive propinquity to, each other enables us to form a tolerably correct idea of the course of the apostle's missionary work, from the baptism of Gondaphorus to the close of his own career. For although our guide is simply the intrinsic probability which grows out of the nature of the workman and the work God had appointed him to do, yet, to whoever takes the map of the various regions which we have described as the scenes of the apostolic life and death, it will appear that one of two courses must have been adopted. The first starts from the valley of the Indus, and, leading westward, reaches in turn the Germanians, Persians, and Medes; then, turning toward the north and flexing eastward by the southern border of the Caspian Sea, it penetrates the land of the Hyrcanians, Parthians, Bactrians, Indo-Scythians, and Seres; where, again met by the upper Indus, it bends southward, and, striking through the heart of Hindostan, ends in the lower portion of the peninsula at or near Madras. {518} The second, beginning at the same point, follows up the Indus in a path directly opposite to the former, until the place of departure is again reached and the final journey through modern India begins. It is scarcely possible to say which of these two routes is most probably correct. Future researches may throw light upon the extent of the region over which King Gondaphorus reigned, upon the relation of the dialects of these bordering nations to each other, and thus afford a clue to the more exact path of the apostle. But in either case, the districts over which he travelled, and the races into contact with whom he carried the Gospel, are distinguished with a high degree of certainty, and the triumphs of the cross under his leadership may thus be clearly understood.

Indeed, the work of scarce any apostle of the twelve can now be better followed than that of Thomas. The chief indefiniteness attaches to his mission to the Seres; for here little is extant to show, with any great conclusiveness, whether his labors terminated with the borders of Indo-Scythia, or penetrated to the Yellow Sea. Some monuments of antiquity have, it is true, been found, which point strongly to the spreading of the Gospel over a large part of China by primitive if not by apostolic missionaries; but nothing has as yet been discovered which would justify the conclusion that St. Thomas actually attempted the evangelization of that immense and thickly-populated empire. If such had been the case, it is hardly possible that India should have received him back again, and given him the distant Calamina for his martyrdom.

The area of territory over which the apostle Thomas must thus have journeyed embraces over three million two hundred and fifty thousand square miles, and the people to whom he opened the doors of heaven, through the Gospel, numbered more than two hundred millions of souls. The linear distance of his own personal travels probably exceeded ten thousand miles, and this, for the most part, necessarily on foot. The consideration of these facts, and of the results which followed from the apostle's labors, will give us some idea of the work which our Divine Lord committed to his immediate disciples, and of the untiring zeal and superhuman endurance with which they were endowed. It has become far easier for us to say, "The Lord hath shortened his hand," than to go and do likewise.

Yet it is still true that Thomas was an apostle; that it was the will of the Master that all nations should at once almost receive some knowledge of his Gospel; that the miraculous gift of tongues swept out of the way one of the greatest obstacles to missionary labor; and that St. Thomas had received the gifts of faith and charity to such a degree as enabled him to co-operate, to the utmost, with the graces of his work. And it is also true that, had not he and the others of the twelve been such as they were and accomplished what they did, the promises of Christ would have been unfulfilled, and the church have suffered from their failure to its latest day. But in that they were _apostles_, in that they did their work, the seed of the Gospel can scarcely fall, to-day, on soil which has not been already watered by the blood of martyrs, or among people in whom it has not, long ago, sprung up and brought forth fruit abundantly.

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There were, however, in the case of St. Thomas, other and natural reasons why his work should have been so vast and his success so extraordinary. The facility of intercourse between the east and the west was far greater in his day than in our own. The successive conquests of Alexander had led him beyond the present western boundary of China. The Roman empire, at the beginning of our era, reached beyond the Euphrates, and the intimate connection of part with part, and the ease of intercourse between the imperial city and the farthest military outpost, can scarcely be exaggerated. [Footnote 152] Up to the seventh century, this unity continued to a great degree unbroken, and will account not only for the presence of the minister of Gondaphorus in Jerusalem and for the results which followed it, but for the diffusion and preservation of the traditions which have handed down those events to us.

[Footnote 152: De Quincey's _Caesars_. (Introduction.)]

Nor was this unity altogether that of conquest. Beyond the empire of Augustus lay the realms of Porus, of whom history relates that he held six hundred kings beneath his sway. Between these emperors there seem to have been two formal attempts at an intimate political alliance. Twenty-four years before the birth of Christ, an embassy from Porus followed Augustus into Spain, upon this errand, and another some years afterward met with him at Samos. In the reigns of Claudius, Trajan, Antoninus Pius, and succeeding emperors, the same royal courtesies were interchanged, and it was not until the Mussulman power, sweeping like a sea of fire between the east and the west, became an impassable barrier to either, that these relations had an end.

Nearly the same may be said of commercial unity. The trade in silk, from which substance the Seres, or Chinese, derived their name, was carried on between the Romans and that distant nation on no inconsiderable scale. Numerous caravans perpetually journeyed to and fro through the wilds of Parthia and along the southern border of the Caspian Sea; while the Erythrean, Red and Mediterranean waters glittered with sails from almost every land. The whole inhabited world (if we except this continent, the date of whose first settlement no one can tell) was thus providentially brought close together, and a higher degree of unity and association established between its different nations than had existed since the dispersion at Babel, or than has now existed for over twelve hundred years.

How vast an advantage to apostolic labor this unity must have been can easily be seen. While it removed almost entirely the difficulties of travel, it assured for the traveller both safety and good-will upon the way. While it conciliated in advance the people among whom they labored, it gave weight and human authority to the Gospel, when actually preached. And, when the church had been established and little colonies of Christians marked the track of the apostles, it enabled them to maintain a constant intercourse with their spiritual children by messengers or by epistles, and to keep watch and ward over the millions entrusted to their care.

Those prophetic traditions of a coming Saviour, which pervaded the east, as well as the south and west, also effected much toward the rapid spread and wide espousal of Christian truth. The origin of these traditions is shrouded in the mystery of an unchronicled antiquity. They may be attributed to the promise in paradise, to the transfusion of Mosaic teachings, or to direct revelation by means of pagan oracles. But that they existed, in a clear and well-defined prophetic form, is established beyond question; while that they were in the first instance of divine disclosure, it becomes no Christian to deny. {520} The learned and contemplative minds of Asia especially delighted in this state of expectation. Sons of a soil whereon the feet of God had trodden in primeval days, the very atmosphere around them still throbbed with the echoes of that voice which walked in Eden in the cool of the day. The mountains that overlooked them had aforetime walled in the garden of the Lord from a dark and half-developed world. The deserts of their meditations lay like a pall above the relics of those generations to whom the deluge brought the judgment wrath of God. Children of Sem, the eldest son of Noah, it had been theirs to see, even more clearly than God's chosen Israel, the coming of the Incarnate to the world, as it was also theirs to win from heaven the first tidings of his birth through the glowing orient star.

Among the many forms which this tradition assumed, there is one so beautiful and so theologically accurate, that we cannot omit to cite it here. While the swan of Mantua, on the banks of father Tiber, chanted the glories of the golden age, a Hindoo poet, on the borders of the Ganges, thus painted to the wondering eyes of Indian kings the grand event in which the disorders and miseries of that present age should have an end:

"Then shall a Brahmin be born in the city of Sambhala. This shall be Vishnu Jesu. To him shall the divine scriptures and all sciences unfold themselves, without the use of so much time in their investigation as is necessary to pronounce a single word. Hence shall be given to him the name of Sarva Buddha, as to one who fully knoweth all things. Then shall Vishnu Jesu, dwelling with his people, perform that work which he alone can do. He shall purge the world from sin; he shall set up the kingdom of truth and justice; he shall offer the sacrifice; ... and bind anew the universe to God. .... But when the time of his old age draws nigh, he shall retire into the desert to do penance; and this is the order which Vishnu Sarva shall establish among men. He shall fix virtue and truth in the midst of the Brahmins, and confine the four castles within the boundaries of their laws. Then shall return the primeval age. Then sacrifice shall be so common that the very wilderness shall be no more a solitude. Then shall the Brahmins, confirmed in goodness, occupy themselves only in the ceremonies of religion; they shall cause penance, and all other graces which follow in the path of truth, to flourish, and shall spread everywhere the knowledge of the holy scriptures. Then shall the seasons succeed each other in unbroken order; the rains, in their appointed time, shall water the earth; the harvest, in its turn, shall yield abundance; the milk shall flow at the wish of those who seek it; and the whole world, being inebriated with prosperity and peace, as it was in the beginning, all nations shall enjoy ineffable delights." [Footnote 153]

[Footnote 153: _Le Christianisme en Chine_, p. 5.]

The well-known policy of St. Paul, who, preaching on Mars' hill to the Athenians, seized the inscription on their altar, "To the unknown God," as the text of his most memorable sermon, is a divine endorsement of the important part which God intended that these far-reaching revelations should play in the conversion of the world. St. Thomas, in the east, had but to repeat the announcement, Him whom ye ignorantly worship, him declare I unto you. He, for whom you have waited--he, Vishnu Jesu, has already come; his wisdom and his counsels I reveal to you.

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And among the clear-thoughted and pure-hearted sages of the east, among the Magi of Persia, the Brahmins of India, and the philosophers of China, among such as those who at the mere bidding of a voiceless star followed it to the world's end--to the cave of Bethlehem--these declarations of the apostle must have been the signal of salvation. In them there were no prejudices to wipe away, no new and strange ideas to be espoused. The Gospel was not to them, as to the Jews, the subversion of anticipated glory. It was the realization of expectation, the golden day which had so long shot gleams of light into the darkness of their iron age. And so it was that, while Judea could give to Christianity but simple fishermen, or at most a ruler of the synagogue, India and the orient thought not too highly of her kings and sages to yield them up to Vishnu Jesu, and offered on his altars the wealth of all her realms.

In the year 1521, certain excavations taking place under the ruins of a large and ancient church at Meliapour, there were found, in a sepulchre, at a great depth beneath the surface of the earth, the bones of a human skeleton, in a state of remarkable whiteness and preservation. With them were also found the head of a lance, still fastened in the wood, the fragments of an iron-shod club, and a vase of clay filled with earth. Some years later, near the same spot, an attempt was made by the Portuguese to build a chapel; and in digging for the foundations, the workmen came upon a monumental stone on which was sculptured a cross, some two feet long by eighteen inches wide, rudely ornamented and surrounded by an inscription in characters which, to the discoverers, were totally unknown. The authorities of Meliapour, being desirous to ascertain the meaning of the letters engraved around this cross, made diligent search among the native scholars for an interpreter, and finally obtained one in the person of a Brahmin of a neighboring city. His translation was as follows:

"Thirty years after the law of the Christians appeared to the world, on the 25th of the month of December, the apostle St. Thomas died at Meliapour, whither he had brought the knowledge of God, the change of the law, and the overthrow of devils. God was born of the Virgin Mary, was obedient to her during thirty years, and was the eternal God. God unfolded his law to twelve apostles, and of these, one came to Meliapour, and there founded a church. The kings of Malabar, of Coromandel, of Pandi, and of other different nations, submitted to the guidance of this holy Thomas, with willing hearts, as to a devout and saintly man." [Footnote 154]

[Footnote 154: _Le Christianisme en Chine_, p. 26.]

The same inscription was afterward laid before other oriental scholars, each of whom, without conference or collusion with the rest, offered the same rendering of this forgotten tongue.

Thus, again do the discoveries of later ages verify the traditions of early Christian history. That SS. Dorotheus, Sophronius, and Gaudentius possessed reliable evidence for their statement that St. Thomas died at Calamina, we can no longer doubt. That the original framer of "The Legend of St. Thomas" recited events which, in his day, were well known, and could be easily substantiated, is almost beyond dispute. The wondrous tales of heroism, built out of the deeds of martyrs and apostles and evangelists are not all foolish dreams. The "Legends of the Saints" are not, as the wiseacres of the day would lead us to believe, altogether idle words. {522} Men, who could traverse sea and land, without companions, without aid, converting nations, building churches, founding hierarchies, setting their faces ever farther on, looking for no human sympathy, having no mother-country, toiling for ever toward the martyr's crown, were not the men to fabricate childish stories, full of false visions and falser miracles. Nor were those who stood day by day on the brink of doom; who, in the morning, woke perhaps to meet the lions, perhaps the stake, but certainly the burden of the cross of Christ; who lay down at night without hope of day, the men to listen to wild tales of falsehood from some cunning tongue. Traditions of those early days were all too often written in blood. They come to us sealed with the lives of saints. They have stood the test of ages of investigation. They remain, to-day, monuments, engraved in many languages, and on many lands, asserting the achievements of our fathers, while modern science adds to ancient story the corroboration of her undeniable deductions, and vindicates the traditions of Christian antiquity both from the sneers and the indifference of self-exalted men.

It is almost needless to remark, as the conclusion of this sketch, that modern missionaries, who would rival the success of St. Thomas, can fairly expect it from no less exertion, no less singleness of heart. Those who from this or other countries sally forth, with missionary societies behind them to supply their needs, burdened with the double cares of family and church, with boards of directors at home, as well as consciences within, to satisfy, with a support to some extent conditioned on their apparent success, can scarcely be expected to compete with him who, bidding farewell to home and friends, goes out alone, wifeless and childless, looking to God for everything, and seeking nothing but an endless crown. The history of missions proves, by indisputable statistics, which of these two methods is effective, which has borne with it the divine prestige of success, and which remains, in spite of persecutions and oppressions, vigorous and undismayed after the conflicts of eighteen hundred years. If it were a simple question of policy, between the Catholic Church and her opponents, the event would indicate her wisdom. If it were one of precedent, she has the whole apostolic college, and the missionaries of fifteen centuries upon her side. But if the touchstone of the Master be still reliable, and we may know his workmen by their fruits, then does this history of the great missionary church bear witness, that not only her vocation but her operations are divine, and may assure her children, that, though heaven and earth should fail, no jot or tittle of her power or triumph can ever pass away. The throne of Peter may be smitten by the thunderbolt of war; the hoary head of his successor may be bowed with grief; the triple crown may once more be trampled under the feet of men; the faithful may again be overwhelmed with fear; but, in the far wilderness, beyond the glittering deserts, across the frozen and the burning seas, her sons are gathering strange nations to her bosom, over whom, in her coming days of victory and peace, she may renew her joy.

For the same Lord who bade her go into the whole world and teach all his commandments gave, in the same breath, its people to her baptism; and he who promised her the nations for her inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for her possession, was the same God who said to St. Peter, "Super hanc petram aedificabo ecclesiam meam, et porta inferi non prevalebunt."

{523}

Beethoven, His Boyhood.

I.

One October afternoon, in 1784, a boat was coming down the Rhine close to that point where the city of Bonn sits on its left shore. The company on board consisted of old and young persons of both sexes, returning from an excursion of pleasure.

The company landed full of gayety and mirth, the young people walking on before, while their seniors followed. They adjourned to a public garden, close on the river side, to finish the day of social enjoyment by partaking of a collation. Old and young were seated ere long around the stone table set under the large trees. The crimson faded in the west, the moon poured her soft light glimmering through the leafy canopy above them, and was reflected in full beauty in the waters of the Rhine.

"Your boys are merry fellows," said a benevolent-looking old gentleman, addressing Herr van Beethoven, a tenor singer in the electoral chapel, pointing at the same time to his two sons, lads of ten and fourteen years of age. "But tell me, Beethoven, why did you not bring Louis with you?"

"Because," answered the person he addressed, "Louis is a stubborn, dogged, stupid boy, whose troublesome behavior would only spoil our mirth."

"Ah!" returned the old gentleman, "you are always finding fault with the poor lad, and perhaps impose too hard tasks upon him. I am only surprised that he has not, ere this, broken loose from your sharp control."

"My dear Simrock," replied Beethoven, laughing, "I have a remedy at hand for his humors--my good Spanish cane, which, you see, is of the toughest. Louis is well acquainted with its excellent properties, and stands in wholesome awe thereof. And trust me, neighbor, I know best what is for the boy's good. Carl and Johann are a comfort to me; they always obey me with alacrity and affection. Louis, on the other hand, has been bearish from his infancy. As to his studies, music is the only thing he will learn--I mean with good will; or, if he consents to apply himself to anything else, I must first knock it into him that it has something to do with music. _Then_ he will go to work; but it is his humor not to do it otherwise. If I give him a commission to execute for me, the most arrant clodpoll could not be more stupid about it."

Here the conversation was interrupted, and the subject was not resumed. The hours flew lightly by. It struck nine, and the festive company separated to return to their homes.

Carl and Johann were in high glee as they went home. They sprang up the steps before their father, and pulled the door-bell. The door was opened, and a boy about twelve years old stood in the entry with a lamp in his hand. He was short and stout for his age, but a sickly paleness, more strongly marked by the contrast of his thick black hair, was observable on his face. His small, gray eyes were quick and restless in their movement, very piercing when he fixed them on any object, but softened by the shade of his long, dark lashes. His mouth was delicately formed, and the compression of the lips betrayed both pride and sorrow. It was Louis Beethoven.

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He came to meet his parents, and bade them "Good-evening."

His mother greeted him affectionately. His father said, while the boy busied himself fastening the door, "Well, Louis, I hope you have finished your task."

"I have, father."

"Very good; to-morrow I will look and see if you have earned your breakfast." So saying, the elder Beethoven went into his chamber. His wife followed him, after bidding her sons good night, Louis more tenderly than any of them. Carl and Johann withdrew with their brother to their common sleeping apartment, entertaining him with a description of their day of festivity. "Now, Louis," said little Johann, as they finished their account, "if you had not been such a dunce, our father would have taken you along; but he says he thinks that you will be little better than a dunce all the days of your life, and self-willed and stubborn besides."

"Don't talk about that any more," answered Louis, "but come to bed."

"Yes, you are always a sleepy-head!" cried they both, laughing; but in a few moments after getting into bed both were asleep and snoring heartily.

Louis took the lamp from the table, left the apartment softly, and went up-stairs to an attic chamber, where he was wont to retire when he wished to be out of the way of his teasing brothers. He had fitted up the little room for himself as well as his means permitted. A table with three legs, a leathern chair, the bottom partly out, and an old piano which he had rescued from the possession of the rats and mice, made up the furniture, and here, in company with his beloved violin, he was accustomed to pass his happiest hours.

The boy felt, young as he was, that he was not understood by one of his family, not even excepting his mother. She loved him tenderly, and always took his part when his father found fault with him; but she never knew what was passing in his mind, because he never uttered it. But his genius was not long to be unappreciated.

The next morning a messenger came from the elector to Beethoven's house, bringing an order for him to repair immediately to the palace, and fetch with him his son Louis. The father was surprised; not more so than the boy, whose heart beat with undefined apprehension as they entered the princely mansion. A servant was in waiting, and conducted them, without delay or further announcement, to the presence of the elector, who was attended by two gentlemen.

The elector received old Beethoven with great kindness, and said, "We have heard much, recently, of the extraordinary musical talent of your son Louis. Have you brought him along with you?"

Beethoven replied in the affirmative, stepped back to the door, and bade the boy come in.

"Come nearer, my little lad," cried the elector graciously; "do not be shy. This gentleman here is our new court organist, Herr Neefe; the other is the famous composer, Herr Yunker, from Cologne. We promised them both they should hear you play something."

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The prince bade the boy take his seat and begin, while he sat down in a large easy-chair. Louis went to the piano, and, without examining the pile of notes that lay awaiting his selection, played a short piece, then a light and graceful melody, which he executed with such ease and spirit, nay, in so admirable a manner, that his distinguished auditors could not forbear expressing their surprise, and even his father was struck. When he left off playing, the elector arose, came up to him, laid his hand on his head, and said encouragingly, "Well done, my boy! we are pleased with you. Now, Master Yunker," turning to the gentleman on his right hand, "what say you?"

"Your highness," answered the composer, "I will venture to say the lad has had considerable practice with that last air to execute it so well."

Louis burst into a laugh at this remark. The others looked surprised and grave. His father darted an angry glance at him, and the boy, conscious that he had done something wrong, became instantly silent.

"And pray what were you laughing at, my little fellow?" asked the elector.

The boy colored and looked down as he replied, "Because Herr Yunker thinks I have learned the air by heart, when it occurred to me but just now while I was playing."

"Then," returned the composer, "if you really improvised that piece, you ought to go through at sight a motive I will give you presently."

Yunker wrote on a paper a difficult motive, and handed it to the boy. Louis read it over carefully, and immediately began to play it according to the rules of counterpoint. The composer listened attentively, his astonishment increasing at every turn in the music; and when at last it was finished, in a manner so spirited as to surpass his expectations, his eyes sparkled, and he looked on the lad with keen interest, as the possessor of a genius rarely to be found.

"If he goes on in this way," said he in a low tone to the elector, "I can assure your highness that a very great contrapuntist may be made out of him."

Neefe observed with a smile, "I agree with the master; but it seems to me the boy's style inclines rather too much to the gloomy and melancholy."

"It is well," replied his highness, smiling; "be it your care that it does not become too much so. Herr van Beethoven," he continued, addressing the father, "we take an interest in your son, and it is our pleasure that he complete the studies commenced under your tuition, under that of Herr Neefe. He may come and live with him after to-day. You are willing, Louis, to come and live with this gentleman?"

The boy's eyes were fixed on the ground; he raised them and glanced first at Neefe and then at his father. The offer was a tempting one; he would fare better and have more liberty in his new abode. But there was his _father!_ whom he had always loved; who, in spite of his severity, had doubtless loved him, and who now stood looking upon him earnestly and sadly. He hesitated no longer, but, seizing Beethoven's hand and pressing it to his heart, he cried, "No, no! I can not leave my father."

"You are a good and dutiful lad," said his highness. "Well, I will not ask you to leave your father, who must be very fond of you. You shall live with him, and come and take your lessons of Herr Neefe; that is our will. Adieu! Herr van Beethoven."

From this time Louis lived a new life. His father treated him no longer with harshness, and even reproved his brothers when they tried to tease him. Carl and Johann grew shy of him, however, when they saw what a favorite he had become. {526} Louis found himself no longer restrained, but came and went as he pleased; he took frequent excursions into the country, which he enjoyed with more than youthful pleasure, when the lessons were over. His worthy master was astonished at the rapid progress of his pupil in his beloved art.

"But, Louis," said he one day, "if you would become a great musician, you must not neglect everything besides music. You must acquire foreign languages, particularly Latin, Italian, and French. Would you leave your name to posterity as a true artist, make your own all that bears relation to your art."

Louis promised, and kept his word. In the midst of his playing he would leave off, however much it cost him, when the hour struck for his lessons in the languages. So closely he applied himself, that in a year's time he was tolerably well acquainted not only with Latin, French, and Italian, but also with the English. His father marvelled at his progress not a little; for years he had labored in vain, with starvation and blows, to make the boy learn the first principles of those languages. He had never, indeed, taken the trouble to explain to him their use in the acquisition of the science of music.

In 1785, appeared Louis' first sonatas. They displayed uncommon talent and gave promise that the youthful artist would, in future, accomplish something great, though scarcely yet could be found in them a trace of that gigantic genius whose death forty years afterward filled all Europe with sorrow.

"We were both mistaken in the lad," Simrock would say to old Beethoven. "He abounds in wit and odd fancies, but I do not altogether like his mixing up in his music all sorts of strange conceits; the best way, to my notion, is a plain one. Let him follow the great Mozart, step by step; after all, he is the only one, and there is none to come up to him--none!" And Louis' father, who also idolized Mozart, always agreed with his neighbor in his judgment, and echoed, "None!"

It was a lovely summer afternoon about 1787; numerous boats with parties of pleasure on board were passing up and down the Rhine; numerous companies of old and young were assembled under the trees in the public gardens, or along the banks of the river, enjoying the scene and each other's conversation, or partaking of the rural banquet.

At some distance from the city, a wood bordered the river; this wood was threaded by a small and sparkling stream, that flung itself over a ledge of rocks, and tumbled into the most romantic and quiet dell imaginable, for it was too narrow to be called a valley. The trees overhung it so closely that at noonday this sweet nook was dark as twilight, and the profound silence was only broken by the monotonous murmur of the stream.

Close by the stream half sat, half reclined, a youth just emerging from childhood. In fact, he could hardly be called more than a boy; for his frame showed but little development of strength, and his regular features, combined with an excessive paleness, the result of confinement, gave the impression that he was even of tender years. His eyes would alone have given him the credit of uncommon beauty; they were large, dark, and so bright that it seemed the effect of disease, especially in a face that rarely or never smiled.

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A most unusual thing was a holiday for the melancholy lad. His whole soul was given up to one passion--the love of music. Oh! how precious to him were the moments of solitude. He had loved, for this, even his poor garret room, meanly furnished, but rich in the possession of one or two musical instruments, whither he would retire at night, when released from irksome labor, and spend hours of delight stolen from slumber. But to be alone with nature, in her grand woods, under the blue sky, with no human voice to mar the infinite harmony--how did his heart pant for this communion! His breast seemed to expand and fill with the grandeur, the beauty, of all around him. The light breeze rustling in the leaves came to his ear laden with a thousand melodies; the very grass and flowers under his feet had a language for him. His spirits, long depressed and saddened, sprang into new life, and rejoiced with unutterable joy.

The hours wore on, a dusky shadow fell over foliage and stream, and the solitary lad rose to leave his chosen retreat. As he ascended the narrow winding path, he was startled by hearing his own name; and presently a man, apparently middle-aged and dressed plainly, stood just in front of him. "Come back, Louis," said the stranger, "it is not so dark as it seems here; you have time enough this hour to return to the city." The stranger's voice had a thrilling though melancholy sweetness; and Louis suffered him to take his hand and lead him back. They seated themselves in the shade beside the water.

"I have watched you for a long while," said the stranger.

"You might have done better," returned the lad, reddening at the thought of having been subjected to espionage.

"Peace, boy," said his companion; "I love you, and have done all for your good."

"You love me?" repeated Louis, surprised. "I have never met you before."

"Yet I know you well. Does that surprise you? I know your thoughts also. You love music better than aught else in the world; but you despair of excellence because you cannot follow the rules prescribed."

Louis looked at the speaker with open eyes.

"Your masters also despair of you. The court-organist accuses you of conceit and obstinacy; your father reproaches you; and all your acquaintance pronounce you a boy of tolerable abilities, spoiled by an ill disposition."

The lad sighed.

"The gloom of your condition increases your distaste to all studies not directly connected with music, for you feel the need of her consolations. Your compositions, wild, melancholy as they are, embody your own feelings, and are understood by none of the connoisseurs."

"Who are you?" cried Louis in deep emotion.

"No matter who I am. I come to give you a little advice, my boy. I compassionate, yet I revere you. I revere your heaven-imparted genius. I commiserate the woes those very gifts must bring upon you through life."

The boy lifted his eyes again; those of the speaker seemed so bright, yet withal so melancholy, that he was possessed of a strange fear. "I see you," continued the unknown solemnly, "exalted above homage, but lonely and unblessed in your elevation. Yet the lot of such is fixed; and it is better, perhaps, that one should consume in the sacred fire than that the many should lack illumination."

"I do not understand you," said Louis, wishing to put an end to the interview.

{528}

"That is not strange, since you do not understand yourself," said the stranger. "As for me, I pay homage to a future sovereign!" and he suddenly snatched up the boy's hand and kissed it. Louis was convinced of his insanity.

"A sovereign in art," continued the unknown. "The sceptre that Haydn and Mozart have held shall pass without interregnum to your hands. When you are acknowledged in all Germany for the worthy successor of these great masters--when all Europe wonders at the name of _Beethoven_--remember me.

"But you have much ground to pass over," resumed the stranger, "ere you reach that glorious summit. Reject not the aid of science, of literature; there are studies now disagreeable that still may prove serious helps to you in the cultivation of music. Contemn not _any_ learning: for art is a coy damsel, and would have her votaries all accomplished! Above all--_trust yourself_. Whatever may happen, give no place to despondency. They blame you for your disregard of rules; make for yourself higher and vaster rules. You will not be appreciated here; but there are other places in the world; in Vienna--"

"Oh! if I could only go to Vienna," sighed the lad.

"You _shall_ go there, and remain," said the stranger; "and there too you shall see me, or hear from me. Adieu, now--_auf Wiedersehen_." ("To meet again.")

And before the boy could recover from his astonishment the stranger was gone. It was nearly dark, and he could see nothing of him as he walked through the wood. He could not, however, spend much time in search; for he dreaded the reproaches of his father for having stayed out so late. All the way home he was trying to remember where he had seen the unknown, whose features, though he could not say to whom they belonged, were not unfamiliar to him. It occurred to him at last, that while playing before the elector one day a countenance similar in benevolent expression had looked upon him from the circle surrounding the sovereign. But known or unknown, the "auf Wiedersehen" of his late companion rang in his ears, while the friendly counsel sank deep in his heart.

Traversing rapidly the streets of Bonn, young Beethoven was soon at his own door. An unusual bustle within attracted his attention. To his eager questions the servants replied that their master was dying. Shocked to hear of his danger, Louis flew to his apartment. His brothers were there, also his mother, weeping; and the physician supported his father, who seemed in great pain.

Louis clasped his father's cold hand, and pressed it to his lips, but could not speak for tears.

"God's blessing be upon you, my son!" said his parent. "Promise me that throughout life you will never forsake your brothers. I know they have not loved you as they ought; that is partly my fault; promise me, that whatever may happen you will continue to regard and cherish them."

"I will--I will, dear father!" cried Louis, sobbing. Beethoven pressed his hand in token of satisfaction. The same night he expired. The grief of Louis was unbounded.

It was a bitter thing thus to lose a parent just as the ties of nature were strengthened by mutual appreciation and confidence; but it was necessary that he should rouse himself to minister support and comfort to his suffering mother.

To Be Continued.

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Lecky On Morals. [Footnote 155]

[Footnote 155: _History of European Morals, from Augustus to Charlemagne_. By William Edward Hartpoole Lecky, M.A. London: Longmans, Green & Co. 1869. 2 vols. 8vo.]

Mr. Lecky divides his work into five chapters. The first chapter is preliminary, and discusses "the nature and foundations of morals," its obligation and motives; the second treats of the morals of the pagan empire; the third gives the author's view of the causes of the conversion of Rome and the triumph of Christianity in the empire; the fourth the progress and deterioration of European morals from Constantine to Charlemagne; and the fifth the changes effected from time to time in the position of women. The author does not confine himself strictly within the period named, but, in order to make his account intelligible, gives us the history of what preceded and what has followed it; so that his book gives one, from his point of view, the philosophy and the entire history of European morals from the earliest times down to the present.

The subject of this work is one of great importance in the general history of the race, and of deep interest to all who are not incapable of serious and sustained thought. Mr. Lecky is a man of some ability, of considerable first or second hand learning, and has evidently devoted both time and study to his subject. His style is clear, animated, vigorous, and dignified; but his work lacks condensation and true perspective. He dwells too long on points comparatively unimportant, and repeats the same things over and over again, and brings proofs after proofs to establish what is mere commonplace to the scholar, till he becomes not a little tedious. He seems to write under the impression that the public he is addressing knows nothing of his subject, and is slow of understanding. He evidently supposes that he is writing something very important, and quite new to the whole reading world. Yet we have found nothing new in his work, either in substance or in presentation, nothing--not even an error or a sophism--that had not been said, and as well said, a hundred times before him; we cannot discover a single new fact, or a single new view of a fact, that can throw any additional light on European morals in any period of European history. Yet we may say Mr. Lecky, though not an original or a profound thinker, is above the average of English Protestant writers, and compiles with passable taste, skill, and judgment.

We know little of the author, except as the author of the book before us, and of a previous work, on _Rationalism in Europe_, and we have no vehement desire to know anything more of him. He belongs, with some shades of difference, to a class represented, in England, by Buckle, J. Stuart Mill, Frank Newman, and James Martineau; and of which the _Westminster Review_ is the organ; in France, by M. Vacherot, Jules Simon, and Ernest Renan; and, in this country, by Professor Draper, of this city, and a host of inferior writers. They are not Christians, and yet would not like to be called anti-Christians; they are judges, not advocates, and, seated on the high judicial bench, they pronounce, as they flatter themselves, an impartial and final judgment on all moral, religious, and philosophical codes, and assign to each its part of good, and its part of evil. {530} They aim to hold an even balance between the church and the sects, between Christian morals and pagan morals, and between the several pagan religions and the Christian religion, all of which they look upon as dead and gone, except with the ignorant, the stupid, and the superstitious. Of this class Mr. Lecky is a distinguished member, though less brilliant as a writer than Renan, and less pleasing as well as less scientific than our own Draper.

The writers of this class do not profess to break with Christian civilization, or to reject religion or morals, but strive to assert a morality without God, and a Christianity without Christ. They deny in words neither God nor Christ, but they find no use for either. They deny neither the possibility nor the fact of the supernatural, but find no need of it and no place for it. They concede providence, but resolve it into a fixed natural law, and are what we would call naturalists, if naturalism had not received so many diverse meanings. In their own estimation, they are not philosophers, moralists, or divines, but really gods, who know, of themselves, good and evil, right and wrong, truth and error, and whose prerogative it is to judge all men and ages, all moralities, philosophies, and religions, by the infallible standard which each one of them is, or has in himself. They are the fulfilment of the promise of Satan to our mother Eve, "Ye shall be as gods."

Mr. Lecky, in his preliminary chapter, on the nature and foundation of morals, refutes even ably and conclusively the utilitarian school of morals, and defends what he calls the "intuitive" school. He contends that it is impossible to found morals on the conception of the useful, or on fears of punishment and hopes of reward; and argues well, after Henry More, Cudworth, Clark, and Butler, that all morality involves the idea of obligation, and is based on the intuition of right or duty; or, in other words, on the principle of human nature called conscience. But this, after all, is no solution of the problem raised. There is, certainly, a great difference between doing a thing because it is useful, and doing it because it is right; but there is a still greater difference between the intuitive perception of right and the obligation to do it. The perception or intuition of an act as obligatory, or as duty, but is not that which makes it duty or obligatory. The obligation is objective, the perception is subjective. The perception or intuition apprehends the obligation, but is not it, and does not impose it. The intuitive moralists are better than the utilitarians, in the respect that they assert a right and a wrong independent of the fact that it is useful, or injurious, to the actor. But they are equally far from asserting the real foundation of morals; because, though they assert intuition or immediate perception of duty, they do not assert or set forth the ground of duty or obligation. Duty is debt, is an obligation; but whence the debt? whence the obligation? We do not ask why the duty obliges, for the assertion of an act as duty is its assertion as obligatory; but why does the right oblige? or, in other words, why am I bound to do right? or any one thing rather than another?

Mr. Lecky labors hard to find the ground of the obligation in some principle or law of human nature, which he calls conscience. But conscience is the recognition of the obligation, and the mind's own judgment of what is or is not obligatory; it is not the obligation nor its creator. {531} This mistake proceeds from his attempt to found morals on human nature as supreme law-giver, and is common to all moralists who seek to erect a system of morals independent of theology. Dr. Ward, in his work on _Nature and Grace_, commits the same mistake in his effort to find a solid foundation in nature of duty, without rising to the Creator. All these moralists really hold, as true, the falsehood told by Satan to our first parents, "Ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil;" that is, in order to know good or evil ye shall not need to look beyond your own nature, nor to recognize yourselves as subject to, or dependent on, any authority above or distinct from it. It is the one fundamental error that meets us in all Gentile philosophy, and all modern philosophy and science, speculative, ethical, or political, that holds itself independent of God. The schoolmen understood by morals, when the term means duty, or anything more than manners and customs, what is called Moral Theology, or the practical application of speculative and dogmatic theology to the offices of life, individual, domestic, and social or political. Natural morality meant that portion of man's whole duty which is prescribed by the natural law and promulgated by reason, as distinguished from revelation. They based all morals on the great principle of theology, and therefore they called theology the queen of the sciences. We have made no advance on them.

In morals, three things--first, the obligation; second, the regula or rule; third, the end--are essential, and must be carefully distinguished. Why am I bound to do one thing rather than another? that is, why am I bound at all? What am I bound to do, or to avoid? For what end? These three questions are fundamental and exhaustive. The intuitionists hold that all morals involve the idea or conception of duty; but they omit to present the reason or ground of duty or obligation, and therefore erect their moral fabric without any foundation, and make it a mere castle in the air. They confound conscience with obligation, and the rule or law with the reason or motive for observing it. Suppose we find in human nature the rule or law; we cannot find in it either the obligation or the motive, for the simple reason that human nature is not independent, is not sufficient for itself, does not belong to itself, and has in itself neither its origin nor its end, neither its first nor its final cause. The rule--_regula_--is the law, and the law prescribes what is to be done and what is to be avoided; but it does not create the obligation nor furnish the motive of obedience. Mr. Lecky himself maintains that it does not, and is very severe upon those who make an arbitrary law the ground of moral distinctions, or the reason of duty. The law does not make the right or the wrong. The act is not right because commanded, nor wrong because prohibited; but it is commanded because it is right, and prohibited because it is wrong. Whence then the obligation? or, what is it that transforms the right into duty? This is the question that the independent or non-theological moralists, no matter of what school, do not and cannot answer.

There is no answer, unless we give up the godship of man, give Satan the lie, and understand that man is a dependent existence; for an independent being cannot be bound or placed under the obligation of duty, either by his own act or by the act of another. If man is dependent, he is created, and, if created, he belongs to his Creator; for the maker has a sovereign right to that which he makes. {532} It is his act, and nothing is or can be more one's own, than one's own act. Man, then, does not own himself; he owes himself, all he is, and all he has, to his Creator. As it has pleased his Creator to make him a free moral agent, capable of acting from choice, and with reference to a moral end, he is bound to give himself, by his own free will, to God to whom he belongs; for his free will, his free choice, belongs to God, is his due; and the principle of justice requires us to give to every one his due, or what is his own.

Here, then, in man's relation to God as his creator, is the ground of his duty or obligation. It grows out of the divine creative act. Deny the being of God, deny the creative act, deny man is the creature of God, and you deny all obligation, all duty, and therefore, according to Mr. Lecky's own doctrine, all morals.

The irrational cannot morally bind the rational. All men are equal, and no man, no body of men has, or can have, a natural right to bind or govern another. Only the Creator obliges, as the owner of the creature; and if I owe myself, all I am and all I have, to God, I owe nothing to another in his own right, and only God has any right over me, or to me. Here is at once the basis of obligation and of liberty, and the condemnation of all tyranny and despotism. From this, it clearly follows that every system of morals that rests on nature, the state, or any thing created, as its foundation, is not and of itself cannot be obligatory upon any one, and that without God as our creator, and whose we are, there is and can be no moral obligation or duty whatever. Pantheism, which denies the creative act, and atheism, which denies God, both alike deny morals by denying its basis or foundation. Either is fatal to morals, for obligation is only the correlative of the right to command. Having found the ground of obligation, and shown why we are morally bound, the next thing to be considered is the rule by which is determined what we are bound to do, and what we are bound to avoid. Mr. Lecky makes this rule conscience, which, though he labors to prove that it is uniform and infallible in all ages and nations, and all men, he yet concedes varies in its determinations as to what is or is not duty according to the circumstances of the age or nation, the ideal or standard adopted, public opinion, etc. That is, conscience assures us that we ought always to do right, but leaves us to find out, the best way we can, what is or is not right. Conscience, then, cannot be itself the rule; it is a witness within us of our obligation to obey God, and the judgment which we pass on our acts, usually, in practice, on our acts after they are done, is at best only our judgment of what the rule or law is, not the rule or law itself. The rule or _regula_ is not conscience, but the light of conscience, that by which it determines what is or is not duty; it is the law which, according to St. Thomas, is "quaedam est regula et mensura actuum, secundum quam inducitur ad agendum, vel ab agendo retrahitur;" [Footnote 156] or, in the sense we here use the term, the rule, or measure of duty prescribing what is to be done, and what avoided.

[Footnote 156: _Summa_ primae secundae, quest. xc. art. I. incorp.]

It is, as St. Thomas also says, an _ordinatio rationis_, and as an ordination of reason, it can be only the rule or measure of what is obligatory to be done or to be avoided. It defines and declares what is or is not duty, it does not and cannot make the duty, or create the obligation. The author and his school overlook the fact that reason is perceptive, not legislative. {533} They confound the obligation with the rule that measures and determines it, and assume that it is the reason that creates the duty. They are psychologists, not philosophers, and see nothing behind or above human reason, man's highest and distinguishing faculty. Certainly without reason man could not either perform, or be bound to perform, a single moral act; and yet it is not the reason that binds him; and if he is bound to follow reason, as he undoubtedly is, it is only because reason tells him what is obligatory, and enables him to do it.

Since only God can bind morally, only God can impose the law which measures, defines, or discloses what independent of the law is obligatory. The rule of duty, of right and wrong, is therefore the law of God. The law of God is promulgated in part through natural reason, and in part through supernatural revelation. The former is called the natural law, _lex naturalis;_ the latter, the revealed law, or the supernatural law. But both are integral parts of one and the same law, and each has its reason in one and the same order of things, emanates from one and the same authority, for one and the same ultimate end. There are, no doubt, in the supernatural law, positive injunctions, and prohibitions, which are not contained in the natural law, though not repugnant thereto; but these have their reason and motive in the end, which in all cases determines the law. All human laws, ecclesiastical or civil, derive all their vigor as laws from the law of God, and all the positive injunctions and prohibitions of either are, in their nature, disciplinary, or means to the end, in which is the reason or motive of the law. Hence there is, and can be, nothing arbitrary in duty. Nothing is or can be imposed, under either the natural law or the supernatural law, in either church or state, in religion or morals, that does not immediately or mediately grow out of our relation to God as our creator, and as our last end or final cause. As a Christian I am bound to obey the supreme Pastor of the church, not as a man commanding in his own name, or by his own authority, but as the vicar of Christ, who has commissioned him to teach, discipline, and govern me. As a citizen I am bound to obey all the laws of my country not repugnant to the law or the rights of God, but only because the state has, in secular matters, authority from God to govern. In either case the obedience is due only to God, and he only is obeyed. It is his authority and his alone that binds me, and neither church nor state can bind me beyond or except by reason of its authority derived from him.

The law is the rule, and is prescribed by the end, in which is the reason or motive of duty. The law is not the reason or motive of duty, nor is it the ground of the obligation. It is simply the rule, and tells us what God commands, not whence his right to command, nor wherefore he commands. His right to command rests on the fact that he is the Creator. But why does he command such and such things, or prescribe such and such duties? We do not answer, because such is his will; though that would be true as we understand it. For such answer would be understood by this untheological age, which forgets that the divine will is the will of infinite reason, to imply that duties are arbitrary, rest on mere will, and that there is no reason why God should prescribe one thing as duty rather than another. What the law of God declares to be duty is duty because it is necessary to accomplish the purpose of our existence, or the end for which we are created. Everything that even God can enjoin as duty has its reason or motive in that purpose or end. The end, then, prescribes, or is the reason of, the law.

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The end for which God creates us is himself, who is our final cause no less than our first cause. God acts always as infinite reason, and cannot therefore create without creating for some end; and as he is self-sufficing and the adequate object of his own activity, there is and can be no end but himself. All things are not only created by him but for him. This is equally a truth of philosophy and of revelation, and even those theologians who talk of natural beatitude, are obliged to make it consist in the possession of God, at least, as the author of nature. Hence, St. Paul, the greatest philosopher that ever wrote, as well as an inspired apostle, says, Rom. xi. 36, "Of him, and by him, and in him are all things;" or, "in him and _for_ him they subsist," as Archbishop Kenrick explains in a note to the passage. The motive or reason of the law is in the end, or in God as final cause. The motive or reason for keeping or fulfilling the law is, then, that we may gain the end for which we are made, or, union with God as our final cause. This is all clear, plain, and undeniable, and hence we conclude that morals, in the strict sense of the word, cannot be asserted unless we assert God as our creator and as our last end.

Mr. Lecky and his school do not, then, attain to the true philosophy of morals, for they recognize no final cause, either of man or his act; and yet there is no moral act that is not done freely _propter finem_, for the sake of the end. We do not say that all acts not so done are vicious or sinful, nor do we pretend that no acts are moral that are not done with a distinct and deliberate reference to God as our last end. The man who relieves suffering because he cannot endure the pain of seeing it, performs a good deed, though an act of very imperfect virtue. We act also from habit, and when the habit has been formed by acts done for the sake of the end, or by infused grace, the acts done from the habit of the soul without an explicit reference to the end are moral, virtuous, in the true sense of either term; nor do we exclude those Gentiles who, not having the law, do the things of the law, of whom St. Paul speaks, Rom. ii. 14-16.

Mr. Lecky overlooks the end, and presents no reason or motive for performing our duty, distinguishable from the duty itself. He adopts the philosophy of the Porch, except that he thinks it did not make enough of the emotional side of our nature, that is, was not sufficiently sentimental. The Stoics held that we must do right for the sake of right alone, or because it is right. They rejected all consideration of personal advantage, of general utility, the honor of the gods, future life, heaven or hell, or the happiness of mankind. They admitted the obligation to serve the commonwealth and to do good to all men, but because it was right. The good of the state or of the race was duty, but not the reason or motive of the duty. The professedly disinterested morality on which our author, after them, so earnestly insists, closely analyzed, will be found to be as selfish as that of the Garden, or that of Paley and Bentham. The Epicurean makes pleasure, that is, the gratification of the senses, the motive of virtue; the Stoic makes the motive the gratification of his intellectual nature, or rather his pride, which is as much a man's self as what the apostle calls concupiscence, or the flesh. {535} Intellectual selfishness, in which the Stoics abounded, is even more repugnant to the virtue of the actor than the sensual selfishness of the votary of pleasure. We care not what fine words the Stoic had on his lips, no system of pagan morals was further removed from real disinterested virtue than that of the Porch.

Mr. Lecky denounces the morality of the church as selfish, and says the selfish system triumphed with Bossuet over Fénélon; but happily for us he is not competent to speak of the morals enjoined by the church. He does not understand the question which was at issue, and entirely misapprehends the matter for which Fénélon was censured by the Holy See. The doctrine of Fénélon, as he himself explained and defended it, was never condemned, nor was that of Bossuet, which, on several points, was very unsound, ever approved. Several passages of Fénélon's _Maxims of the Saints_ were censured as favoring quietism, already condemned in the condemnation of Molinos and his adherents--a doctrine which Fénélon never held, and which he sought in his _Maxims_ to avoid without running into the contrary extreme, but, the Holy See judged, unsuccessfully. His thought was orthodox, but the language he used could be understood in a quietistic sense; and it was his language, not his doctrine, that was condemned.

The error favored by Fénélon's language, though against his intention, was that it is possible in this life to rise and remain habitually in such a state of charity, or pure love of God for his own sake, of such perfect union with him, that in it the soul no longer hopes or fears, ceases to make acts of virtue, and becomes indifferent to its own salvation or damnation, whether it gains heaven or loses it. The church did not condemn the love of God for his own sake, nor _acts_ of perfect charity, for so much is possible and required of all Christians. The church requires us to make acts of love, as well as of faith and hope, and the act of love is: "O my God! I love thee above all things, with my whole heart and soul, because thou art infinitely amiable and deserving of all love; I love also my neighbor as myself for the love of thee; I forgive all who have injured me, and ask pardon of all whom I have injured." Here is no taint of selfishness, but an act of pure love. Yet though we can and ought to make distinct acts of perfect charity, it is a grave error to suppose that the soul can in this life sustain herself, habitually, in a state of pure love, that she ever attains to a state on earth in which acts of virtue cease to be necessary, in which she ceases from pure love to be actively virtuous, and becomes indifferent to her own fate, to her own salvation or damnation, to heaven or hell--an error akin to that of the Hopkinsians, that in order to be saved one must be willing to be damned. As long as we live, acts of virtue, of faith, hope, and charity, are necessary; and to be indifferent to heaven or hell, is to be indifferent whether we please God or offend him, whether we are united to him or alienated from him.

It is a great mistake to represent the doctrine the church opposed to quietism or to Fénélon as the selfish theory of morals. To act from simple fear of suffering or simple hope of happiness, or to labor solely to escape the one and secure the other, is, of course, selfish, and is not approved by the church, who brands such fear as servile, and such hope as mercenary, because in neither is the motive drawn from the end, which is God, as our supreme good. {536} What the church bids us fear is alienation from God, and the happiness she bids us seek is happiness in God, because God is the end for which we are made. Thus, to the question, "Why did God make you?" the catechism answers, "That I might know him, love him, and serve him in this world, and be happy _with him_ for ever in the next." _With him_, not without him. The fear the church approves is the fear of hell, not because it is a place of suffering, and the fear of God she inculcates is not the fear of him because he can send us to hell, but because hell is alienation from God, is offensive to him: and therefore the fear is really fear of offending God, and being separated from him. The hope of happiness she approves is the hope of heaven, not simply because heaven is happiness, but because it is union with God, or the possession of God as our last end, which is our supreme good.

Here neither the fear of hell nor the hope of heaven is selfish; for in each the motive is drawn from the end, from God who is our supreme good. It therefore implies charity or the love of God. And herein is its moral value. It may not be perfectly disinterested, or perfect charity, which is the love of God for his own sake, or because he is the supreme good in himself; but to love him as our supreme good, and to seek our good in him and him only, is still to love him, and to draw from him the motive of our acts. The church enjoins this reference to God in which, while she recognizes faith and hope as virtues in this life, she enjoins charity, without which the actor is nothing.

If Mr. Lecky had known the principle of Catholic morals, and understood the motives to virtue which the church urges, he would never have accused her of approving the selfish theory, which proposes in no sense God, but always and everywhere self, as the end. He will allow us no motive to virtue but the right; that is, in his theory, duty has no reason or motive but itself. No doubt his conception of right includes benevolence, the love of mankind, and steady, persevering efforts to serve our country and the human race; but he can assign no reason or motive why one should do so without falling either into the selfishness or the utilitarianism which he professes to reject. The sentimental theory which he seems to adopt cannot help him, for none of our sentiments are disinterested; all the sentiments pertain to self, and seek always their own gratification. This is as true of those called the higher, nobler sentiments as of the lower and baser, and, in point of fact, sentimentalists, philanthropists, and humanitarians are usually the most selfish, cruel, heartless, and least moral people in society. Men who act from sentimental instead of rational motives are never trustworthy, and are, in general, to be avoided.

Mr. Lecky maintains that right is to be done solely because it is right, without any considerations of its particular or general utility, or regard to consequences. But he shrinks from this, and appeals to utility when hard pressed, and argues that considerations of advantage to society or to mankind, or a peculiar combination of circumstances, may sometimes justify us in deviating from the right--that is, in doing wrong. He contends that it may be our duty to sacrifice the higher principles of our nature to the lower, and appears shocked at Dr. Newman's assertion that "the church holds that it were better for sun and moon to drop from heaven, for the earth to fail, and for all the many millions of its inhabitants to die of starvation in extreme agony, _so far as temporal affliction goes_, than that one soul, I will not say should be lost, but should commit one venial sin, tell one wilful untruth, though it harmed no one, or steal one poor farthing, without excuse." {537} This is too rigid for Mr. Lecky. He places duty in always acting from the higher principles of our nature; but thinks there may be cases when it is our duty to sacrifice them to the lower! He supposes, then, that there is something more obligatory than right, or that renders right obligatory when obligatory it is.

But this doctrine of doing right for the sake of the right is utterly untenable. Right is not an abstraction, for there are no abstractions in nature, and abstractions are simple nullities. It must be either being or relation. If taken as a relation, it can be no motive, no end, because relation is real only in the related. If being, then it is God, who only is being. Your friends, the Stoics, placed it above the divinity, and taught us in Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius that it binds under one and the same law both God and man. But an abstraction which is formed by the mind operating on the concrete can bind no one, for it is in itself simply nothing. The weaker cannot bind the stronger, the inferior the superior, or that which is not that which is. But there is no being stronger than God or above him; for he is, in every respect, supreme. Nothing can bind him, and right must either be identified with him or held to grow out of the relations of his creatures to himself. In the first case, right is God, or God is right; and the obligation to do right is only the obligation to do what God commands. Right, as being, cannot exist distinct from God, and can bind men only in the sense in which God himself binds them. Their sovereign, in such case, is God, who, by his creative act, is their lord and proprietor. But right and God are not identical, and, consequently, right is not being, but a relation. What binds is not the right or the relation, but he who, by his creative act, founds the relation. Rejecting, then, right as an abstraction, we must understand by the right what under this relation it is the duty of the creature to do. Right and duty are then the same. Ask what is man's duty; the answer is, what is right. Ask what is right, and the answer is, whatever is duty.

But right does not make itself right, nor duty itself duty. Here is the defect of all purely rationalistic morals, and of every system of morals that is not based, we say not on revelation, but on theology, or the creative act of God. Right and duty are identical, we grant; but neither can create its own obligation, or be its own reason or motive. To say of an act, it is duty because it is right, or it is right because it is duty, is to reason, as the logicians say, in a _vicious_ circle, or to answer _idem per idem_, which is not allowable by any logic we are acquainted with. We must, then, if we assert morals at all, come back to theology, and find the ground of obligation or duty--which is simply the right or authority of God to command us--in our relation to God, as our creator or first cause, and the reason or motive in our relation to him as our last end or final cause.

No doubt the reason why the rationalistic moralists in modern times are reluctant to admit this is, because they very erroneously suppose that it means that the basis of morals is to be found only in supernatural revelation, and is not ascertainable or provable by reason. But this is a mistake, growing out of another mistake; namely, that the creative act is a truth of revelation only, and not a truth of science or philosophy. The creative act is a fact of science, the basis, rather, of all science, as of all life in creatures, and must be recognized and held before revelation can be logically asserted. {538} That God is, and is our creator, our first cause, and our final cause, are truths that do not depend on revelation to be known; and the theological basis of morals which we assert, in opposition to the rationalistic moralists, is within the province of reason or philosophy. But the rationalists, in seeking to escape revelation, lose God, and are forced to assert a morality that is independent of him, and does not suppose or need him in order to be obligatory. They are obliged, therefore, to seek a basis of morals in nature, which in its own right has no legislative authority; for nature is the creature of God, and is nothing without him.

The intuition of right, obligation, duty, which, according to our author, is the fundamental principle of morals, is only, he himself maintains, the immediate apprehension of a principle or law of human nature, or of our higher nature, from which we are to act, instead of acting from our lower nature; but our higher nature is still nature, and no more legislative than our lower nature. Nature being always equal to nature, nothing is more certain than that nature cannot bind nature or place it under obligation.

Besides, when the author places the obligation in nature, whether the higher or the lower, he confounds moral law with physical law, and mistakes law in the sense in which it proceeds from God as first cause for law in the sense in which it proceeds from God as final cause. The physical laws, the natural laws of the physiologists, are in nature, constitutive of it, indistinguishable from it, and are what God creates: the moral law is independent of nature, over it, and declares the end for which nature exists, and from which, if moral nature, it must act. It is supernatural in the sense that God is supernatural, and natural only in the sense that it is promulgated through natural reason independently of supernatural revelation. Natural reason asserts the moral law, but asserts it as a law _for_ nature, not a law in nature. By confounding it with physical laws, and placing it in nature as the law of natural activity, the author denies all moral distinction between it and the law by which the liver secretes bile, or the blood circulates. He holds, therefore, with Waldo Emerson that gravitation and purity of heart are identical, and, with our old transcendentalist friends, that the rule of duty is expressed in the maxims, Obey thyself; Act out thyself; Follow thy instincts. No doubt they meant, as our author means, the higher instincts, the nobler self, the higher nature. But the law recognized and asserted is no more the moral law than is the physical law by which the rain falls, the winds blow, the sun shines, the flowers bloom, or the earth revolves on its axis. Physical laws there are, no doubt, in human nature; but the theologians tell us that an act done from them is not an _actus humanus_, but an _actus hominis_, which has no moral character, and, whatever its tendency, is neither virtuous nor vicious.

Mr. Lecky, as nearly all modern philosophers, denies God as final cause, if not as first cause. The moral law has its reason and motive in him as our final cause, and this is the difference between it and physical law. The pagan Greeks denied both first cause and final cause, for they knew nothing of creation; but being a finely organized race and living in a country of great natural beauty, they confounded the moral with the beautiful, as some moderns confound art with religion. The author so far agrees with them, at least, as to place duty in the beauty and nobility of the act, or in acts proceeding from the beauty and nobility of our nature--what he calls our higher nature. {539} We do not quarrel with Plato when he defines beauty to be the splendor of the divinity, and therefore that all good, noble, and virtuous acts are beautiful, and that whoever performs them has a beautiful soul. But there is a wide difference between the beautiful and the moral, though the Greeks expressed both by the same term; and art, whose mission it is to realize the beautiful, has of itself no moral character; it lends itself as readily to vice as to virtue, and the most artistic ages are very far from being the most moral or religious ages. The mistake is in overlooking the fact that every virtuous or moral act must be done _propter finem_, and that the law, the reason, the motive of duty depends on the end for which man was made and exists.

But the author and his school have not learned that all things proceed from God by way of creation, and return to him without absorption in him as their last end. Morals are all in the order of this return, and are therefore teleological. Not knowing this, and rejecting this movement of return, they are forced to seek the basis of morals in man's nature in the order of its procession from God, where it is not. The intuition they assert would be something, indeed, if it were the intuition of a principle or law not included in man's nature, but on which his nature depends, and to which it is bound, by the right of God founded in his creative act, to subordinate its acts. But by the intuition of right, which they assert, they do not mean anything really objective and independent of our nature, which the mind really apprehends. On their system they can mean by it only a mental conception, that is, an abstraction. We indeed find men who, as theologians, understand and defend the true and real basis of morals, but who, as philosophers, seeking to defend what they call natural morality, only reproduce substantially the errors of the Gentiles. This is no less true of the intuitive school, than of the selfish, the sentimental, or the utilitarian. Cudworth founds his moral system in the innate idea of right, in which he is followed by Dr. Price; Samuel Clarke gives, as the basis of morals, the idea of the fitness of things; Wollaston finds it in conformity to truth; Butler, in the idea or sense of duty; Jouffroy, in the idea of order; Fourier, in passional harmony--only another name for Jouffroy's order. But these all, since they exclude all intuition of the end or final cause, build on a mental conception, or a psychological abstraction, taken as real. The right, the fitness, the duty, the order they assert are only abstractions, and they see it not.

It is the hardest thing in the world to convince philosophers that the real is real, and the unreal is unreal, and therefore nothing. Abstractions are firmed by the mind, and are nothing out of the concrete from which they are generalized. A system of philosophy, speculative or moral, built on abstractions or abstract conceptions of the true, the right, the just, or duty, has no real foundation, and no more solidity than "the baseless fabric of a vision." Yet we cannot make the philosophers see it, and every day we hear people, whose language they have corrupted, talk of "abstract principles," "abstract right," "abstract justice," "abstract duty," "abstract philosophy," "abstract science;" all of which are "airy nothings," to which not even the poet can give "a local habitation and a name." The philosophers who authorize such expressions are very severe on sensists and utilitarians; yet they really hold that all non-sensible principles and causes, and all ideas not derived from the senses, are abstractions, and that the sciences which treat of them are abstract sciences. {540} Know they not that this is precisely what the sensists themselves do? If the whole non-sensible order is an abstraction, only the sensible is real, or exists _a parte rei_, and there is no intelligible reality distinct from the sensible world. All heathen philosophy ends in one and the same error, which can be corrected only by understanding that the non-sensible is not an abstraction, but real being, that is God, or the real relation between God and his acts or creatures. But to do this requires our philosophers to cast out from their minds the old leaven of heathenism which they have retained, to recognize the creative act of God, and to find in theology the basis of both science and morals.

Mr. Lecky proves himself, in the work before us, as in his previous work, an unmitigated rationalist, and rationalism is only heathenism revived. He himself proves it. He then can be expected to write the history of European morals only from a heathen point of view, and his judgments of both heathen and Christian morals will be, in spite of himself, only those of a respectable pagan philosopher and in the latter period of pagan empire, and attached to the moral philosophy of the Porch. He is rather tolerant than otherwise of Christianity, in some respects even approves it, lauds it for some doctrines and influences which it pleases him to ascribe to it, and to which it has no claim; but judges it from a stand-point far above that of the fathers, and from a purely pagan point of view, as we may take occasion hereafter to show, principally from his account of the conversion of Rome, and the triumph of the Christian religion in the Roman empire.

But we have taken up so much space in discussing the nature and foundation of morals, to which the author devotes his preliminary chapter, that we have no room for any further discussion at present. What we have said, however, will suffice, we think, to prove that rationalism is as faulty in morals as in religion, to vindicate the church from the charge of teaching a selfish morality, and to prove that the only solid basis of morals is in theology.

Faith.

Faith is no weakly flower, By sudden blight, or heat, or stormy shower To perish in an hour.

But rich in hidden worth, A plant of grace, though striking root in earth, It boasts a hardy birth:

Still from its native skies Draws energy which common shocks defies, And lives where nature dies!

Oratory, Birmington. E. Caswall.

{541}

Religion Emblemed In Flowers.

"Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, God hath written in the stars above; But not less in the bright flowerets under us Stands the revelation of his love. And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand-- Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land."

Of all the poetic and suggestive traditions that linger with us from the early ages--those ages when art revived through religion, and symbolized the truths of eternity by the creation and application of such esthetics which, under the dominion of heathendom, had been perverted to purely sensual enjoyment--of all these traditions, then, we find few more beautiful in their various types, more elevating in their idealization, or which form a stronger connecting link between the soul's aspirations and our material enjoyment, than those frailest children of the beautiful that belong to the floral kingdom. Coeval with the creation, the solace, companions, and delight of our first parents, they shared the punishment, likewise, of man's transgression, in the flood; but when the waters subsided, they were the chosen symbols to announce to Noah the cessation of omnipotent vengeance, and the first to greet the weary wanderers, as their feet again touched the earth; raising their lowly heads from around the tree-roots, and through the rocky fissures, as emblems of the life immortal that springs from decay.

Among those which seem to be the chosen ones, as most expressive of religious sentiment, both in the Old and New Testament as well as in early legendary lore, are the rose, the lily, the olive, and the palm.

To each of these has been given a significance, from the earliest times, that has made them cherished with our households and associated with our faith. Although the rose was perverted by the heathen into a type of sensual love and luxury, yet, through the marvellous beauty and variety of its creation, it was reclaimed by the Christian poets, to be the attendant of the pure and holy, wherever an ornament was needed to paint a moral victory, or glorify decay.

That this flower was largely cultivated by the Jews, and used in their religious festivals as an ornament, is made clear by the frequent use we find of it, as a simile in the Bible. Solomon, in his song, compares the church to the "rose of Sharon and lily of the valley." Again, in the book of Wisdom, we see their appreciation in the admonition, "Let us crown ourselves with rosebuds ere they be withered." Also, in Ecclesiasticus, occurs this metaphor, "I was exalted like a palm-tree in Engaddi, and as a rose-plant in Jericho." Again, "Hearken to me, ye holy children, and bud forth as roses growing by the brook."

It was a belief among the Jews, according to Zoroaster, says Howitt, "that every flower is appropriated to a particular angel, and that the hundred-leaf rose is consecrated to an archangel of the highest order." The same author relates, that the Persian fire-worshippers believe that Abraham was thrown into a furnace by Nimrod, and the flames forthwith turned into a bed of roses.

{542}

In contradistinction to this in sentiment is the belief of the Turk, who holds that this lovely flower springs from the perspiration of Mohammed, and, in accordance with this creed, they never tread upon it or suffer one to lie upon the ground.

I think it was Solon who held the theory that the rose and the woman were created at the same time, and in consequence thereof, there sprang up a contest among the gods, as to which should be awarded the palm of superior beauty. Certainly there may yet be traced a close resemblance between these native queens, not only in the matter of beauty, but also in the variety and fragility for which the rose, above all others, is distinguished. Everywhere has God planted this exquisite work of his hand. In the bleak polar regions, where the days of sunshine are so short, and so few, there is seen among the first breathings of the summer zephyrs the "_Rosa rapa_," its slender stem covered with pale double flowers, lifting its head to greet those ice-bound prisoners as they issue from the stifling air of their winter huts. Degraded as are that people in their tastes, the magic of these silent messengers from God is so forcible, that they greet them with a poet's joy, and deck their heads and rough sealskin clothing with their tender blossoms. Even to the broken-hearted Siberian exile, there come a few short days in his life when these frail comforters rise from the frozen earth to greet him, like messengers from his lost home and friends. ... It is not to be wondered, then, with all the associations of Eden ever clinging about these eloquent voices, that the early Christians transferred their ornamental and suggestive beauties from the saturnalian rites of heathendom to the honor of God and his saints. Hence it is, that, in so many of the beautiful legends that have come down to us, we find these frail memorials so often associated as types of some noble deed accomplished, or the given reward of some heavy human sacrifice. To those who look upon these legends as myths, or simply religious fairy tales, we can only say, with Mrs. Jameson, that we most sincerely pity all such sceptics from our heart; for, where they outstrip the bounds of even miraculous probability, there may yet be found in their pages both entertainment and instruction. And after all, why should not religion have her fairyland, as well as material life? Why should not the soul enjoy the privilege of an occasional transport into a world of poetical visions, as well as the imagination, which finds in the fairy-dreams of childhood only a dim vista of annual blooms, upon which the breath of heaven can never blow? Weary with the turmoil of life, with the noise and whirl of the shifting scenes that open continuously upon a vista of pain, and sorrow, and unrealized hopes, such legends recall to the soul auroral gleams of childhood's purity, and transport her into fields that are redolent with the flowers of that eternal land where earthly woes can never come. In this Dodona grove, the soul hallows the heart; the impossible becomes the real; and as all the aspirations for the higher life possess it, the skies seem to open, we catch a flutter of the angels' robes, the perfume of the flowers of paradise, and a glimmer even of the golden gates shoots radiantly across the uplifted, tear-dimmed eye; and we feel, for these few moments at least, that God and heaven are very nigh, ay! even in our heart of hearts. {543} What matters it, then, if it be not all truth, since it serves the purpose, and for the time being decks the soul in regal splendor, and makes the unattainable and dim worth the longest toil and hardest battle that the short span of human life can compass? In those early ages, when the heathen idols were tottering on their thrones, and the voice of Pan had died out in a mighty wail at the sound of a feeble infant's cry--in those dawning Christian days there was felt the need of mental food of a nourishing and elevating kind for the masses. Heretofore, they had been kept occupied by public games, periodical saturnalian revels, gladiatorial combats, and other heathen abominations, in order to allow the philosopher to pursue his subtle theories in quiet, and the wheels of government to run smoothly on. As years and numbers, however, increased the Christian fold, and the first fervor began to abate under the influence of human passions and the need of life's varieties, it became evident that some food was necessary to meet the hunger of the craving mind. The time and thoughts of the philosophers and theologians were too deeply engrossed with the abstruse problems of the day--the esoteric and exoteric--to give other time beyond that of the soul's immediate requirements to the ignorant. Hence it was, that, as human blood was poured out like water, in libations to the true God, when beauty and innocence, rank and lowliness, wealth and poverty, found a common centre wherein to pray and suffer--hence it was, that the religious, poetic heart of the people idealized and beatified these deeds of heroic sanctity; and the church, while striving to repress extravagance, yet welcomed and fostered a taste which she saw, in her mighty wisdom, would be productive of elevating thought and emulative example. "And it is a mistake," says Mrs. Jameson, "to suppose that these legends had their sole origin in the brains of dreaming monks. The wildest of them had some basis of truth to rest on, and the forms which they gradually assumed were but the necessary results of the age which produced them. They became the intense expression of that inner life which revolted against the desolation and emptiness of the outward existence; of those crushed and outraged sympathies which cried aloud for rest, and refuge, and solace, and could nowhere find them." Mrs. Jameson disclaims any idea of treating these legends save in their poetic and artistic aspect. But as religion is the root from whence all have their source, so it is insensibly transmuted throughout the whole work. And how could she do otherwise, Protestant though she was? For the great trunk, the massive column, around which all these delicate fibres of poesy cling, is religion. Without such support, they would fall, and be trailed in the dust, and long, long ere this, their ephemeral life would have been crushed out, as were the oracular voices of the marble gods.

This literature, then, "became one in which peace was represented as better than war, and sufferance more dignified than resistance; which exhibited poverty and toil as honorable, and charity as the first of virtues; which held up to imitation and emulation self-sacrifice in the cause of good, and contempt of death for conscience' sake--a literature in which the tenderness, the chastity, the heroism of woman, played a conspicuous part; which distinctly protested against slavery, against violence, against impurity in word and deed; which refreshed the fevered and darkened spirit with images of moral beauty and truth, revealed bright glimpses of a better land, where the wicked cease from troubling, and brought down the angels of God with shining wings, and bearing crowns of glory, to do battle with the demons of darkness, to catch the fleeting soul of the triumphant martyr, and carry it at once into a paradise of eternal blessedness and peace." [Footnote 157]

[Footnote 157: Mrs. Jameson's _Legendary Art_.]

{544}

Under the influence, then, of these new inspirations, art likewise revived, and the brush and the chisel lent the aid of their immortal touch to give force and perpetuity to these creations; and birds, and flowers, and the elements were introduced as types or allegories of the subjects thus interpreted. Each one possessed a significance and symbolism that united the soul to the eternal source of these gifts, and kept alive in the common heart those principles which the people could admire if not emulate. The rapidity with which artists multiplied at this period belongs to the marvelous. God needed artisans for his work, and truly the old masters seemed, judging from their deeds and spirit, to have risen, like Adam, from the clay moulding of the almighty hand. Possessed by a sense of the lofty nature of their calling, they not only strove for perfection in detail, but also for a religious spirit, which should so inspire the work as to move every heart to piety, and embody for instruction the full force of the solemn truths therein portrayed. They emerged from the impure influences of the old religion and literature, like the chrysalis, into the golden-hued glory that shone in the lives of the ancient patriarchs and prophets; in the auroral beams that hung like sea-foam over the angels as they walked or talked as God's messengers on earth, until, bathed in a glory borrowed from the very smile of the Creator, they saw the divine Son descend like the morning star, and dwell upon earth among men.

In all their work a confession of faith lay embodied; and feeling themselves called to this vocation, hearing the voice and seeing in the enthusiasm of their fervor the burning bush, they purified themselves by prayer, and fasting, and long meditation upon the subject that was to grow into life under the glowing tints of the brush or the magic stroke of the chisel. This mystical spirit so elevated and ennobled the soul-work of those grand old masters that faults in mechanical execution and anachronisms in details are, even to this day, overlooked, for the sake of that _con amore_ zeal which pervades the vital treatment of their subjects. Fra Angelico, a Dominican monk, devoted his art life exclusively to the religious mysticism of his subjects. "Whenever he painted Christ upon the cross," says Jarves, "the tears would roll down his cheeks as if he were an actual eyewitness of his Saviour's agony. There is a celestial glow in all his beatified faces that seem to radiate from his own soul." Lippo Dalmasio, an early painter of Bologna, was also noted for his piety in art.

"He never painted the holy Virgin without fasting the previous evening, and receiving absolution and the bread of angels in the morning after; and, finally, never consented to paint for hire, but only as a means of devotion." [Footnote 158]

[Footnote 158: Lord Lindsay's _Christian Art_.]

Add to these, Luini, of Milan; Francia, of Bologna; Gentile and John Bellini, of Venice; Fra Bartolomeo, the Florentine monk, and friend of Savonarola; Perugino, and finally, Raphael--and we have the list of those who led the vanguard in the perpetuity of those heaven-toned idealizations that yet greet the eye with their beauty and animate the heart with emotions of grateful homage.

{545}

"Such art has left us, and can never again be revived until artists believe and pray as did those men of old; until they can see and feel as they did at all hours, amid their rejoicings or as they slept, holy personages, saints, and virgins, apostles and evangelists, martyrs, and the symbolized faith for which they died. Virtues, and not graces; angels, and not muses; types of spiritual truths, and not expressions of sensuous beauty or lustful passion--these were their daily intellectual food. Amid all things--in church, shop, or bedroom; on the roadside and by the palace; at every street corner, and over every threshold--were the figures of the Redeemer and his holy mother to direct their thoughts still higher heavenward. Religion, at all events, in its external form, and as _believed_, was confessed by all men and in all places. Youth were taught to rely on spiritual powers for their earthly support and sole sustenance. Charity, faith, the due subjection of the body to the development of its perfect strength, humanity, the succor of the oppressed, the relief of the unfortunate, _devoir_, duty to all men--such were the doctrines of chivalry in the middle ages." [Footnote 159]

[Footnote 159: _Art Hints_, by Jarves.]

Apart from the palm and olive, we find no mention in the New Testament of flowers, save that exquisite simile of the lilies, made by our Saviour himself; and there can be found no other instance wherein such an illustration is rendered with more beautiful pathos and force. That he appreciated these frail emblems is not only made apparent in this, but is further proved by his choice of the calm repose and soothing influence of these silent sympathizers on Gethsemane's night of woe. No human companionship, no human eye or voice, could aid him then, in that fearful contest of humanity over divinity, as did nature's voiceless comforters--the flowers that were bent down by the weight of their tears, the great shifting sky above, with the eloquent calm of its silver stars, through which floated clear and luminous the angel comforters. Our Saviour proved in all the suffering episodes of his life that lovely groves, and dim funereal forests speak more forcibly to a heart in pain than do the wilder and grander convulsions of nature.

"It is in quiet and subdued passages of unobtrusive majesty, the deep, the calm, and the perpetual; that which must be sought ere it can be seen, and loved ere it is understood; things which the angels work out for us daily, and yet vary eternally; which are never wanting, and never repeated; which are to be found always, yet each found but once--it is through these that her lesson of devotion is chiefly taught and the blessing of beauty given." [Footnote 160]

[Footnote 160: Ruskin's _Modern Painters_. ]

Nowhere have these beautiful accessories in life's pilgrimage been more glowingly and successfully used, not only as an abstract religious emblem, but as a divine allegorical poem, than in the representations of the life and attributes of the blessed Virgin. To this type of all that was pure and noble in woman; to the humanity which was a link in the chain of divinity, a partaker of all human woes, and yet the chosen of the Godhead--to her were specially dedicated those early labors in revived art, and of which she was the inspiration. Herein, as elsewhere, we find the historical, mystical, and devotional treated with every conceivable adjunct that can typify a being so elevated and benign. The beauty and variety of the rose, the purity and fragrance of the lily, were devoted to her special honor, wherever her name was venerated and loved. Even before it was safe for the early Christians to make an open profession of faith, they expressed their devotion to the mother conjointly with the Son, in the darkness and solitude of the catacombs. {546} Therein it was, that the first Christian artist dared give life to his heart's belief; and therein it was, that her image with that of her divine Son and the apostles were impressed upon the walls and sarcophagi of that grand subterranean temple.

As the Annunciation was the door through which all future blessings flowed, so it became a most fruitful theme to the faith and imagination of those great religious artists whose work was a labor of love; and we find it treated from the fifth to the sixteenth century by Byzantine, Italian, Spanish, and German art with a variety, beauty, and significance that only an enshrined saint could inspire. In the earliest representations of this subject, the angel appeared holding a sceptre, but this mark of authority gradually gave way to the more symbolic lily. This was introduced universally, either held in the hand of the angel as he salutes her, or seen growing in a pot placed in some part of the room. Others again, represent an enclosed garden, upon which the Blessed Virgin is looking from a window. In all, from the crudest to the most finished, some floral adjunct gives beauty and significance to the subject. The Assumption--that fitting climacteric of a life whence sprung the Eternal Word--was likewise a theme of devotional and sublimated art-worship, which gathered pathos and beauty from the belief that her body was worthy the care of the seraphim and cherubim, who transported it with angelic harmonies into the home of her glorified Son. Here, too, we find, according to the legend, her floral emblems springing up in the tomb from whence her incorruptible body had just been raised.

In an Annibale Carracci, the apostles are seen below, one of whom is lifting, with an astonished air, a handful of roses out of the sepulchre. In another, by Rubens, one of the women exhibits the miraculous flowers held up in the folds of her dress. Dominico di Bartolo, who painted in 1430, (according to Mrs. Jameson,) omits the open tomb, but clothes the holy mother in a white robe embroidered with golden flowers.

From the time of the Nestorian heresy, when the title of _Dei genitrix_ was denied the Blessed Virgin, her votaries became even more zealous to corroborate her right to the title and privileges of mother of the man-God; and under the influence of this test of devotion and faith sprang those multitudinous representations of the woman glorified, as the enthroned Madonna. From thence the descent was natural and gradual to those characteristics which distinguished her life in its daily ministrations to her divine Son; and so touchingly natural, so beautiful in their tenderness, are many of these more human portraitures, that the coldest heart cannot withhold its homage, though it may its devotion. Even Mrs. Jameson, herself a Protestant, says, "We look, and the heart is in heaven; and it is difficult to refrain from an _Ora pro nobis_." In a large number of these inspirations of faith and love, we meet the various floral emblems that typify her beauty and purity. Some of the earliest representations are found in many of the old Gothic cathedrals, executed in sculpture. She is therein portrayed in a standing position, bearing the child on her left arm, while in the right hand she holds a flower, or sometimes a sceptre. In a holy family in the academy of Venice, by Bonifazio, "The virgin is seated in glory, with her infant on her knee, and encircled by cherubim. On one side an angel approaches with a basket of flowers on his head, and she is in the act of taking these flowers and scattering them on the saints who stand below."

{547}

The Arcadian and pastoral life, with which many of the Italian artists environ the mother and child, is certainly both poetical and natural. Mrs. Jameson gives many instances of this treatment; among them, one by Philippino Lippi, which is a beautiful idea. "Here," she says, "the mystical garden is formed of a balustrade, beyond which is seen a hedge, all in blush with roses. The virgin kneels in the midst and adores her infant; an angel scatters rose leaves over him, while the little St. John also kneels, and four angels, in attitudes of devotion, complete the group." "But a more perfect example," continues the same author, "is the Madonna of Francia in the Munich gallery, where the divine infant lies on the flowery turf, and the mother standing before him, and looking down on him, seems on the point of sinking on her knees in a transport of tenderness and devotion. With all the simplicity of the treatment, it is strictly devotional. The mother and her child are placed within the mystical garden enclosed in a _treillage_ of roses, alone with each other, and apart from all earthly associations, all earthly communions."

Those who are familiar with the Raphael series of Madonnas will recall, in this connection, his exquisite pastoral _La Jardinière_. There is also one similarly entitled by a French artist, though differently treated. The virgin is enthroned on clouds, and holds the infant, whose feet rest on a globe. Both mother and child are crowned with roses; and on each side, as if rising from the clouds, are vases filled with roses and lilies. Titian has also left many beautiful and some exaggerated works of the Arcadian school. There is an old Coptic tradition which is very beautiful, and bears somewhat on this subject of nature's aid in glorifying these two lives. Near the site of the ancient Heliopolis, there still stands a very pretty garden, in which (runs the tradition) the holy family rested in their flight into Egypt. Feeling oppressed with thirst, a spring of fresh water gushed at their feet, and on being pursued into their retreat by robbers, a sycamore-tree opened, and hid them from sight. "The spring still exists," says a recent traveller, "and the tree yet stands, and bears such unmistakable marks of antiquity as to make this tradition and faith of the present generation of Coptics at least plausible." But these floral emblematical tributes are as inexhaustible as are the sentiments of love, homage, and tender pity that fill the heart from the contemplation of the _Mater Dei Genitrix_ down to the appealing anguish of the _Dolorosa_. "Thus in highest heaven, yet not out of sight of earth; in beatitude past utterance; in blessed fruition of all that faith creates and love desires; amid angel hymns and starry glories," we will leave enthroned the "blessed amongst women," and turn to other legends, wherein the saints who followed her stand crowned with flowers celestial, awaiting a share of our praise and veneration.

Part Second.

In Thuringia, one of the provinces of Germany, the traveller is attracted by a species of rose that is universally cultivated by the poorest peasant, as well as the richest land-owner. When the question as to its origin is asked, the answer invariably is, "Oh! that is the rose of the dear St. Elizabeth, our former queen; and was grown from one of the sprigs given to her by the angels." {548} One might as well try to turn the faith of these simple people from their belief in the sanctity of her life as from the truth of the miraculous roses. According to Montalembert and others, thus runs the substance of the legend. Elizabeth loved the poor, and was specially devoted to relieving their necessities, frequently carrying with her own hands goods of various kinds, to distribute among them. At one season, there was a great scarcity of crops throughout the land, and caution and economy in the use of the royal stores had been advised even in the palace. Elizabeth could not bear to know of unrelieved suffering among her people; so, by close economy in her own wants, she managed to furnish food for many others. On one occasion, a very pressing case of necessity reached her; and not wishing to encourage her servants in disobedience to the general command, she started alone on her errand of mercy, with some lighter articles of food concealed in the folds of her dress. Just as she reached the back steps of the chateau, however, she met her husband, with several gentlemen, returning from the chase. Astonished to see his wife alone, and thus burdened, he asked her to show him what she was carrying; but as she held her dress in terror to her breast, he gently disengaged her hands, and behold! "It was filled with white and red roses, the most beautiful he ever saw."

Wandering in thought over these scenes wherein the air is redolent with their fragrance, the form of the young and lovely Dorothea, with the radiant boy-angel at her side, rises in diaphonous light before the vision. We see her as she stands confronting her heathen judge Fabricius, who longs to possess her charms; and to his command, "Thou must serve our gods or die." she mildly answers, "Be it so; the sooner shall I stand in the presence of _Him_ I most desire to behold." Then the governor asked her, "Whom meanest thou?" She replied, "I mean the Son of God, Christ, mine espoused. His dwelling is in paradise; by his side are joys eternal, and in his garden grow celestial fruits, and roses that never fade." And resisting all temptations, all entreaties, she went forth to torture and to death. "And as she went," (continues the legend,) "a young man, a lawyer of the city, named Theophilus, who had been present when she was first brought before the governor, called to her mockingly, 'Ha! fair maiden, goest thou to join thy bridegroom? Send me, I pray thee, of the fruits and flowers of that same garden of which thou hast spoken. I would fain taste of them!' And Dorothea, looking on him, inclined her head with a gentle smile, and said, 'Thy request, O Theophilus! is granted.' Where at he laughed aloud with his companions; but she went on cheerfully to death. When she came to the place of execution, she knelt down and prayed; and suddenly at her side stood a bright and beautiful boy, with hair bright as sunbeams. In his hands, he held a basket containing three apples and three fresh-gathered fragrant roses. She said to-him, 'Carry these to Theophilus; say that Dorothea hath sent them, and that I go before him to the garden whence they came, and await him there.' With those words, she bent her neck, and received the stroke of death. Meantime, the angel went to seek Theophilus, and found him still laughing in merry mood over the idea of the promised gift. The angel placed before him the basket of celestial fruit and flowers, saying, 'Dorothea sends thee these,' and vanished." {549} Amazement filled the mind of Theophilus, and the taste of the fruit and fragrance of the roses pervaded his soul with a new life, the scales of darkness fell, and he proclaimed himself a servant of the same Lord that had won the heart of the gentle maiden. Carlo Dolci, Rubens, and Van Eyck have given the most poetical illustrations of this subject. Many other artists have also treated it, but more coldly.

With the name of St. Cecilia arise visions of angels poised in mid-air, enthralled by seraphic music, which, through the power of its voluminous sweetness, has pierced even the gates of heaven. But the flowers of paradise, as well as its celestial harmonies, are also associated with the name of this beautiful virgin--flowers that were sent to her bridal-chamber, as a reward for her angelic purity and the eloquence which had moved her young heathen husband to respect her vow of chastity. Returning from the instructions of St. Urban, to whom she had sent him, he heard the most enchanting music, and on reaching his wife's chamber he "beheld an angel, who was standing near her, and who held in his hands two crowns of roses gathered in paradise, immortal in their freshness and perfume, but invisible to the eyes of unbelievers. With these he encircled the brows of Cecilia and Valerian; and he said to Valerian, "Because thou hast followed the chaste counsel of thy wife, and hast believed her words, ask what thou wilt, it shall be granted thee."

I stood, early one morning late in the month of June, looking sadly upon the dead, white, upturned face of one who had seemed to walk, while on earth, more with angels than with men. A mystery of sadness had enveloped her life, but, like the cloud in the wilderness, it proved a power that drew her in the footprints of the "Man of sorrows." As I meditated upon the calm etherealized beauty that now absorbed the old earthly pain, and wondered what this secret of a heart-life could have been, her mother entered with tear-dimmed eyes, and placed upon her brow of auburn hair, through which glinted here and there a streak of gray--"dawn of another life that broke o'er her earthly horizon"--in her hands, and over the white fleecy robes, crowns and sprays of mingled crimson and white roses, all glistening with the morning dew.

"Red roses for the dead!" I exclaimed in surprise. "White alone can surely typify such a life and death as hers."

"So you think, my friend, because you with others saw only the outward calm that marked her way. But I--I who loved her so, knew and saw the thorn-crown that pressed her brow, and the hard stones and barbs that strewed every step of her way through life--I place them then here, because she loved them, and because they express, in conjunction with their sister's whiteness, the sorrow and purity of the angelic life now closed to pain and open only to joy.

"Well done of God, to halve the lot, And give her all the sweetness; To us, the empty room and cot; To her, the heaven's completeness. For her to gladden in God's view; For us to hope and bear on. Grow, Lily, in thy garden new Beside the rose of Sharon."

I turned away sadly, marvelling upon the mystery of this life now closed so happily, and involuntarily arose to my mind the exquisite legend of the sultan's daughter.

{550}

I.

"Early in the morning, The sultan's daughter Walked in her father's garden, Gathering the bright flowers, All full of dew. And as she gathered them, She wondered more and more Who was the master of the flowers, And made them grow Out of the cold, dark earth. In my heart,' she said, 'I love him; and for him Would leave my father's palace To labor in his garden.'

II.

"And at midnight As she lay upon her bed, She heard a voice Call to her from the garden, And, looking forth from her window, She saw a beautiful youth Standing among the flowers; And she went down to him, And opened the door for him; And he said to her,'O maiden! Thou hast thought of me with love, And for thy sake Out of my father's kingdom Have I come hither. I am the master of the flowers; My garden is in paradise, And if thou wilt go with me, Thy bridal garland Shall be of bright red flowers.' And then he took from his finger A golden ring, And asked the sultan's daughter If she would be his bride. And when she answered him with love, His wounds began to bleed, And she said to him, 'O Love! how red thy heart is, And thy hands are full of roses.' 'For thy sake,' answered he, 'For thy sake is my heart so red, For thee I bring these roses. I gathered them at the cross Whereon I died for thee! Come, for my father calls, Thou art my celestial bride!' And the sultan's daughter Followed him to his father's garden." [Footnote 161]

[Footnote 161: _Golden Legend_, by Longfellow.]

Throughout all the early church legends, we find whatever is pure and beautiful in sentiment and exalted in art carefully cherished, and constantly presented to the contemplation of the votary in some glowing form that could act as a counterpoise to the corrupting influence of heathen passions and pursuits.

When the holy mother stood on Calvary, her heart steeped in agony unutterable, not the least cause of her anguish was to see the waste of those precious drops of blood as they bedewed the hard insensible ground. But behold! as she gazes, and her tears fall, delicate bell-shaped crimson blossoms spring up, and absorb the human dew; and thus, through these frail beautifiers of suffering and consolers of grief, the heart of the mother was comforted, and the soul is drawn to look upward, away from the agonizing ignominy of the cross to the beatified glory to which he is translated at the price of so much woe.

Thus also, in the horrid details of the early martyrdoms, we constantly meet these compensating, suggestive metaphors of the glory won. The painful agony of the downward crucifixion of St. Peter, the waste of blood from that congested head, springs into a fountain of clear gurgling water, from which flows healing for all suffering flesh that seek its miraculous aid. As St. Grata bears the decapitated head of her friend St. Alexander to the tomb, lo! flowers spring up as the blood falls, and are gathered by the mourners to deck his grave.

Among the little band that followed Mother Seton more than fifty years ago, in her divine mission of self-abnegation and Christian love, was a delicate young woman whose life had been spent in ease, amid the devoted love and admiration of a large family circle. Dreamy and poetical by nature, her talent, then rare among American women, was revered and looked up to by seven young brothers as something marvellous; and no implement more fatiguing than the pen or needle was ever allowed to weary her dainty fingers. One day as she sat amid her flowers and books, conning a new inspiration, suddenly the open door of heaven seemed to stand before her, and she felt a voice saying, "He who would come after me must take up his cross and follow me." {551} And believing that her heavenly spouse had called, she closed her books, and turned her face steadfastly away from her weeping friends, and went cheerfully forth to privation and labor. Faithful to her new vows, religion yet did not forbid the exercise of the talent God had given her; only now her themes had become more exalted, and the love and perennial sublimity of heaven took the place of the perishable and annual blooms of time. The privations and labors spent in the service of suffering humanity soon reduced her delicate frame to patient helplessness; but the beauty and love of God in his works and ways triumphed over all her bodily infirmities, and her strength was never too frail to raise a _sursum corda_ in his praise. Whitsuntide of 1813 rose in the light of a glorious May morning, and the sufferer lay panting for breath, after a night of exhausting hemorrhage, and she knew that the angel, with palm in hand, stood by her side ready to conduct her to God. In blissful hope of the fruition that now dawned upon all those past sacrifices, labors, and sufferings, she fell, to the music of those unseen, undulating wings, into a sweet sleep. Mother Seton, who had left the sufferer's bed for a breath of the fresh morning air, just then returned from the garden, bearing in her hand the first rose of the season, knowing how refreshing and suggestive such a gift would be to the weary sufferer. Rejoiced to find her in repose, she gently laid the flower upon her bosom, above the white, folded hands, and quietly left the room. The fitful fever sleep was soon ended, and as Mary opened her eyes, first the fragrance, then the beauty of this heavenly symbol, caught her eye. Wasted and dying though the earthly tenement was, the soul, the poet's soul, yet glowed with vital power; and raising from a little table at her side a pencil and paper, she thereon breathed her last pean of poetic utterance in these lines:

"The morning was beautiful, mild, and serene, All nature had waked from repose; Maternal affection came silently in, And placed on my bosom a rose.

"Poor nature was weak, and had almost prevailed, The weary eyelids were closed; But the soul rose in triumph, and joyfully hailed The sweet queen of flowers--the rose.

"Whitsuntide was the time, the season of love: Methought the blest spirit had chose To leave for awhile the mild form of a dove, And come in the blush of a rose.

"Come, Heavenly Spirit, descend on each breast, And there let thy blessing repose, As thou once didst on Mary, thy temple of rest; For Mary's our mystical rose.

"Oh! may every rose that blooms forth evermore, Enkindle the spirit of those Who see it, or wear it, to bless and adore The hand that created the rose."

When Mother Seton returned, she found the lines with the rose still lying on her bosom; and looking into the sweet upturned face, she saw the signet of death stamped upon the luminous eyes, and knew by her short, heavy breathing that ere long she would be singing her songs in the rose-gardens of paradise.

Suggestive of peace and lowliness as are these creations, yet even they have been perverted by the passions of man into insignia of blood and shame. The thirty years' war of the houses of York and Lancaster make the white and red rose ever associated with the sorrows and humiliations, the heroic endurance, and true womanly nobility of Margaret of Anjou. We see her as she stands under her rose-banner, on the heights of Tewksbury, with dauntless courage in her heart, and a mother's wild prayer upon her lips; standing there, amid the wild havoc, unflinchingly, until the wailing, weird blast of the trumpeters tells her that her beautiful white rose is broken at the stem, and its leaves scattered, trampled, and bathed in the life-blood of her only son.

{552}

Tracing, then, these exquisite adumbrations throughout the spiritual aspect of life, is it strange that we have learned to look upon these frail children of the beautiful as one of the connecting links with heaven? Of such every heart has its conservatory; every home its storehouse of withered, scentless mementoes, that recall, when the gates of the sanctuary are unbarred, memories deep and voiceless, and faces whose beauty has paled, like them, in dust. Here is the remnant of a cross of white _immortelles_. It was taken from the breast of a loved one who died far away in a foreign land, among strangers. It was sent with the last spoken words to comfort and uplift the heart of the mourners; and as we lift it from the sacred casket, the echo of those words seems to take form in the rustle of its blighted leaves, and the old, subdued sorrow breaks out afresh before the multitudinous memories and images evoked by a withered flower.

Here lie together a sprig of orange blossom and a white rosebud, double memorial of a happy bridal and an early grave. Ere the perfume of the orange blossom had faded from her brow, the white rose lay on her pulseless heart. Ere the echo of the wedding march had died on the air, it was merged into a requiem dirge of woe.

Ah this spray of brown leaves! what memories lie folded in its veins! A picture of a lone, far away grave rises, and by its side kneel a wife and daughter, come from a great distance to pay some tribute to a beloved one's last resting-spot in a land of strangers. Desolate looked the bare, uncultivated mound; but at the head some tender stranger's hand had placed a plain wooden cross to mark the spot for the absent ones, and planted a wild rose which twined its arms over and around the cross in graceful beauty, as if to offer a poor substitute for the visits of loving friends. How warmly the prayers of the widow went forth for that unknown one who had thus filled the place and thoughtfulness of the absent!

A prisoner walks rapidly up and down the parapet of the Capitol prison in Washington, the wild throbbings of his heart keeping time to the tramp, tramp of his restless feet, which long for space, for liberty, and the sound of the brother voices that send their wild echo from the other side of the Potomac. Suddenly the laughter of a child's voice sounds above him, and, as he in surprise raises his eyes, lo! a cherub head looks from a window down upon him, and the little hands drop at his feet a half-blown rose.

"War's wild alarum call" suddenly dies out, and the soldier's dream of glory gives place to the man's warm love. The wide blue sea no longer rolls between him and home, and over and above the din of battle floats the voice of mother and sister in loving prayer for the absent one, who, impelled by a noble people's cry for aid, hastened to the rescue, and found instead of the _élan_ of battle the cold, dark walls of a prison home. Lo! the power and pathos of a little child and a fragile flower within the walls of a dungeon.

A father kneels in grief unutterable by the soulless body of a little daughter. In the agony of his rebellious grief, he prays to God to send him one ray of comfort, one gleam of light, to see and know that the transition is at least well for her. As he raises his head, his eyes fall upon the family Bible, and with the prayer still in his heart he opens its leaves, and his finger, as if guided by an angel, falls upon these lines, "And he took the damsel by her hand, and said unto her, I say unto thee, arise." {553} With the sacred verse, there came shining down into his heart a clear, sweet perception of the fact that at that very moment our Lord Jesus Christ, who alone is the resurrection and the life, was raising up out of her cold and lifeless form that beautiful, spiritual body in which little Lucy will exist as an angel for ever. He plucked some white and green leaves from the flowers which lay in the dead child's hands, and placed them on that verse of the sacred volume.

"Years have passed away, and they are there still, pale and withered, sacred little mementoes of the consolation which came like a voice from heaven in his hour of need. When he is haunted by sorrowful memories, and falls into states of desolation and despair, he opens that holy book, and kisses those faded leaves, and his spirit is sometimes elevated into that mount which the three disciples ascended with their Lord, and there, by the permission of the same Redeemer who makes every child an image of himself, he sees the body of his little daughter transfigured in glory!" [Footnote 162]

[Footnote 162: _Our Children in Heaven_, by W. H. Holcombe, M.D. ]

In a white alabaster box, yellowed by the mould of years, are lying, side by side, a crisp, golden curl, a sprig of lily of the valley, and a tuberose. Through the mist of tears that fill the eye rise the angelic features of a little girl, the first-born of her mother. The joyous laughter, the music of the little feet, the endless activity of the waxen fingers, ere they closed lifelessly over those tender lily sprays, all take form and life in presence of these mute memorials. Other children God sent to console the mother for the loss of this little one, and long, long years have ripened them into men and women, and sent them forth to fill the various missions of life that separate them from mother and home. But to the long and early lost, the maternal heart now yearningly turns, as still, above all others, the child of her love. No stronger earthly ties stand between them even now; the _mother_ holds her place supreme _here_, and feels that for her, above all others on earth, those little hands are folded in prayer, and that sweet-toned voice raised in songs of supplication.

"Yet still, in all the singing, Thinks haply of her song, Which in that life's first springing Sang to her all night long."

Comforted by such memories, she kisses the mute and withered mementoes, and, as she folds them again reverently, lovingly away in their casket, she prays that

"When her dying couch about The natural mists shall gather, Some smiling angel close shall stand In old Correggio's fashion, And bear a _lily_ in his hand For death's annunciation."

{554}

Catholicity And Pantheism.

Number Seven.

The Finite.--Continued.

We pass to the next question: What is the end of the exterior action of God?

God is infinite intelligence. An agent who acts by understanding must always act for a reason, which is as the lever of the intelligence. This reason is called the end of the action. Therefore, the external act, being the act of an infinite intelligence, must have an end, an object, a reason. So far everything is evident; but a very difficult question here arises: What can the end of the exterior action be? In the first place, it cannot be an end necessarily to be attained; for the necessity of the end would imply also the necessity of the means, and the external act in that supposition would become necessary. But suppose the end not necessary. God, in that case, would be free to accept it; and in that supposition he would either act without a reason, or have another reason or object for accepting an end not necessary to be attained; which second reason would, in its turn, be either necessary or not necessary. If the former, the same inconvenience would exist which we have pointed out before; if the latter, it would require a third reason to account for the second; and so on _ad infinitum_. The answer to this difficulty consists in the following doctrine. The reason by which an agent acts may be twofold: one, efficient or determining; the other, qualifying the action without determining it. Ontologically speaking, every intelligent agent must act for a reason, but not always be determined to act by the reason. This is eminently true when the agent or efficient cause is the first and universal agent. In this case there would be a contradiction, if the first and universal agent were to act by a reason determining him to the act. For then the predicate would destroy the subject; that is, if the first and universal agent were to act by a determining reason, he would no longer be first, but second agent; no longer universal, but particular. Because in that case the final cause would move him, and thus he would neither be the first nor the cause of everything. This theory resolves the question of the end of the external act. There exists neither an intrinsic reason on the part of the agent to determine him to act outside himself, nor an exterior reason on the part of the term to impel him to act, as we have already demonstrated. Consequently, there can be no determining reason for the external act, and the act must determine itself. The efficient or determining reason of the external act is the choice of the act which is absolute master of itself; it lies in its liberty: and here applies with strict truth that saying, "Stat pro ratione voluntas." And necessarily so, since the first agent either determines himself without any efficient reason, or he is determined by the reason; and in that case he is no longer first, but second. But then God acts outside himself without any reason? Without any efficient and determining reason, independent of his own act, it is granted; without a sufficient reason to make the act rational, it is denied. {555} If there be a reason which qualifies the act, it is sufficient and rational. Now, for instance, to create finite substances is to create substantial good; hence the act of creating them must be good, and therefore rational. And since every finite being, or its perfection, is good, inasmuch as it resembles the infinite goodness and perfection of God, it follows that, as St. Thomas says, the goodness of God is the end of the external act. _Divina bonitas est finis omnium rerum_.

The determination of the end of the exterior act, which is the goodness of God, as we have explained it, gives rise to another question, which has occupied the highest intellects among philosophers and theologians, and of which we must speak, to pave our way to lay down the whole plan of the exterior action of God, as proclaimed by the Catholic Church.

Finite beings are capable of indefinite perfection. An assemblage of finite beings would form a cosmos, or universe; and as they are capable of indefinite perfections, we may suppose an indefinite number of these, one more perfect than the other, all arrayed in beautiful order in the intelligence of the Creator, in which the intelligibility of all possible things resides. The question arises here, suppose God has determined to act outside himself, which of the whole series of the ideal worlds residing in his intelligence shall he choose? Can he choose any of them? Is he bound to choose the best?

The reader will remark that this question is different from that of the end of creation. The one establishes that God cannot be forced by any reason to act outside himself, else he would not be the first and universal cause. The other question that is proposed now, supposes that God has determined freely and independently of any reason to act outside himself, and asks whether God can choose any of the possible ideal worlds residing in his intellect, or is he forced to choose the best in the series?

Some philosophers, among whom are Leibnitz and Malebranche, contend that God is absolutely free to create or not to create; but once he has determined to create, he is bound to choose the best possible cosmos in the series. We shall let them expound their system in their own words.

"God," says Leibnitz, "is the supreme reason of things, because those which are limited, like everything which comes under our vision and experience, are contingent and have nothing in them which may render their existence necessary; it being manifest that time, space, and matter, united and uniform in themselves, and indifferent to everything, may receive every other movement and figure and be in another order. We must, therefore, seek for a reason for the existence of the world, which is the whole assemblage of contingent beings, and seek it in that substance which carries within itself the reason of its own existence, and which is consequently necessary and eternal.

"It is necessary also that this cause should be intelligent, because the world which exists now, being contingent, and an infinity of other worlds being equally possible, and equally claiming existence, so to speak, it is necessary that the cause of this world should have looked into all such possible worlds to determine upon one. {556} This look or relation of an existing substance to simple possibilities can only be the intelligence which possesses their ideas; and to determine upon one, can only be the act of a will which chooses. The power of such substance renders its will efficacious. Power has relation to being; intelligence, to truth; the will, to good. This cause, moreover, must be infinite in every possible manner, and absolutely perfect in power, in wisdom, in goodness; because it reaches all possibility. And as all this goes together, we can only admit one such substance. Its intelligence is the source of metaphysical essences; its will, the origin of existences. Behold, in a few words, the proof of one God with all his perfections, and of the origin of things by him!

"Now, this supreme wisdom, allied to a goodness no less infinite, could not fail to choose the best. For as a lesser evil is a kind of good, so a lesser good is a kind of evil; and there would be something to correct in the action of God, if there were a means to do better. And as in mathematics when there is neither a maximum nor a minimum--in fact, no difference at all--all is done equally, or, when this is impossible, nothing is done, [Footnote 163] so we may say the same in respect to perfect wisdom, which is no less regulated than mathematics, that if there had not been a best one among all possible worlds God would not have created any. I call world the whole series and collection of all existing things, that none may say that several worlds might exist in different times and places. For in that case they would be counted together as one world, or, if you prefer, universe. And although one might fill all time and space, it would always be true that they could be filled in an infinity of manners, and that there is an infinity of worlds possible; among which it is necessary that God should have selected the best, because he does nothing without acting according to supreme reason." [Footnote 164]

[Footnote 163: If it is required, for instance, to draw the shortest possible line from the centre to the circumference of a circle, you may draw a line to every point of the circumference, and there is no reason why a line should be drawn to any one point rather than to another. Or, if an object at the centre is attracted equally to every point in the circumference, it cannot move in any direction, but remains at rest.--ED.]

[Footnote 164: Leibnitz. Theod. P. I., par 8.]

Malebranche, in his ninth metaphysical conversation, after having laid down the principle that the end of creation is the glory of God, concludes that God must choose the best possible cosmos, because thereby he would gain greater glory than if he chose any of the series. "That which God wishes solely, directly, and absolutely in his designs, is to act in the most divine manner possible; it is to impress upon his conduct, as well as upon his work, the character of his attributes; it is to act exactly according to what, and to all he is. God has seen from all eternity all possible works, and all possible ways of producing them; and as he does not act but for his own glory and according to what he is, he has determined to will that work which could be effected and maintained by ways which must honor him more than any other work produced in a different manner."

The principles of this theory are two. One is to admit a necessity on the part of God to choose the best possible world in the series; the other is to suppose from reason that there is a best possible cosmos, as Leibnitz does; in other words, it is to limit the question only to the creative moment, and not to the whole external action of God. Now, we think that both propositions are false. As regards the first, why should God choose the best? For three reasons, according to the German philosopher. {557} The first is as follows: A lesser good is a kind of evil, if it be opposed to a greater good. But if God chose any world of the series in preference to the best, he would prefer a lesser good to a greater; hence, he would prefer a kind of evil to good, and the world chosen would be a kind of evil. The major of the syllogism might be granted, though not perfectly correct, if a lesser good were opposed to a greater which must necessarily be effected, but not otherwise. Suppose, among a number of actions, one more perfect than the other, of which I am not bound to perform any, I choose to perform any of the series, rejecting all others; how would the action which I choose to perform be a kind of evil? If I was bound to perform the best, and preferred one which is less so, in a certain sense we might grant that the one I select is a kind of evil. But when I am not bound to perform any, the one I choose, though not the most perfect, cannot change its nature of good because I might, if I preferred, perform a more perfect one. The argument, therefore, of Leibnitz, supposes what is to be proved, that God _was_ bound to effect the best possible cosmos; for only in that case it might be said that he preferred a certain kind of evil to good. His second reason is not more solid than the first: If God did not choose the best, we might find something to correct in his action, because there would be a means to do better. We might find something to correct in the action of God, if, in the world he chose in preference to the best, there was something wanting in the attributes and properties required by its nature. But if the world that God chooses is endowed with all its essential attributes and proper elements, certainly there would be nothing at all to correct in it. When that great Italian artist drew a fly upon the picture of his master, so true to nature that the master on coming home went right up to the canvas to chase it away, if any one holding the opinion of Leibnitz had told him, "There is something to correct in your fly, because you could have painted a madonna or a saint," the painter would certainly have been astonished, and his answer would have been, "I might do a greater and better work; but you cannot discover any defect in my fly, because you cannot deny that, though a fly, it is a masterpiece of art." The same reason holds good with regard to the subject in question. God might certainly do better; but if he prefers not to create the best possible cosmos, and selects any of the series, if the one selected is endowed with all the elements its nature requires, it is perfect in its own order; and no one could discover any flaw or defect in it, but every one would be obliged to call it a masterpiece. The last reason of Leibnitz has much less foundation, and savors very strongly of pantheism: If there had not been a best possible world in the series of all the possible ones, God would not have created any. This means neither more nor less than that the world, or the aggregate of all contingent beings, unless it had a kind of absolute perfection, would be impossible. It is tantamount to denying the very possibility of creation. Because a best possible world cannot be had; for the nature of all contingent beings is like number, which progresses indefinitely, without ever reaching to a number beyond which you cannot go. Consequently, the nature of contingent things, though capable of indefinite progress, is altogether incapable, ontologically speaking, of absolute perfection; a perfection which would be required to effect a world truly the best. {558} If, therefore, such ultimate perfection is required in order that God may create, it is evident that creation is impossible, and that optimism runs into pantheism. The argument drawn from the sufficient reason also fails. If God were to choose a cosmos less perfect in preference to one more perfect, he would have no sufficient reason for the preference. This argument fails, first, because a cosmos, the very best and most perfect, cannot be had, as we have hinted just now. Therefore, there is no necessity for any sufficient reason for choice. Suppose a series of worlds, one more perfect than the other, arrayed in the mind of God according to numerical order. If God were to choose the tenth in the series, there would be no sufficient reason for his preferring it to the eleventh; and if he were to select this last, there would be no sufficient reason for his preferring it to the twelfth, and so on indefinitely; and as we cannot reach to a cosmos which would be the last and the highest in perfection, so there never could be a sufficient reason for the preference of any. Consequently; there being no sufficient reason for preferring any cosmos of the series, God is free to choose any.

In the second place, even if there could be a best possible cosmos, the reason alleged by Leibnitz would not, on that account, oblige God to choose it. For a reason may be objectively or subjectively sufficient; that is, its sufficiency may emerge from the object to be created, or from the agent. Now, granting the principle of the German philosopher, God might have a subjective reason to make him act according to the requirements of wisdom, even in preferring any cosmos of the series and rejecting the best. This subjective reason might be to show and to put beyond any possibility of doubt his absolute freedom and independence in the creative act. No optimist can deny that this may have been a sufficient reason for the creative act. Consequently, even granting the possibility of a best possible world, God was not bound to create it.

The reason of Malebranche is not more conclusive than those we have just refuted. God must prefer the best possible cosmos, because this alone would manifest his glory in the best possible manner. The argument would be conclusive if it were proven that God does wish to, or must manifest his glory in the best possible manner. But this the French philosopher does not and cannot prove. Because the best possible manner for God to manifest his infinite excellence is, to cause an infinite effect. Now, this is a contradiction in terms.

The second position of the optimists to which we object is, to assume the possibility of a best possible cosmos, as Leibnitz does, from _reason_. Now, we contend that reason alone, unaided by revelation, proves decidedly the contrary; it proves that, ontologically speaking, a best possible cosmos cannot exist, and that if there be a way by which to raise the cosmos to a certain ultimate perfection, or perfection beyond which it could not be supposed to go, this is altogether outside and beyond the province of reason alone, and must be determined by revelation. We have already alluded to this in the examination of the third argument of Leibnitz. The best possible cosmos implies a certain ultimate and absolute perfection. Now, ontologically speaking, this is impossible in finite beings. For the question here is between two extremes, the finite and the infinite. Between the two lies the indefinite. {559} The first extreme, or the finite, may be supposed to ascend the ladder of perfection, or quantity of being, indefinitely, without ever reaching the infinite; because its nature is essentially immutable, as every other essence. Hence, suppose it as great in perfection as you can, it will be always finite, and consequently you may always suppose a greater still. Hence, admitting a series of numberless worlds one ontologically more perfect than the other, and you can never arrive at one of which you may say this is the best, because you can always suppose a better still.

St. Thomas with his eagle glance saw, centuries before, the birth of optimism, and refuted it triumphantly, in the following argument, similar to that which we have just given. Asking the question, whether the divine intellect is limited to certain determinate effects, he denies it thus: "We have proved," he says, "the infinity of the divine essence. Now, however you may multiply the number of finite beings, they can never approximate the infinite, the latter surpassing any number of finite beings, even if it be supposed infinite. On the other hand, it is clear that, besides God, no being is infinite, because every being comes under some category of genus or species. Therefore, no matter of what quality the divine effects are supposed to be, or what quantity of perfections they may contain, it is in the nature of the divine essence infinitely to excel them, and hence the possibility of an indefinite number of them. Consequently, the divine intellect cannot be limited to this or that effect."

This argument might be abridged thus: The nature of the infinite and of the finite being immutable, the infinite must always surpass, infinitely, the finite. Hence there can be no definite term assigned to the perfection of the finite, and consequently there cannot be a cosmos ultimate and absolute in perfection. Our reason, therefore, does not support the optimists in supposing a most perfect cosmos; on the contrary, it shows that, as to essence and nature, there cannot be a cosmos the perfection of which can be supposed to be ultimate, and in a certain manner absolute; in other words, limiting the question to the creative moment which effects ontological perfection only, a best possible cosmos cannot be had. Moreover, if there be a way by which to raise the cosmos to a certain ultimate and absolute perfection, reason can tell us also that it must be altogether supernatural, and to it superintelligible. In other words, this way must be a moment or moments of the action of God, distinct from the creative moment, and causing effects above and beyond the nature and essential attributes of every possible cosmos, ontologically considered.

For if this way of raising the cosmos to an ultimate perfection were the same moment of the action of God which creates essences and proper attributes, it could not correspond to the effect desired--that of raising the cosmos to a certain absolute perfection. Because, when we speak of a creative moment effecting essences and attributes, we consider the cosmos ontologically; and ontologically the cosmos cannot have an absolute and ultimate perfection. The creative moment creates substances and essential attributes; hence if the moment of raising the cosmos to an ultimate perfection were identified with the creative moment, it would always effect substances and essential attributes--that is, a cosmos indefinitely progressive--and could not give us a cosmos absolute in perfection. Therefore the moment or moments of the action of God raising the cosmos to a certain absolute perfection must be distinct from the creative moment, and must produce effects above and beyond every possible cosmos, ontologically considered.

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Now, that which implies a moment of the action of God, distinct from the creative moment and causing effects above and beyond every possible cosmos, is called supernatural, because beyond and above nature or essence. Therefore, the way of raising the cosmos to a certain absolute perfection must be supernatural in its cause and in its effects.

If supernatural in its cause and in its effects, it is evident that this way is superintelligible to reason. Because reason, being an effect of the creative moment, cannot understand that which is above and beyond it in its cause and in its effects.

Hence, reason cannot determine whether there is such a way, or what this way is; and must necessarily leave these two questions to be determined by revelation.

Another problem, closely connected with the one which we have just discussed, presents itself here. It is as follows: In the supposition that God could find a way by which to raise the cosmos to a certain ultimate perfection, it is asked whether the divine goodness, which is the end of the exterior action of God, contains in itself a principle of fitness and agreeableness to incline it to effect this best possible cosmos. This question, as the reader is aware, is altogether different from optimism. This opinion contends that God _must_ create the best possible cosmos. The question we propose now asks whether divine goodness, which is the end of the external action of God, may be inclined to effect it in force of reason of fitness and agreeableness between divine goodness and the best possible production of it, a reason of fitness which implies no manner of obligation or necessity whatever.

We answer it affirmatively; it having the support of all Catholic tradition, and the proof of it is to be found in the very force of the terms--God is infinite goodness; in acting outside himself, he effects finite goodness. Now, finite goodness and infinite goodness are agreeable to each other; therefore, if there be a way of raising finite goodness to a certain absolute goodness, it will be most agreeable to infinite goodness. [Footnote 165]

[Footnote 165: S. Th. S. T. p. 3. q. I.]

Before we enter upon the explanation of the whole plan of the exterior works of God, it is necessary to notice another point altogether within the reach and province of reason; this is, to assign some general laws which must govern the exterior action of God.

Reason, as we have seen, cannot of itself tell whether there may be a way of exalting the cosmos to a certain ultimate perfection, and thus rendering it the best possible cosmos; again, reason cannot tell whether God has or has not chosen to effect it. But, admitting the supposition that there is such a way, and that God has preferred it, reason can assign some laws, which it conceives must necessarily govern his exterior action, if he chooses to effect the best possible cosmos. Nor is this going beyond the sphere or province of reason, or infringing upon the rights of revelation. Because, although the premises are superintelligible, and to be declared by revelation, yet the premises once given, reason may lawfully and safely deduce some consequences, evidently flowing from those premises. In this case, the premises would be superintelligible; the consequences springing from them altogether intelligible.

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Reason, therefore, affirms that if God chooses to make the best possible cosmos, the effectuation of such cosmos must be governed by the laws of _variety_, of _unity_, of _hierarchy_, of _continuity_, of _communion_, of _secondary agency_. The first imports that, if God intends to effect the best possible manifestations of himself, to which the best possible cosmos would correspond, he must effect a _variety_ of moments, a _variety_ of species, of individuals under each species, except when the nature and the object of the moment admits no variety or multiplicity. St. Thomas proves the necessity of such a law by the following argument: "Every agent," he says, "intends to stamp his own likeness on the effect he produces, as far as the nature of the effect will permit, and the more perfect the agent, the stronger is the likeness he impresses upon his effect."

God is a most perfect agent; it was fitting therefore that he should impress his own likeness on his exterior works as perfectly as their nature would allow. Now, a perfect likeness of God cannot be expressed by one moment or species of effects; because it is a principle of ontology that, when the effect is necessarily inferior in nature to the cause, as in the present case of the cosmos with regard to God, the perfections, which in the cause are united and, as it were, gathered together into one intense perfection, cannot be expressed in one effect, but ask for a variety and multiplicity of effects. The truth of this principle may be seen in the following example. What is the reason that we must frequently make use of a variety of words to express one idea? The reason lies in the objective and ontological difference of the nature of the two terms. The idea is simple, spiritual, intelligible; words are a material sound. The one in its nature is far superior to the other; the idea is possessed of more being, more perfection than words. Hence the one cannot be expressed and rendered by the other, except through a variety and multiplicity of terms. Consequently this example illustrates the principle that, when an effect is inferior in nature to its cause, whatever perfections are found in the cause, as united and simplified in one perfection, cannot be rendered or expressed except by a multiplicity and variety of effects. What we have said of language may be affirmed of every fine art, as painting, sculpture, music, etc. The type which creates them is always one and simple; it cannot be expressed except in a variety and multiplicity of forms.

The best manifestations, therefore, of God's transcendental excellence cannot be rendered and mirrored except through a variety of moments, of species, and of individuals.

The law of variety asks for the law of _hierarchy_. For variety cannot exist except by supposing a greater or less amount of perfection in the terms composing the series, one being varying from the other by possessing a greater amount of ontological perfections. Now, by admitting a greater or less amount of being, we admit a superiority on the part of that which is endowed with more ontological perfection, and an inferiority on the part of that which is endowed with less; and each being composing the cosmos, keeping its own place according to the general order, and in relation to other beings, it follows that this superiority on the part of one, and inferiority on the part of the other, founded on the intrinsic worth of their respective essences, establishes and explains the law of hierarchy.

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The third law is that of unity, which implies that the variety of the different moments composing the cosmos must be brought together so as to form a perfect whole. For, first, if the variety of moments, of species and individuals, is requisite in order to express the intensity of the ontological perfection and excellence of the type of the universe, which is the infinite grandeur of God, unity, also, is required, in order to express the simplicity and entirety of the type. In the second place, what would be the cosmos without unity but a numberless and confused assemblage of beings? Hence, whatever may be the variety of the moments and species of the cosmos, they must necessarily be brought together as parts and components of one harmonic whole. The nature of this unity will be gathered from the explanation of the other laws. And first, it begins to be sketched out by the law of continuity. This implies that there should be a certain proportion between each moment of the cosmos, between one species and another, and between the degrees and gradations within the species, all as far as the nature of the terms will permit. Hence, the law embraces two parts:

1st. The necessity of the greatest number of moments and of species, as much as possible alike to each other, without ever being confounded.

2d. The greatest possible number of gradations within the same species, in proportion as individuals partake more or less fully of the species.

To give an instance: the first part of this law explains why substantial creation is composed of, 1st, atoms which do not give any signs of sensitive life; 2d, of brute animals; 3d, of intelligent animals; 4th, of pure spirits. The second part of this law explains why each of the four species just mentioned is developed in gradations almost infinite--minerals composed and recomposed in all possible ways, manifesting forms, properties, and acts altogether different, and some so constantly as to defy any change from the force of nature so far known to man; hence, in force of that immutable type, they are taken by naturalists as so many scientific species, and the fifty-nine or sixty elements which chemistry so far enumerates; animals also, extending so gradually that the ladder of fixed marks, taken by natural philosophers as so many species, begins where the signs of life are almost insensible and dubious, and ends with man; nor is there wanting, as far as it may be known, any of the intermediate steps.

The pure spirits, as we know from revelation, are divided into choirs and legions innumerable, whose successive gradations in quality and number, to us unknown but certain, are unfathomable; and it is most probable that the ladder of pure spirits is higher, beyond measure, than that which we observe in the sensible universe, and that one spirit is far more superior and distant from another spirit than one star from another.

The necessity of this law springs from that of unity. For, if the type of the cosmos be one, each moment and species representing, as it were, a side of that type, there must be as much affinity and proportion between each moment and each species as to pave the way for the law of unity to represent and mirror the entirety and oneness of the type. We say as much affinity as it is possible to produce, because between each moment and each species there is necessarily a chasm which no continuity or affinity can fill up. For instance, between pure animality and pure intelligence there is necessarily a chasm. Man, placed between the two, draws them together as much as possible; yet the necessary distance marking the two distinct natures cannot by any proportion be eliminated, else the natures would be confounded and destroyed.

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But variety, brought together by the law of continuity, cannot sufficiently exhibit unity. Hence the necessity of a fourth law, that of _communion_.

This law implies, 1st, that the terms of the cosmos should be so united together as to act one upon the other, and serve each other for sustenance and development; 2d, that, founded on the law of hierarchy, inferior beings should be so united to superior ones as to be, in a certain sense, transformed into them, the distinctive marks of their respective natures being kept inviolate.

This law, in both its aspects, we see actuated in the visible universe. Thus man has need of food, which is administered to him by brutes and the vegetable kingdom; he has need of air, to breathe; of light, to see; of his kind, to multiply and to form society. All other animals have need of beings different from themselves to maintain their own existence; and of their like, to multiply their species. The vegetable kingdom needs minerals, earth, water, and the different saps by which it lives. If vegetables did not expel oxygen and absorb carbonic acid, air would become unfit for the respiration of animals; and these sending back, by respiration, carbonic acid, supply that substance of which plants stand in need. Everything, moreover, in the world serves for the development and perfection of man, both as to his body and as to his intellectual, moral, and social life. Every inferior creature is transformed into man. The same animal and vegetable kingdom which, transformed into his blood, sustains his life, helps him for the development of his ideas and his will. The reason of this law, which may be called the law of life, is, that the unity of the cosmos should not be only apparent and fictitious, but real. Now, a real union is impossible if the terms united exercise no real action upon each other, and do not serve for the maintenance and development of each other.

Finally, the law of communion calls for the law of secondary agency; that is, the effects resulting from the moments of the exterior action of God should be real agents. For no real union and communion could exist among the terms of the external action unless they really acted one upon another; any other union or communion being simply fictitious and imaginary. Hence Malebranche, in his system of occasional causes, where he deprives finite beings of real agency, has not only undermined the liberty of man, but destroyed the real communion among creatures, and marred the beauty and harmony of the cosmos. To represent the cosmos as a numberless series of beings united together by no other tie than juxtaposition, and by no means really acting upon each other, is to break its connection, its real and living unity; is to do away with the whole beauty and harmony of that hymn and canticle which God has composed to his own honor and glory.

We come now to the last question: What is the whole plan of the exterior action of God? We have seen that if there be a way by which to effect a cosmos endowed with a certain absolute perfection, that it would be most agreeable to infinite goodness, the end of the exterior action of God. We have seen, moreover, that whether there be such a way, and what this way is, must be determined by revelation. The Catholic Church, therefore, the living embodiment of revelation, must answer these two problems.

It answers both affirmatively. The most perfect cosmos is possible. God has effected it, because most agreeable to his infinite goodness.

What is this cosmos? We shall give it in the following synoptic table.

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God's exterior action divided into: The hypostatic moment; The beatific, or palingenesiacal moment; The sublimative moment; The creative moment.

The terms corresponding to each moment of the action of God are:

The Theanthropos, or Jesus Christ, God and man, centre of the whole plan; Beatific cosmos; Sublimative cosmos; Substantial cosmos. Individual terms of each cosmos: 1. Beatified angels and men; 2. Regenerated men on the earth; 3. Angels, or pure spirits; Men, or incarnate spirits; Sensitive beings; Organic beings; Inorganic beings.

As each moment of the action of God, as the creative, implies two subordinate moments, preservation and concurrence, it follows that each moment of the action of God implies its immanence and concurrence, though in the Theanthropos it takes place according to special laws. Hence,

Hypostatic immanence and concurrence; Beatific immanence and concurrence; Creative immanence and concurrence.

To A Favorite Madonna.

Lady Mary, throne of grace, Imaged with thy Child before me! Softly beams the perfect face, Fragrant breathes its pureness o'er me.

I but gaze, and all my soul Thrills as with a taste of heaven. Passion owns the sweet control; Peace assures of sin forgiven.

Oh! then, what thy loveliness Where it shines divinely real, If its strength has such excess Feebly shadowed in ideal!

From thy arms thy Royal Son Waits to fill us past our needing: Hears for all, denied to none, Thy resistless whisper pleading.

Dream, say they, for poet's eye? _Thou_ a dream! Then truth is seeming. Only let me live and die Safely lost in such a dreaming!

B. D. H.

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Translated From The French.

To Those Who Tell Us What Time It Is.

Before introducing our subject, my dear reader, let me give a moment to a little person whose caprices equal those of any woman living.

Brilliant as the most fashionable beauty, she never goes without her diamonds and rubies in their golden setting, and of which she is equally proud.

Her little babbling is heard continually; and while she boasts her independent movements, like any prisoner or slave she always wears her chain.

I call her a little person, because she accompanies me everywhere; though sometimes she stops while I walk, and goes again when I am inclined to stop.

This delicate, fantastical organization, so difficult to discipline, and as subject to the influences of cold and heat as any nervous lady or chilly invalid, is Mademoiselle--my watch.

You have nearly all, my dear readers, a watch of silver or gold in your vest-pocket, and you can have them of wood or mother-of-pearl, with one great advantage: they cannot be pawned.

Ladies wear watches whose cases shine with their diamonds like the decorations of a great officer of the Legion of Honor. And they can have them inserted in bracelets, in bon-bon boxes, and in buckles for sashes and belts.

But I must tell you, the first accurate instruments, after the sun-dial and hour-glass of the ancients, were huge clocks; and these clocks, so immense, led artists insensibly to construct smaller ones for apartments, in form of pendulums, and which were in the beginning very imperfect.

Then others still more skilful conceived the idea of portable clocks, to which they gave the name of _montres_, (watches, in English,) from _montrer_, to show.

But at first these ornaments were very awkward, and of inconvenient size for the pocket to which they were destined.

Finally, however, they were lessened to such a point that they graced the heads of canes, the handles of fans, and even the setting of rings, and were about the size of a five-cent silver piece.

It is to Hook, a physician and English philosopher, born in 1635, died in 1702, that we owe the invention of pocket watches.

In 1577, the first watches were brought from Germany to England. They had been made at Nuremberg for the first time in the year 1500, and were called the eggs of Nuremberg, on account of their oval form.

At last a man appeared who, not content to enchain time, endeavored to force matter to represent with greater accuracy the flight of years. This was Julien le Roy, the most skilful practical philosopher that France ever had. Always on the _qui vive_ for everything useful and curious, as soon as he heard of the watches of the celebrated Graham, he imported the first one seen in Paris, and not until he had proved it would he relinquish it to M. Maupertuis. Graham, in turn, procured all he could from Julien le Roy. {566} One day my Lord Hamilton was showing one of these wonderful repeaters to several persons. "I wish I were younger," said Graham, "to be able to make one after this model."

This illustrious Maupertuis, who accompanied the king of Prussia to the battle-field, was made prisoner at Molwitz and conducted to Vienna. The grand-duke of Tuscany--since emperor--wished to see a man with so great a reputation.

He treated him with respect, and asked him if he had not regretted much of the baggage stolen from him by the hussars. Maupertuis, after being urged a long time, confessed he would gladly have saved an old watch of Graham's, which he used for his astronomical observations.

The grand-duke, who owned one by the same maker, but enriched with diamonds, said to the French mathematician, "Ah! the hussars have wished to play you a trick; they have brought me back your watch. Here it is; I restore it to you."

To-day, as formerly, the handling of watches is an art. It is much more difficult to measure time than wine or cider. Therefore, among the members of the Bureau of Longitudes, by the side of the senator Leverrier, the marshal of France, (M. Vaillant,) the Admiral Matthieu, is placed the simple clock-maker, M. Bregnet.

And for these artists who give us the means of knowing the hour it is, there is a publication as serious as the _Journal of Debates_, called the _Chronometrical Review_. It certainly should be regularly sent to its subscribers. If the carrier is late, it cannot be for want of knowing if he has to-day's or yesterday's paper; and the subscribers are never exposed to _chercher midi à quatorze heures_.

M. Claudius Saurrier, the chief editor of this _Chronometrical Review_, has also a clock-maker's annual almanac for 1869. This appears very abstruse at the first glance; but if we examine the little volume with the same nicety as a watchmaker his mainspring--that is to say, with a powerful magnifying glass--we will find some things to greatly interest us. For example, a sketch of different attainable speed:

Miles per hour. The soldier in ordinary step makes, 2¾ The soldier in a charge 4 The soldier in gymnastic exercise, 7 The horse walking, 3 The horse on the trot, 7 The horse on the gallop, 14 The horse on the race-course, 30 The locomotive at ordinary speed, 30 The locomotive going rapidly, 60 The current of the Seine, 3 Steamboats, 4 to 14

A railroad train making thirty miles the hour would consume about three hundred and fifty years in the journey from the earth to the sun. More than a dozen successive generations would have time to appear and disappear during the transit.

But nothing can more surely measure speed than the man who says to his watch, "Thou givest me sixty seconds a minute, and thou canst go no farther."

The little book which has so worthily occupied my attention is not contented with simply describing professional instruments. It plunges into old curiosity shops, and brings out the watch of Marat!

Evidently it does not tell us if this watch was hung in the bathing saloon where the _friend of the people_ was struck by the poignard of Charlotte Corday. But it gives us an exact description of the jewel, or rather of the _onion_ of the celebrated and redoubtable tribune.

It was, indeed, a curious watch that Marat possessed; and, if we cannot imagine the fashion of the epoch, which gave to every one an immense gewgaw, requiring a counter-weight to support it, it will be impossible to explain the oddity of its form.

{567}

It was a massive silver pear, opening into two equal parts. In the lower part of the fruit was found the dial; the upper contained engraved designs of foliage. The case of the pear reproduced the same model; the artist evidently had but one idea. Its size was that of an English pear of medium dimensions, and, thanks to its density, this jewel has been able to pass without any deterioration through the most stormy periods of the world.

The almanac for clock-makers also contains its good stories. It relates that a thief introduced himself into a watch-store as a workman seeking employment, but with the design of abstracting the pocket-book of the proprietor. The scene is dialogued as the two parts of a clock containing the chimes of the north, the solemn stillness of the night broken by question and response, until they mingled in a _naïve contre-point_.

"Thy purse," said the thief.

"I have forgotten it."

"Thy chain."

"I only wear a ribbon."

"Pshaw! no more ceremony. Look at thy watch. What hour is it?"

"The hour of thy death!" replied the young man in a thundering voice, presenting at the same time a double-barrelled pistol at his head.

"Oh! oh!" said the thief, "I was only joking."

"So much the worse. Come, thy purse."

The thief handed it to him.

"Thy chain."

And the chain followed the purse.

"Thy watch."

The thief, trembling from head to foot, drew out a package of watches, entangled one in the other.

"Oh! oh! I have you now. Get out, file to the left, turn thy dial, and go."

And the pickpocket withdrew.

The young watch-maker, perfectly astonished, went immediately to the mayor. They counted twenty-two watches; and the grateful proprietors handsomely indemnified him for his trouble, while at the same time he found himself, by this one stroke, with twenty-two good jobs and a patronage.

Had I time, I could extract many more interesting things from this little work.

For example, a description of a watch made by the grandfather of the present Bregnet--the perpetual watch, so called because it winds itself through some simple movement inserted by the maker. And I could give, also, good advice to wearers of watches.

Where to put them at night.

The manner and time to wind them, and the management of the little needle that makes them go slower and faster.

Then, again, the injury done watches by trotting horsemen, especially physicians, who thereby lose an accurate guide for the pulse of their patients.

Then I should like to consider how Abraham Bregnet made the sympathetic clock, upon which it is only necessary to place before midday or midnight a pocket repeating-watch, advancing or retarding it a little to allow for the time consumed, and by simple contact it regulates the pendulum.

If M. Claudius Saurrier wants something curious for his almanac of the coming year, he has only to take the chapter on clock-making from _The Arts of the Middle Ages_, by Paul Lacroix. There he will see the three primitive methods of measuring time, namely, the sun-dial or gnomon that Anximandre imported from Greece; the clepsydra, where the flowing water indicated the flying minutes; and the hour-glass, where the sand took the place of the water.

{568}

He will find there a watch of the house of Valois placed in the centre of a Latin cross, and moving with it symbolical figures, Time, Apollo, Diana, etc.; or, again, the Virgin, the apostles and saints.

Time has not always been lost through the instruments that indicate its flight. Ages have changed even palaces; and the Palais Royal, whose cannon gives us still the exact hour of mid-day, once knew no hours for its _habitués_, and vice and immorality consumed the time that virtue now gives to better purposes. The poet of 1830 said:

"The palace lives in better days, And virtue holds its court supreme; The sun that lent to vice its rays Now gives to time its potent beam."

But now that I have rendered every tribute to M. Claudius Saurrier that his special science can demand, may I not be equally frank with him?

I don't like to know what time it is; I am seized with profound melancholy when the clock strikes and as the hands of my watch indicate the rapidity with which my life is passing.

If there had never been an hourglass, a clepsydra, a clock, a regulator, a Swiss cuckoo, or a French chronometer, what with the variations of the seasons which are no longer regular--the trees leafing in January, and the house-tops iced in April--we might never be sure of anything, and lead the existence of those who frequented the balls of the tenor Roger. With shutters closed and curtains drawn, the sun excluded for four days, his guests could have doubted whether time had anything to do with their existence.

Then we could so long believe ourselves young! The dreaded question _How old are you?_ could be answered in all sincerity, _I do not know_.

One word more, however, for our pretty watch. How often has it been the symbol of gallantry.

A lady asked a poet why he used two watches. He replied immediately:

"Dear madam, shall I tell you why? One goes too fast, and one too slow; When near you I would fondly fly, I use the first; the other, when I go."

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New Publications.

The Catholic Doctrine Of The Atonement. An Historical Inquiry into its Development in the Church. With an Introduction on the Principle of Theological Development. By Henry Nutcombe Oxenham, M.A., formerly Scholar of Balliol College, Oxford. Second Edition. London: Allen & Co. 1869.

This is a very scholarly treatise on an important subject. It is not a dogmatic work, but a work on the history of dogma. The author possesses a remarkable insight into the deep and sublime mysteries of faith, especially that of the Incarnation, and writes like one whose whole mind and soul have become imbued with the spirit of scriptural and patristic theology. His manner is remarkably calm, impartial, and dignified; his method of statement, clear and succinct; and his style is that of an accomplished English and classical scholar, often rising to passages of high poetic fervor and beauty. {569} So far as the exhibition of the true doctrine of the atonement is concerned, beyond the critical statement of different schools of opinion, its chief value consists in the refutation of the Calvinistic doctrine, and its discrimination of the modern prevalent Catholic opinion derived from St. Anselm from the dogma properly so called. The essay on development is one of the ablest portions of the book. Möhler, in his _Athanasius_, has accused Petavius of overstating or pressing too far, in his controversial zeal, the well-known points of his thesis respecting the doctrine of the anti-Nicene fathers against Bishop Bull. It appears to us that Mr. Oxenham has overstepped the mark in the same way in regard to development in general, or at least has used language liable to misapprehension. We think, also, that the character of his mind, which is not adapted to metaphysical or speculative inquiries, and the influence under which his opinions have been formed, lead him to undervalue scholastic theology. There are here and there, also, indications of a bias toward the opinions of a certain class of French writers of the last century, which appears to us to be out of harmony with the genuine spirit of docility to the teaching of the church, and the _pietas fidei_ with which the author is certainly animated. We will specify one instance of this, where Mr. Oxenham has exposed a most vulnerable spot in his defensive armor. It is on page 11 of the introductory essay, where he is rebutting the famous statement of Chillingworth, that there are "Popes against popes, councils against councils," etc. In reply to this, he says, "On this I have to observe, as to popes against popes, waiving the question of fact, their judgments, when resting on their own authority alone, if maintained by some theologians to be infallible, are as strenuously denied to be so by others. It is a purely open question. Councils are held by no one to be infallible except in matters of doctrine, and there is no case of doctrinal contradiction between councils universally received in the church as ecumenical." The author, in this specimen of most faulty logic, by waiving the question of fact respecting the dogmatic judgments of the popes, concedes everything which Chillingworth asserted on that point, and leaves him master of the field. He confines himself to one point of defence, that there are no dogmatic decisions of ecumenical councils which are contradictory to each other. But suppose there are dogmatic decisions of popes to which obedience is required as a term of communion and under pain of excommunication, which are contrary to dogmatic decisions of councils, what then? Suppose one pope requires submission to a dogmatic decision as a term of communion, and his successor requires the same to an opposite decision, what then? Can Mr. Oxenham say _transeat?_ If Mr. Ffoulkes should write a letter to Mr. Oxenham containing an argument based on an affirmation that those suppositions are facts, against the actual position of the holy see and the Catholic episcopate, as against Constantinople and Canterbury, could Mr. Oxenham answer it conclusively without defending that point which he so easily gives up? That the question of the infallibility of the pope is not entirely closed is, of course, true; but it is not so wide open as an ordinary reader would infer it to be from the author's very inconsiderate and unsatisfactory way of stating the matter; nor has it ever been so wide open at any time since St. Peter received from our Lord the charge to confirm his brethren in the faith. Bossuet would never have exposed his flank in the unguarded manner that our author has done. The indefectibility of the Roman see in doctrine, and the duty of obedience to its dogmatic judgments, were always maintained by that great theologian, and by all orthodox Gallicans. The doctrine of what may be called passive infallibility is logically contained in this doctrine of Bossuet and in that doctrine of Catholic faith, that the pope is always the supreme head of the church. By passive infallibility, we mean a security against the separation of the pope and the Roman Church in doctrine from the universal church, either by apostasy from dogmas already defined, or by the enforcement of any new and false dogmas. {570} The active power of the pope, as the teacher and defender of the faith which he perpetually proclaims to the world, and protects by denouncing and condemning heresy, which no Catholic questions, is necessarily secured by this indefectibility or passive infallibility from being perverted to the service of heresy or immorality. The only question that can be discussed between Catholics regarding this matter relates to the conditions and extent of the active infallibility of the pope. The gift of infallibility must necessarily preserve the dogmatic unity of the pope and the Catholic episcopate, and must therefore influence both. They are both factors in the sum of infallibility. What is precisely the force of each as distinct from the other is not yet fully and clearly defined as a canon of faith, and we are willing to await the result of the approaching council which will, probably, at least consider the question of the propriety of making such a canon, before applying any theological formula as a criterion of the orthodoxy of writers, or written statements. Nevertheless, we have a right to expect that every writer should so guard his language and statements that they be not open to a misconception that furnishes a convenient door for the enemy to enter in by.

Perhaps Mr. Oxenham will not essentially dissent from the view we have expressed; and we have the best reason to expect that whatever there may be that is defective or inconsequent in his theological system will be filled up and harmonized by the result of riper thought and study. His work, as a whole, is one of the best and most valuable of those which have been produced by the sound scholars and devoted sons of the church who have been won to the ancient faith of England within the classic halls of Oxford. Every clergyman or scholar addicted to theological studies will find it well worthy of a place in his library, and of a careful perusal.

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Alice Murray; a Tale. By Mary I. Hoffmnan, authoress of _Agnes Hilton_. 1 vol. 12mo. Pp. 490. New York: P. O'Shea. 1869.

We like this story for its perfect picture of American country life. We get but one glimpse, and that a very imperfect one, of the city. We have plenty of books, good, bad, and indifferent, describing city life, its manners and customs, its frivolities and follies, and even its vices. It was, therefore, with a feeling of relief, that we read this volume; for, even if one can but seldom visit the country, still one likes to read about its green fields, rippling brooks, gushing springs and dark, cool woods, the lowing kine, and bleating sheep, and in this book we get a goodly dose. Miss Hoffman seems to be a practical farmer, and is as much at home with the butter-ladle as with the pen, and has a thorough disgust, as all good farmers must have, for what city folk often cultivate as flowers--the "pesky white daisy."

The first chapters of the story are a little dull, and the place in which its scene is laid is not definitely stated; but further on, we learn that it is in Western New York. There is nothing extraordinary or intricate in the plot of of the story. Every scene and incident may have occurred just as it is related. It is the old story of innocence and virtue being outgeneralled for a while by craftiness and vice. And while we have such timid girls as Alice Murray, such acts of wrong are possible. It is very well to follow the gospel precept, and when struck upon one cheek to turn the other; but the gospel nowhere requires us to give in addition our own hand with which to smite our cheek.

Alice Murray was the niece of Mr. Elbray's first wife. Her parents died while she was quite young, and Mr. Elbray brought her up as his daughter, as he had no children of his own. He was rich, a self-made man, and a worldly-minded Catholic, paid little attention to the duties or requirements of his religion, but made money his God. {571} He became acquainted with a strong-minded, designing widow, who manages to make him marry her, and from that moment Alice Murray had actually no home. The ambitious wife had her own daughter to provide for, and her whole energies were bent on getting rid of Alice, which she succeeded in accomplishing. From her adopted home Alice went to her uncle Bradley--her mother's sister's husband--who procured her a district school. Even here, though miles away from her, the new Mrs. Elbray, beside intercepting all letters between Alice and her uncle, got up a charge against her of having stolen a gold chain presented to her by her _dear_ departed husband. This was done to prevent Alice returning to her uncle, who was ever regretting her absence. But the crafty woman succeeded; Alice is discarded, and the result is, that Mrs. Elbray's daughter makes a brilliant match, and all the Elbray family move to New York, where old Elbray is ruined by his wife and her daughter's husband, and has to go to the almshouse, where he is discovered by a priest who knew him, and Alice is informed of the poverty of her uncle. She hesitates not a moment, accepts the hand of the lover she had previously refused, because she wished to pay back her uncle all the money he had spent on her, and the new-married couple go straight to New York, rescue the uncle from the almshouse, and take him home with them, where he lives in peace.

The picture of the Bradley family is a beautiful one--just what a good Catholic family should be; in fact, all of Miss Hoffman's family pen-pictures are good. Her great weakness lies in her dialogues; they need more animation and sprightliness; and her very _bad_ characters are better drawn than her very _good_ ones. For instance, in Mrs. Elbray, an ambitious, proud, self-willed and worldly woman, we have decidedly the best depicted character in the book. She labors for a purpose, a bad purpose it is true, and succeeds, although the success was her ruin. Had Alice used for a good purpose one half the energy Mrs. Elbray did for a bad one, a world of suffering would have been saved her, but then _Alice Murray_ would not have been written. We wish the writers of our Catholic stories would allow their good characters to act like living men and women, not mere machines, throwing the responsibility of all their troubles and tribulations upon God, and leaving it _all_ in his hands to see justice done; but teach them to use the means God gave them to help themselves.

We have said that Miss Hoffman's descriptions of American country life and scenery are good. There is one pen-picture on page 170 that will remind many of similar scenes. The story is thoroughly Catholic in tone and sentiment, but is not of the belligerant class. There are no religious discussions indulged in for the sake of displaying one's theological knowledge; but the whole atmosphere of the book--the whole sentiment is Catholic, and the reader feels it, just as one in reading à Kempis would know and feel that the writer was a devout, practical Catholic.

The typographical execution of the book might easily be improved by employing a better proof-reader and the use of better type.

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Chips From A German Workshop. By Max Müller, M. A. 2 vols. crown 8vo, pp. 374, 402. New York: Charles Scribner & Co.

These two volumes consist of various essays, lectures, etc., which Professor Müller has published from time to time during the intervals of his long years of labor on the Rig-Veda. They are all more or less closely connected with the great work to which he has devoted his life, and are all illustrations of a systematic religious philosophy. The first volume is devoted to essays on "The Science of Religion." The author remarks that in religion "everything new is old, and everything old is new, and there has been no entirely new religion since the beginning of the world." St. Augustine says that "what is now called the Christian religion has existed among the ancients, and was not absent from the beginning of the human race until Christ came in the flesh;" and the design of these essays is to show how the radical ideas of religion revealed by Almighty God at the beginning have undergone various changes, corruptions, and combinations, yet, though frequently distorted, tend again and again to their perfect form. {572} Professor Müller traces these primitive ideas through the ancient religions of India and Persia, and extracts from the forbidding obscurity of Sanscrit literature a wealth of illustration, which, with his charming style and incomparable happiness in selection, he makes attractive to nearly all classes of readers. He studies the matter not as a theologian but as a coldly critical man of science; and his reasoning is, of course, directly in support of the truths of revelation. The second volume contains an essay on _Comparative Mythology_, and papers on early traditions and customs, all bearing upon the subject of the first, and many of them highly curious. At some future day, if opportunity permits, we hope to recur to these valuable "Chips," and give our readers a few specimens of their excellence.

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Pastoral Letter Of The Most Rev. Archbishop and Suffragan Prelates of the Province of Baltimore, at the close of the Tenth Provincial Council. May, 1869. Baltimore: J. Murphy & Co.

This letter of the fathers of the council of Baltimore is a renewed evidence of the paternal affection and ceaseless vigilance with which the pastors of the church watch over their flock. On many most important points, they have spoken out with a clearness that must be gratifying to every Catholic heart. First among them is Education. We quote a portion:

"Bitter experience convinces us daily more and more that a purely secular education, to the exclusion of a religious training, is not only an imperfect system, but is attended with the most disastrous consequences to the individual and to society. Among Catholics, there cannot be two opinions about this subject. And we are happy to see that this practical truth is beginning to find acceptance also in the minds of reflecting men among our separated brethren.

"The catechetical instructions given once a week in our Sunday-schools, though productive of the most beneficial results, are insufficient to satisfy the religious wants of our children. They should every day breathe a healthy religious atmosphere in those schools, where not only their minds are enlightened, but where the seeds of faith, piety, and sound morality are nourished and invigorated.

"Children have not only _heads_ to be enlightened, but, what is more important, _hearts_ to be formed to virtue."

The most reverend archbishop has been from the first one of the most earnest supporters of the Catholic Publication Society, and, with the prelates of the council, again commends it to the patronage of clergy and laity.

"We desire to renew," say they, "our cordial approbation of the Catholic Publication Society, recently established in New York, and we earnestly hope it may receive from our clergy and laity all the patronage it so well deserves.

"This society is laudably engaged in the publication of such Catholic works as are peculiarly adapted to the wants of our times, and it serves as a powerful auxiliary in the propagation of Catholic truth.

"Short religious tracts are also issued under the auspices of the same society. These tracts are daily growing in popularity and usefulness. In one year, about six hundred thousand of them were printed and distributed. Their brevity recommends their perusal to many who have neither leisure nor disposition to read books treating of the same subject. Their short but convincing arguments always make a favorable impression on sincere minds; while their plain, familiar style renders them attractive to the lowest capacity. The very moderate price at which they are sold places them within the reach of all.

"We trust that our zealous missionary clergy will adopt some effectual and systematic means by which the books, and especially the tracts of this excellent society may be regularly circulated throughout their missions, and distributed among the children attending our schools."

{573}

These words are very encouraging and opportune; for one thing is sure, and that is, "The Catholic Publication Society," without this co-operation and sympathy, both on the part of the clergy and the laity, cannot accomplish the great work that is before it in our country.

Then follow some timely words of admonition to Catholics lest they imbibe the loose notions which prevail among many around them in regard to the crime of infanticide.

Next, are condemned round dances, indecent publications, and the obscene theatrical performances which are becoming so abundant.

The remainder of the letter contains words of encouragement to the clergy and laity in the various charitable works in which they are engaged, as the erecting of protectories and orphan asylums, the providing churches and schools for our colored brethren, etc.

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Fénélon's Conversations With M. De Ramsai On The Truth Of Religion, With his Letters on the Immortality of the Soul, and the Freedom of the Will. Translated from the French by A. E. Silliman. 1869.

Fénélon was a genius and a saint. He had, moreover, the faculty of expressing his thoughts in a remarkably clear style, and throwing a peculiar charm about every subject he handled. The conversations with Chevalier Ramsay form a short treatise, proving that there is no medium between deism and Catholicism. It is very admirable, and Mr. Silliman has done a good service in translating it, with the two other short but excellent treatises which are appended. The translator's preface, which is perfectly calm and passionless in its tone, gives a brief but interesting sketch of Fénélon's character, and of some of the events of his life, and relates the circumstance which gave occasion to the conversations with Chevalier Ramsay. As it alludes to the condemnation of the _Maxims_ by the pope, and states that this condemnation was given reluctantly and under threats from the king of France, it may be well to explain this matter in a few words. It is true that the accusation of Fénélon at Rome was made through enmity against his person, and in a manner discreditable to the parties concerned, and very displeasing to the pope. It is not true, however, that the decision was given in accordance with the wishes of the king on account of his entreaties or threats. The pope did not wish to have the matter brought before him, because he preferred to leave the errors of Fénélon's book to be corrected by milder methods than a public condemnation, and desired to spare so great and holy a prelate--who had erred only through a mistaken judgment of the true sense of certain statements of the most approved mystic authors--the mortification of a public censure and a formal retraction. The action of Fénélon's enemies made the matter so public and notorious, and brought his erroneous statements into such a clear light that it was impossible to avoid an examination and judgment without scandal. The judgment was impartial, and was necessarily against Fénélon, whose doctrine was clearly irreconcilable with the teaching of the church. At the same time, a sharp reproof was given to his accusers for the spirit which they had shown in pushing matters to extremes, and the personal respect and esteem of the pope for Fénélon were clearly manifested.

The translator has added a very judicious note to the treatise on the immortality of the soul, justly censuring certain statements of the author on the nature of the connection between soul and body. Like many other writers of that time, Fénélon was too much influenced by the philosophy of Descartes whose ridiculous theory of occasional causes appears in the passages criticised by Mr. Silliman. On this point, the language of the Protestant translator is much more in accordance with the Catholic doctrine that the soul is _forma corporis_ than that of the Catholic archbishop.

We recommend this most beautiful specimen of reasoning and persuasive eloquence most heartily to all readers, especially to those who fancy they can find a halting-place somewhere between the rejection of all positive revelation and the acceptance, pure and simple, of Catholicity. {574} The translation is well done, and the mechanical execution of the book, which is a medium between a volume and a pamphlet, is elegant. If the translator finds sufficient encouragement in the reception which it meets with to induce him to continue, we recommend to him the translation of Fénélon's admirable treatise on the existence and attributes of God, as a work which we should welcome as a timely and valuable addition to our English religious literature.

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La Natura E La Grazia, (Nature And Grace.) Discourses on Modern Naturalism delivered in Rome during the Lent of 1865. By Father Charles M. Curci, S.J. 2 vols. Rome, Turin, and Venice.

We are greatly indebted to the courtesy of F. Curci in sending us a copy of this admirable collection of discourses. With the greatest modesty, the distinguished author apologizes in his preface for the defects of his work. To his readers, however, his name will be a sufficient guarantee of its excellence and ability; nor will a careful examination give them any reason to change their opinion. These are no ordinary Lent sermons upon the commonplace themes of exhortation which preachers are wont to handle during this holy season. They are profound, eloquent, and classically written discourses upon all the great Catholic doctrines and practices which are disputed or denied by modern infidels and rationalists; a specimen of that high, intellectual, philosophical, and, at the same time, thoroughly spiritual preaching which is so necessary in our day for the educated classes. If it were possible, it would be highly desirable and beneficial to have these volumes translated into English. If we are not able, at present, to have this done, it is only because of the very great cost of translating and publishing in this country a work of such a high class, the circulation of which would be necessarily limited to the clergy and a small portion of the most highly educated among the laity.

Italy, Florence, And Venice. From the French of H. Taine. By J. Durand. 8vo, pp. 385. New York: Leypoldt & Holt.

This is a companion volume to M. Taine's book on _Rome and Naples_, which appeared in an English dress about a year ago. The author visited Italy in 1864, (though the date, by a strange oversight, is not mentioned in the volume now before us,) and his observations upon the political situation of the country and such social peculiarities as arose from political causes, have now lost much of their value. These observations are fortunately few, nor were they ever very profound. M. Taine is not a student of public affairs, nor a keen observer of popular characteristics. Of Italian life and manners, he learned no more than the mere guide-book tourist can see in hotels, galleries, and public conveyances, and what he saw he tells no better than many have told the same things before him, and not so well as at least one or two American travellers whom we could mention. It is as a critic of art that he demands our attention, and in this particular he far surpasses nine tenths of all the writers on such topics with whom English readers are familiar. The eloquence and rapidity of his style, the refinement of his esthetic sense, and the keenness of his philosophy, invest his pages with an interest and a brilliancy which must charm every body. Yet there is something lacking in his appreciation of paintings, there is a coldness even in the midst of his enthusiasm, which leave the mind unsatisfied. The fact is, he writes like a man of the world, to whom the inner religious sentiment of art is only half revealed. He judges of paintings only with the head; but there are certain works--above all, for instance, those of Fra Angelico--which must be judged by the heart.

Love; Or Self Sacrifice: a Story by Lady Herbert. Published by D. & J. Sadlier & Co. Price, 75 cts.

The life of Gwladys, the heroine of Lady Herbert's story, is made up of three important events; two marriages and the death of her lovely boy; and it required all of Lady Herbert's experience as a writer to fill a volume covering the space of eighteen years, with the joys and sorrows of her monotonous life. {575} The book abounds in exquisite descriptive scenes and truthful narratives of the fatigues and incidents of travel; but there is a striking resemblance between many of the leading characters, and the episodes, in general, are unnatural.

These faults can only be accounted for on the supposition that the overstrained mind of the heroine did not preserve a perfect picture of each individual; their virtues and faults appearing to Gwladys in proportion to the amount of kindness they heaped upon her. Thus Lady Herbert was unable to paint them as they were in reality and contented herself by coloring them to suit the ideas of her much-loved friend. The external appearance of the book we cannot praise. The proofs must have been read by the "printer's devil," with _malice prepense_, for a more slovenly printed book it has never been our misfortune, as a reviewer, to have been compelled to read.

Die Alte Und Neue Welt. Vols. I. II. III. New York and Cincinnati: Benziger Bros.

We are indebted to the publishers for the three volumes, beautifully bound, of this excellent German illustrated magazine. We have already noticed the admirable character both of the reading matter and of the illustrations of this periodical, which is an instructive and at the same time highly entertaining family magazine, decidedly the best of its class we have ever met with in any language. For those who can read the German language, these volumes form as pleasant a companion as one could desire of a rainy afternoon, or in any leisure hour when one is desirous of some pleasant and innocent mental relaxation. It is also profitable as well as pleasant, chiefly on account of the charming pictures it presents of Catholic life in ancient and modern Germany. To all who read German, we cordially recommend the purchase of these volumes, both for the sake of the reading matter, and also of the excellent illustrations. As for our German fellow-Catholics, they ought to be proud of possessing in their own rich and grand mother-tongue a magazine which does them so much honor, and ought to give it their universal support. For the clergy, for parish libraries, for the family, and for young people who have a taste for reading, it is invaluable. We fear that the children of our German fellow-citizens are too much disposed to forget the glorious fatherland of their parents, which is in them a great folly, to be checked and discouraged in every way. It is not necessary, in order to become good Americans, to disown and forget the country and the literature of one's ancestors. If it is worth while for those whose mother-tongue is English to spend years in acquiring a knowledge of the language and literature of Germany, it is surely a great piece of folly for those whose early education has given them the means of attaining this knowledge without any trouble to throw it away as of no value.

We think that the American part of the magazine, that is, all that represents the life of the German population in the United States, might be much better sustained than it is. We cannot blame the editors for this defect, which is no doubt entirely due to a lack of contributors living in this country; but it appears to us that a more extensive and zealous co-operation of the clergy here with the European editors would, without difficulty, supply it, and make the _Alte und Neue Welt_ really, as its name imports, a magazine of the new as well as of the old world. We wish the enterprising firm of the Messrs. Benziger abundant success in their laudable and skilful efforts to promote the cause of Catholic literature in the German language.

Winifred; Countess Of Nithsdale. By Lady Dacre. New York: D. & J. Sadlier & Co.

This story has appeared in _The Tablet_, and has nothing remarkable in it to praise or blame, if we except the numerous typographical errors, which are the more noticeable on account of the dulness of the narrative, and the low order of the curious dialogues.

{576}

Little Women; Or, Meg, Jo, Beth, And Amy. By Louisa M. Alcott. Illustrated by May Alcott. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1869.

This is a charming story, full of life, full of fun, full of human nature, and therefore full of interest. The little women play at being pilgrims when they are children, and resolve to be true pilgrims as they grow older. Life to them was earnest; it had its duties, and they did not overlook them or despise them. Directed by the wise teachings and beautiful example of a good mother, they became in the end true and noble women. Make their acquaintance; for Amy will be found delightful, Beth very lovely, Meg beautiful, and Jo splendid; that there is a real Jo somewhere we have not the slightest doubt.

Mental Photographs. An Album for Confessions of Tastes, Habits, and Convictions. Edited by Robert Saxton. New York: Leypoldt & Holt.

We have here an ingenious invention for the amusement of the social circle, and one which is capable of affording a good deal of merriment and interest, provided smart and sensible people take part in it. The album contains places for photographs, and by the side of each a series of forty questions, such as "What is your favorite book? color? name? occupation?" etc., to which answers are to be written by the original of the picture. In this way, the editor says, as complete a portrait as possible is obtained both of the inner and outer man. Most of the questions are pertinent and suggestive.

The Phenomena And Laws Of Heat. By Achille Cuzin, Professor of Physics in the Lyceum of Versailles. Translated and edited by Elihu Rich. 1 vol. 12mo. Illustrated. Pp. 265. New York: Charles Scribner & Co. 1869.

This volume belongs to the _Library of Wonders_, and its aim is to present in a summary the principal phenomena of heat, as viewed from the standpoint afforded by recent discoveries in physics. The illustrations are excellent, and give the reader a complete elucidation of the text.

The Fisher-Maiden. A Norwegian Tale. By Björnstjerne Björnson. From the Author's German Edition, by M. E. Niles. New York: Leypold & Holt. 1869.

"An artist, not a photographer, Björnson draws souls more than faces." "In these times of blatant novelists, it is no ordinary treat to get a story which affects one almost as finely as a poem."

The Catholic Publication Society will soon publish _The History of the Catholic Church on the Island of New York_. By the Rt. Rev. J. R. Bayley, D.D., Bishop of Newark. This work will contain many important documents relating to the history of the church in this city, not heretofore published.

Books Received.

From Charles Scribner & Co., New York:

Waterloo; a Sequel to the Conscript of 1813. Translated from the French of Erckmann-Chatrian. Illustrated. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 368.

From P. M. Haverty, New York:

Speeches on the Legislative Independence of Ireland. With introductory notes by Thomas Francis Meagher, and a memorial oration, by Richard O'Gorman. 1 vol. 12mo, pp.317.

From Lee & Shepard, Boston:

The Gates Wide Open; or, Scenes in another World. By George Wood. Pp. 354.

{577}

The Catholic World.

Vol. IX., No. 53.--August, 1869.

"Our Established Church." [Footnote 166]

[Footnote 166: _Putnam's Monthly Magazine_. Our Established Church. New York. G. P. Putnam & Son. July, 1869.]

The title, Our Established Church, given by _Putnam_ to a bitterly anti-Catholic article in its number for last July, is too malicious for pleasantry and too untrue for wit. The writer knows perfectly well that we have in this State of New York no established church, and that, of all the so-called churches, the Catholic Church is the furthest removed from being the state church. In no city, town, or county of the State are Catholics the majority of the population; and even in this city, where their proportion to the whole population is the largest, they probably constitute not much, if any, over one third of the whole. Public opinion throughout the State, though less hostile than it was a few years ago, is still bitterly anti-Catholic. In this city, the numbers and influence of naturalized, as distinguished from natural born citizens, is, no doubt, very great; but these naturalized citizens are by no means all Catholics, and a large number of those who may have been baptized Catholics are wholly uninfluenced by their Catholicity in their public, and, we fear, to a great extent, even in their private life. It is simply ridiculous, even by way of irony, to speak of our church as the established church, or as exerting a controlling influence in the State or city.

Moreover, no church can be the established church, here or elsewhere, unless it concedes the supremacy of the state, and consents to be its slave. This the Catholic Church can never do. The relations of church and state in Catholic countries have for many centuries been regulated by concordats; but in this country, since the adoption of the Federal constitution, the civil authority has recognized its own incompetency in spirituals, and, as before it, the equal rights of all religions not _contra bonos mores_, as also its obligation to protect the adherents of each in the free and full enjoyment of their entire religious liberty. The state guarantees, thus, all the freedom and protection the church has ever secured elsewhere by concordats. She much prefers freedom to slavery, and her full liberty, though shared with hostile sects, to the gilded bondage of a state church. She neither is the established church, nor can she consent to become so; for a state church means a church governed by the laity, and subordinated to secular interests, as we see in the case of the Anglican establishment. {578} Her steady refusal to become a state establishment is the key to those fearful struggles in the middle ages between the church and the empire; and the secret of the success of the Protestant Reformation is to be found in its ready submission to the secular prince, or its practical assertion of the supremacy of the civil power and the subordination of the spiritual.

There is always great difficulty in discussing such questions as the writer in _Putnam_ raises with our Protestant fellow-citizens; for we and they start from opposite principles and aim at different ends. We, as Catholics, assert the entire freedom and independence of the spiritual order; but they, consciously or unconsciously, assume that the state is supreme, and that the spiritual should be under the surveillance and control of the secular. We understand by religious liberty the freedom and independence of the church as an organic body; they understand by it the freedom of the laity from all authority claimed and exercised by the pope and clergy as ministers of God or stewards of his kingdom on earth. If each Protestant sect claims, in its own case, exemption from secular control, every one insists that the Catholic Church shall be subject to Caesar, and all unite to deprive her of her spiritual freedom and independence. Hence, they and we view things from opposite poles. They regard them from the point of view of the Gentiles, with whom religion was a civil function, and the state supreme alike in spirituals and temporals; we, from the point of view of the Gospel, or the New Law, which asserts the divine sovereignty, and requires us to obey God rather than men. They would secularize the church and education, abolish the priesthood, explain away the sacraments, and reduce the worship of God to the exercise of preaching, praying, and singing, which can be performed by laymen, or even women, as well as by consecrated priests. What they call their religion is a perpetual protest against what we call religion, or the Christian religion as we understand, hold, and practise it. It is especially a protest against the priesthood, priestly functions and authority.

Hence the difficulty of a mutual understanding between them and us. What they want is not what we want. We are willing to let them have their own way for themselves, but they are not willing that we should have our own way for ourselves; and they try all manner of means in their power to force us to follow their way and to fashion ourselves after their model. They do not concede that we have, and are not willing that we should have, equal rights with themselves in the state. If the state treats us as citizens standing on a footing of equality with them, they are indignant, and allege that it treats us as a privileged class, and to their great wrong. If it does not subordinate us to them, they pretend that it makes ours the established church, and places them in the attitude of dissenters from the state religion. They are not satisfied with equality; they can see no equality where they are not the masters. They cannot endure that Mordecai should be allowed to sit in the king's gate. This is the real sense of _Putnam's_ article, and the meaning of the clamor of the sectarian and a large portion of the secular press, against the State and city of New York, for their alleged liberality to the church.

{579}

The complaint in _Putnam_ is, that the State and city of New York have granted aid to certain Catholic charitable institutions, such as hospitals, orphan asylums, reformatories or protectorates for Catholic boys, etc., out of all proportion to its grants of aid to similar Protestant institutions. Also, that the Legislature has authorized the city to appropriate a certain percentage of the fees received for liquor licenses to the support of private schools for the poor, some portion, even the larger portion, of which, it is assumed, will go to the support of Catholic parochial schools, and therefore, it is pretended, to the support of _sectarian_ schools; for in the Protestant mind whatever is Catholic is sectarian. But is it true that the State or the city does proportionably less for non-Catholic charitable or educational institutions--not a few of which are well known to be formed for the very purpose of picking up, we might say kidnapping, Catholic poor children, and bringing them up in some form of Protestantism or infidelity--than it does for Catholic charitable institutions? Most certainly not. It does far less for Catholic than for non-Catholic institutions; and yet, because it does a little for institutions, though for the benefit of the whole community, under the control and management of Catholics, the State and city are calumniated, and we are insulted by its being pretended that our church is made the state church.

In this matter of State grants or city donations, the Protestant mind proceeds upon a sad fallacy. The divisions of Protestants among themselves count for nothing in a question between them and Catholics. Protestants overlook this fact, and while they call all grants and donations to Catholic institutions sectarian, they call none sectarian of all that made to Protestant institutions which are not under the control and management of some particular denomination of Protestants, as the Episcopalian, the Presbyterian, the Baptist, or the Methodist; but this is a grave error, and cannot fail to mislead the public. All grants and donations made to institutions, charitable or educational, not under the control and management of Catholics are made to non-Catholics; and, with the exception of those made to the Hebrews, to Protestant institutions. There are but two religions to be counted, Catholic and Protestant. The true rule is to count on one side whatever is given to institutions under Catholic control and management, and on the other side all that is given for similar purposes to all the institutions, whether public or private, not under Catholic control and management. The question, then, comes up, Have the State and city given proportionately greater amounts to Catholic charitable and other institutions than to Protestant institutions? If not, we have no more than our share, and the Protestant clamor is unjust and indefensible.

Of the policy of granting subsidies by State or city, to eleemosynary institutions, whether Catholic or Protestant we say nothing; for being, even now, at most not more than one fifth of the whole population of the State, we are in no sense answerable, as Catholics, for any policy the State may see proper to adopt. But, if it adopts the policy of granting subsidies, we demand for our institutions our proportion of the subsidies granted. Have we received more than our proportion? Nay, have we received anything like our proportion? We find from the official report made to the State Convention, that the total of grants made by the State to charitable and other institutions--including the New York Institution of the Deaf and Dumb, the New York Institution for the Blind, the Society for the Reformation of Juvenile Delinquents of New York, State Agricultural College, State Normal School, the Western House of Refuge for Juvenile Delinquents, State Lunatic Asylum, the Asylum for Idiots, the Willard Asylum for the Insane, academies, orphan asylums, etc., hospitals, etc., colleges, universities, etc., and miscellaneous---have amounted, for twenty-one years, ending with 1867, to $6,920,881.91. {580} Of this large amount, Catholics should have received for their institutions certainly not less than one million of dollars. Yet, all that we have been able to find that they have received out of this large sum is a little less than $276,000; that is, not over one fourth of what they were entitled to; yet _Putnam's Magazine_ has the effrontery to pretend that our church is favored at the expense of Protestantism.

So much for the State subsidies. In passing to the city, we find its donations to charitable institutions, from 1847 to 1867 inclusive, amount to $1,837,593.27; of which, Catholic institutions, including $45,000 for parochial schools, have received, as nearly as we can ascertain from the returns, a little over three hundred thousand dollars. All the rest has gone to non-Catholic, and a large part to bitterly anti-Catholic associations and institutions. Of the aggregate grants and donations of the State and city of $8,754,759.18, Catholic institutions, as far as we have been able to discover from the official tables before us, received, prior to 1868, less than $600,000, not, by any means, a fourth of our proportion. Yet we are treated as the established church!

But we have not yet stated the whole case. We do not know how many millions are appropriated annually for the support of public schools throughout the State; but in this city the tax levy, this year, for the public schools, is, we are told, $3,000,000 or over. Catholics pay their proportion of this amount, and they are a third of the population of the city. The sum appropriated to the aid of private schools, we are told, is estimated at $200,000; and if every cent of it is applied in aid of our schools, as it will not be, it is far less than the tax we pay for schools which we cannot use. The public schools are anti-Catholic in their tendency, and none the less sectarian because established and managed by the public authority of the State. The State is practically Protestant, and all its institutions are managed almost exclusively by Protestants. St. John's College, Fordham, or St. Francis Xavier's, in this city, is not more exclusively Catholic than Columbia or Union is exclusively Protestant. These latter are open to Catholics, but not more than the former are to Protestants. We count in the grants and donations to Protestant institutions the whole amount raised by public tax, together with that appropriated from the school fund of the State for the support of the public schools. Thus we claim that Catholic charities and schools do not receive, in grants and donations, a tithe of what is honestly or justly their share--whether estimated according to their numbers or according to the amount of public taxes, for sectarian charitable and educational purposes levied on them by the State and its municipalities. How false and absurd, then, to pretend that this State specially favors our religion, and treats us as a privileged class! The writer in _Putnam_ is obliged to draw largely on his sectarian imagination for facts to render his statements at all plausible. His pretended facts are in most cases no facts at all. We wish his estimate of the value of the real estate owned by the church were true; but he exaggerates hugely the amount, and then says it is held, for the most part, in fee-simple, by one or another of five ecclesiastics, which shows how ill-informed he is. {581} We subjoin the brief but spirited contradiction, by the bishop of Rochester, of several of his misstatements.

"_To the Editor of the Rochester Democrat:_

"In your paper, of June 16, appears an article with the caption, Our Established Church.' The article is based on one with the same title in _Putnam's Magazine_ for July. I do not wish to review the article in _Putnam_, but claim the privilege of correcting some of its misstatements.

"I am one of the 'five ecclesiastics' in the State of New York holding property worth millions. Yet, strange to say, there is not to my knowledge one foot of land in the wide world in my name. All the church societies in the diocese of Rochester not organized as corporate bodies under the laws of the State of New York, previous to my appointment as Bishop of Rochester, have organized or are completing their organization under those laws. So soon as these societies comply with the law of the State, Bishop Loughlin, of Brooklyn, will transfer to them, by quit-claim deeds, whatever property of theirs he inherited from the late Bishop Timon. Had I had ever so little desire to hold property in my name, I might have held in fee-simple the lots on which I am building the bishop's house; but I have placed the title in the name of 'St. Patrick's Church Society.'

"The other 'ecclesiastics' in the State of New York, who have not already transferred the property which they held in fee-simple, are engaged in making such transfer of the 'fifty millions' said to be held by them.

"The chief trouble, it seems to me, is in the fact that the Catholic Church is allowed to hold property in any shape or form. But the Catholic Church does hold property, and she will continue to hold it to the end of the chapter, and 'What do you propose to do about it?'

"'The (Catholic) Nursery and Hospital on Fifty-first street and Lexington avenue,' is a Protestant institution.

"The new St. Patrick's Cathedral stands on ground purchased by Catholics about sixty years ago, and ever since in their possession. This fact spoils Parton's compliment to the Archbishop Hughes's foresight, and a nice bit of irony in _Putnam's Magazine_.

"The Catholics in New York City, in 1817, opened an orphan asylum, which they maintained, without assistance from the city or State, until some time after the year 1840, when they received on a perpetual lease the block of ground between Fourth and Fifth avenues and Fifty-first and Fifty-second streets, at that time of very little value. On these lots they have erected two vast and magnificent buildings, in which they support over a thousand children, at an annual cost to them, and not to the city or State, of from $70,000 to $90,000.

"I make these corrections to show that the writer of the article in _Putnam_ is far astray in his facts. There are many other objectionable statements in the article, but a magazine contribution without a little spice in it would be tame and unreadable. Thus, the allusion to the church trouble in Auburn, and the pretty play on the name of the church, would lose their point if the history of that affair were properly understood.

"Catholics do not claim to have rights above any one else, but they know they have equal rights with others. They have no notion of their church ever becoming the 'Established Church,' and they are just as certain that no other church shall ever assume to be the 'Established Church' in the United States. B. J. McQuaid, "Bishop of Rochester."

This is conclusive as far as it goes. We do not know the money value of our churches, the sites and buildings of our schools, colleges, orphan asylums, hospitals, religious houses, and academies; but it is possible that in the five dioceses into which the State is ecclesiastically divided it may be half as much as the value of the real estate owned by Trinity Church in this city; but be it more or be it less, the property of the church has been bought and paid for, so far as paid for at all, with very slight exceptions, by the voluntary offerings of the faithful, and none of it has been obtained by the despoiling of Protestant owners. Very little of it is due to public grants, and the few lots leased us by the city at a nominal rent for a term of years, though of great value now, were of little value when leased. {582} Nor have these lots in any case been leased for sites of churches, but in all cases for purposes in which the city itself is no less deeply interested than the Catholics themselves. The grants to the reformatory for Catholic boys, though apparently large, are measures of economy on the part of the city; for we can manage reformatories and take care of our juvenile delinquents far more economically than the city or Protestant institutions can. The industrial school of the Sisters of Charity is a public benefit, and the city and the State would save money were all their hospitals and asylums placed under the charge of these good sisters, or of the kindred congregation of the Sisters of Mercy. Our hospitals, again, are as open to Protestants as to Catholics. It is never a Catholic practice to inquire what is a man's religion before rendering him assistance. Whoever needs our help, whatever his religion, is our neighbor.

The city has made donations, as far as we are aware, only to such Catholic institutions as are established for really public objects, and which in their operations save the city from what would otherwise be either a public nuisance or a public charge. Take the case of Catholic orphan asylums. The orphans they receive and provide for would otherwise be a charge on the city treasury. Take the institute of the Sisters of the Good Shepherd. It has for its object a noble charity, that of rescuing and reforming fallen women. These victims of vice and propagators of corruption, received and cared for by the Sisters of the Good Shepherd, and generally restored to health, virtue, and usefulness, would, if not taken up by them, fall into the hands of the correctional police, and the city would have the expense of arresting, punishing, and providing for them in the house of correction, the penitentiary, or its hospitals. Catholic charity not only accomplishes a good object, confers a public benefit, but saves a heavy expense to the Commissioners of Public Charities and Correction. It is only such Catholic institutions as tend directly to promote a public good, and to lighten the public expense, that the city aids with its grants and donations. It aids in the same way, and to a far greater extent, similar Protestant institutions, such as the House of the Friendless, the House of Mercy, the Society for the Protection of Juvenile Delinquents, the Christian's Aid Society, the Magdalen Society, the Nursery and Children's Hospital, etc., for the most part, institutions founded with an anti-Catholic intent.

The _Magazine_ asserts, the "State paid out, in 1866, for benefactions under religious control, $129,025.49, ... of which the trifling sum of $124,174.14 went to the religious purposes" of the Catholic Church. We have not been able to find a particle of proof of this, and the mode of reckoning adopted by _Putnam_ is so false, and its general inaccuracy is so great, that, in the absence of specific proof, we must presume it to be untrue, and made only for a sensational effect. The writer in _Putnam_ seems to count as Catholic such institutions and associations as the Ladies' Mission Society, The New York Magdalen Benevolent Society, Ladies' Union Aid Society, Nursery and Children's Hospital, Ladies' Home Missionary Society, Five Points Gospel Union Mission, Five Points House of Industry, Young Men's Christian Association, and we know not how many more, all Protestant, and not a few of them designed, under pretext of charity, and by really rendering some physical relief to the poor and destitute, to detach the Catholic needy, and especially Catholic children, from the church, and yet all of them are beneficiaries of the State or city. {583} No institution supported, even for proselyting purposes, by a union of two or more evangelical sects, is reckoned by _Putnam_ as Protestant or sectarian. We hold them to be thoroughly Protestant, and rabidly sectarian.

The sensational writer in _Putnam_ complains of the city for leasing to Catholics valuable real estate, at a nominal rent, for a long term of years. Only one such lease, that for the House of Industry for the Sisters of Charity, has been made in this city since 1847. The site of St. Patrick's Cathedral, which he pretends is leased by the city, at a rent of one dollar a year, has been owned by Catholics for over sixty years, and was bought and paid for by them with their own money, as the venerable Bishop of Rochester asserts. The only other instance named, that of the Nursery and Children's Hospital, Fifty-first street and Lexington avenue, is a Protestant, not a Catholic institution. The writer should not take grants and donations made to Protestants as grants and donations made to Catholics. Between Catholics and Protestants there is a difference!

The writer's statement of the huge endowments the church will have, at the rate the city and State are endowing her, in 1918, we must leave to the consideration of the future _Putnams_. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. We will only say that the church has had, thus far, in this country, no endowment, and has no source of revenue but the unfailing charity of the faithful. The magnificent revenues of our churches, colleges, hospitals, asylums, etc., so dazzling to the writer in _Putnam_, are all in his eye. We have not a single endowed church, convent, college, school, hospital, or asylum in the Union! We do great things with small means, and what to Protestants would seem to be no means at all, because He who is great is with us, and because we rely on charity, and charity never faileth.

We have sufficiently disposed of the property question, and vindicated the State and city from the charge of undue favoritism to our church. No charge can be more untrue or more unjust. A few words on the common school question, and we dismiss the article in _Putnam_, which has already detained us too long.

The writer in _Putnam_ attempts to be so ironical and so witty, and so readily sacrifices sobriety and truth to point, that he must excuse us from following him step by step in his account of our relation to the common schools. We know well the common school system of this and other States. We--we speak personally--received our early education in the public schools, were for five years a common school teacher, and for fifteen years had charge of the schools in the place of our residence, as school committee-man. We have not one word to say against them as schools for the children of those who are willing to secularize education. We make no war on the system for non-Catholics. If they wish the system for themselves, we offer them no opposition. Indeed, for those who hold the supremacy of the secular order, and believe that every department of life should be secularized, no better system can be devised. We oppose it not when intended for them, but only when intended for us and we are taxed to support it. We hold the spiritual order superior to the secular, and wish our children to be educated accordingly.

{584}

We hold that education, or the instruction and training of children and youth, is a function of the church, a function which she cannot discharge except in schools exclusively under her management and control. This education and training can be successfully given only in the Catholic family and the Catholic school. In this country, for reasons we need not stop to enumerate, the Catholic school is especially necessary. We do not, by any means, oppose what is called secular learning, and in no country where they have not been prevented by a hostile or anti-Catholic government, have Catholics failed to take the lead in all branches of secular learning and science. All the great literary masterpieces of the world, since the downfall of Pagan Rome, are the productions either of Catholics or of men who have received a Catholic training. Few as we are, and great as are the disadvantages under which we labor in this country, Catholics even here compare more than favorably, at this moment, in secular learning and science, with non-Catholics. The religious training they receive from the church, the great catholic principles which she teaches them in the catechism and in all her services, tend to quicken and purify the mind, and to fit it to excel even in secular science and learning. The Catholic has the truth to start from, and why should he not surpass all others? No! we do not oppose, we favor secular learning and science; but we oppose separating secular training from religious training, and can never consent to the secularization of education. Here is where we and the present race of Protestants differ. It is because the common schools secularize, and are intended by their chief supporters to secularize, education and to make all life secular, that we oppose them, and refuse to send our children to them where we can possibly avoid it. Even if religious education is given elsewhere, in the family or in the Sunday-school, the evil is only partially neutralized. The separation of the secular from the religious tends to create a fearful dualism in both individual and social life, to place the spiritual and the secular in the relation of antagonism, each to the other, which renders impracticable that concord between the two orders so necessary to the harmonious development of the individual life and the promotion of the well-being and progress of society. We insist, therefore, on having our children and youth trained in schools under charge of the church, that in them the spiritual and the secular may be harmonized as necessary parts of one dialectic whole.

Such are our views and wishes, and such our conscientious conviction of duty. Whether we are right or wrong, is no question for the state or civil authority to settle. The state has no competency in the matter. It is bound to respect and protect every citizen in the free and full enjoyment of the freedom of his conscience. We stand before the state on a footing of perfect equality with non-Catholics, and have the same right to have our Catholic conscience respected and protected, that they have to have their non-Catholic and secularized conscience respected and protected. We do not ask the state to impose our conscience on them, or to compel them to adopt and follow our views of education; but we deny its right to impose theirs on us, or even to carry out their views of education in any degree at our expense. The Catholic conscience binds the state itself so far, but only so far, as Catholics are concerned. Non-Catholics are the great majority of the population, at least five to our one, throughout the State, and they have the power, if they choose to exercise it, to control the State and to deny us our equal rights; but that does not alter the fact that we have equal rights, and that the State is bound to respect and cause them to be respected. {585} The State no doubt is equally bound to respect and protect the equal rights of non-Catholics, but no more than it is bound to respect and protect ours.

On this question of education, we and non-Catholics no doubt stand at opposite poles. We cannot accept their views, and they will not accept ours. Between them and us there is no common ground on which we and they can meet and act in concert. They feel it as keenly as we do. Now as the State owes equally respect and protection to both parties, and has no right to attempt to force either to conform to the views of the other, its only just and honest course is to abandon the policy of trying to bring both together in a system of common schools. Catholic and non-Catholic education cannot be carried on in common. In purely secular matters, Catholics and Protestants can act in common, as one people, one community; but in any question that involves the spiritual relations and duties of men, we and they are two communities, and cannot act in concert; and as both are equal before the State, it can compel neither to give way to the other. This may or may not be a disadvantage; but it is a fact, and must by all parties be accepted as such.

The solution of the problem would present no difficulty, were the non-Catholics as willing to recognize our rights as we are to recognize theirs. They support secular schools, and wish to compel us to send our children to them, because they hope thus to secularize the minds of our children--_enlighten_ them, they say; darken them, we say--and detach them from the church, or, at least, so emasculate their Catholicity that it will differ only in name from Protestantism. They regard common schools, in which secular learning is diverted from religious instruction and training, as a most cunningly devised engine for the destruction of the church; and therefore they insist on it with all the energy of their souls, and the strength of their hatred of Catholicity. It gives them the forming of the character of the children of Catholics, and thus in an indirect way makes the State an accomplice in their proselyting schemes. Here arises all the difficulty in the case. But, whether they are right or wrong in their calculations, the State has no more right to aid them against us, than it has to aid us against them. If it will, as it is bound to do, respect and protect the rights of conscience, or real religious liberty, the only solid basis of civil liberty, it must do as the continental governments of Europe do, and divide the public schools into two classes; the one for Catholics, and the other for non-Catholics; that is, adopt the system of denominational schools, or, rather, as we would say, Catholic schools--under the management and control of the church--for Catholics, and secular schools--under its own management and control,--for the rest of the community. Let the system stand as it is for non-Catholics, by whatever name they may be called, and let the State appropriate to Catholics, for the support of schools approved by their church, their proportion of the school fund, and of the money raised by public tax for the support of public schools, simply reserving to itself the right, through the courts, to see that the sums received are honestly applied to the purposes for which they are appropriated. {586} The State may, if it insists, fix the minimum of secular instruction to be given, and withhold all or a portion of the public moneys from all Catholic schools that do not come up to it.

This, if the State, for public reasons, insists on universal education, is the best way of solving the difficulty, without violence to the equal rights of either Catholics or non-Catholics. The State would thus respect all consciences, and at the same time secure the education of all the children of the land, which is, no doubt, a public desideratum. Another way would be, to exempt Catholics from the tax levied for the support of the public schools, and give to the schools they maintain their proportion of the school fund held in trust by the State, and leave Catholics to establish and manage schools for their own children in their own way, under the supervision and control of the church. Either way of solving the difficulty would answer our purpose, and we venture to say that one or the other method of dealing with the public school question will ere long have to be adopted, whatever the opposition excited.

The American sense of justice already begins to revolt at the manifest wrong of taxing us to support schools from which our conscience will not permit us to derive any benefit. At present, we pay our quota to the support of the public schools, which we cannot with a good conscience use, and are obliged to support our own schools in addition. This is grossly unjust, and in direct violation of the equal rights guaranteed us by the constitution, and the religious liberty which is the loud boast of the country. The subsidies granted to some of our parochial schools in this city are an attempt, and an honorable attempt, to mitigate the injustice which is done us by the common school system. But the sums appropriated, as considerable as they may seem, are far below the sums collected from us, for the support of the public schools. The principle on which the common school system is founded is, that the wealth of the State should educate the children of the State. One third, at least, of the children of this city, are the children of Catholic parents, and belong to the Catholic Church. The sum appropriated for the public schools in this city, the present year, is, if we are correctly informed, something over three millions of dollars, and Catholics are entitled to one third of it, or to one million of dollars. They do not receive for their schools even a third of one million--even according to the most exaggerated statements of _Putnam's Magazine_ and the sectarian press--and nothing like the amount of the public school tax which they are compelled to pay; yet it is pretended that ours is the established church, and that Catholics are specially favored by the State and city! We ask no favors, but we demand justice, and that our equal rights with non-Catholic citizens be respected, and protected.

There are other points, in _Putnam_, that we should like to notice--points which are intended, and not unfitted, to tell on the minds of ignorant anti-Catholic bigots and fanatics; but our space, as well as our patience, is exhausted. The writer is worthy of no confidence in any of his statements. He proves effectually that it is untrue that figures cannot lie; for under his manipulation they not only lie, but lie hugely. Even the anti-Catholic _Nation_ has rebuked him for his levity, and he has even disgusted all fair-minded and moderate Protestants. He has quite overshot his mark. But be that as it may, we have confidence in the justice and right sense of the great body of our countrymen and fellow-citizens, and we do not believe, however much they dislike the church, that they will persevere in a course manifestly unjust to Catholics, and repugnant to the first principles of American liberty, after becoming once aware of its bad character.

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As to the subsidies granted by the Legislature to Catholic charitable and educational institutions, they have been far less than are due--as the Hon. John E. Devlin justly remarked in the Convention, not ten per cent of the amount granted. And it has been no crime on our part to accept what has been offered us; for we have received and accepted them only for purposes of public utility and common humanity. Nor are we responsible for the action of the State Legislature; for it is composed chiefly of non-Catholics, and by a large majority elected by non-Catholics. Catholics are by no means the majority of electors in the State. We institute no inquiry into the motives that have influenced the members of the Legislature; we never assign bad or sinister motives, when good and proper motives are at hand. We presume the motive has been a sense of justice toward a large and growing class of the community, whose rights have for a long time been trampled on or disregarded. To condemn them, is not at all creditable to the rabid Protestant press, and, in our judgment, is very bad policy. However it may be with the Protestant leaders, the majority of the American people are sincerely and earnestly attached to the American doctrine of equal rights, and will no more consent to its manifest violation in the case of Catholics than of non-Catholics.

Mark IV.

"Why are ye afraid, O ye of little faith?"

As if the storm meant Him; Or'cause Heaven's face is dim, His needs a cloud. Was ever froward wind That could be so unkind, Or wave so proud? The wind had need be angry, and the water black, That to the mighty Neptune's self dare threaten wrack.

There is no storm but this Of your own cowardice That braves you out: You are the storm that mocks Yourselves; you are the rocks Of your own doubt. Besides this fear of danger there's no danger here, And he that here fears danger does deserve his fear.

Crashaw. -------

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Daybreak.