CHAPTER IX.

When they arrived at the Wiltshire depot, Dick and Mary were still undecided what step to take next; for neither of them favored the idea of asking at once for Dr. Heremore, feeling certain that the probabilities of his being alive would vanish the moment that such an inquiry was proposed.

It was a nice enough town, with fine breezes from the sea blowing through its streets, and a quaint look about the houses that made Dick, at least, feel as if they were in a foreign land. Dick and Mary stood on the depot platform together, undecided still.

"Let us walk a little way up and see what we can see," Mary proposed.

All that they found at first were a few lumber-wagons, a market-wagon, and now and then a group of boys playing; but finally they came upon a store, at the door of which several long-limbed countrymen were talking and chewing tobacco. I should have said "chewing and talking;" for the chewing was much more vigorously prosecuted than the talking. The presence of the strangers, one a lady in a plain but very stylish dress, attracted some attention; the men surveyed them in a leisurely, undazzled way, hardly making room for them to pass; for, having seen the sign POST-OFFICE in the window of this store, Dick and Mary concluded to enter and make inquiries. The afternoon sun streamed in upon the floor; the flies buzzed at the windows; and a man, with his hat on and his chair tilted back, was at the back of the store. He made no sign of changing his position when he first saw the strangers, not because Mr. Wilkes was any less well disposed toward "the ladies" than a city merchant would be, but because country people fancy it is more dignified to show indifference than politeness. In time, however, he tilted down his chair, freed his great mouth from its load of tobacco, and lounged up to the counter where Mary and Dick were standing.

"I want to ask you a question," Dick answered to the storekleeper's look; "I suppose you know this town pretty well?" Dick was so afraid of the answer that he did not know how to put a direct question in regard to Dr. Heremore.

"Rather," was the laconic reply, with no change of the speaker's countenance.

"Do you know if a Dr. Heremore lived here once, twenty-five years or so ago?"

"I wasn't here in them days," for Mr. Wilkes was a young man who did not care to be old.

"I did not suppose you did know, of your own knowledge; I thought you might have heard."

"I suppose you have come to see him?"

"Or to hear of him," added Dick.

"Come from Boston or York, I suppose?"

"From New York," answered Dick; "can you tell us who is likely to give us information?"

{189}

"About the old doctor?" asked Mr. Wilkes in the same impassive manner.

"Yes," said Dick, rather impatiently.

"I suppose you are relations o' his?"

"We came to get information, not to give it," Dick replied in a quiet tone but inwardly vexed.

"Well," answered the storekeeper, not in the least abashed by this rebuke, "there's an old fellow lives up yonder, who knows pretty much everything's been done here for the last forty years; you'd better go to him; if any one knows, he does. Better not be too techy with _him_, I can tell you, if you want to find out anything; people as wants to take must give too, you know. That there road will take you straight to the house; white house, first on the left after you come to the meeting house."

"Thank you; and the name?"

"Well, folks usually calls him 'The Governor' round here; you, being strangers, can call him what you please."

"Will he like a stranger's calling?"

"Oh! tell him I sent you--Ben Wilkes--and you are all right."

"Thank you!" Mary and Dick replied and turned away. "Ben Wilkes," who, during this conversation, had seated himself on the counter, the better to show his ease in the strangers' society, which--Mary's especially--secretly impressed him very much, looked leisurely after them as they passed out of the store; then took out some fresh tobacco, and returned to his chair.

"I don't like to go," said Mary, "it may be some joke upon us."

"I am afraid it is," answered Dick; "but, after all, what can happen that we need mind? If it is a gentleman to whom he has sent us, no matter how angry he is, he will see that you are a lady, and you will know how to explain it; if he has sent us to one who is not, I guess I shall be able to reply to him."

Their walk was a very long one, but the meeting-house at last came in sight, and next it, though there was a goodly space between, was a large white house, irregular and rambling, with very nicely kept shrubbery around.

Dick opened the gate with a hand that was a little nervous; but Mary whispered as their feet crunched the neatly bordered gravel walk to the low porch, "It is all right, I am sure; there is an old gentleman by the window."

"Will you be spokesman this time?" asked Dick.

Mary nodded, and as the path was narrow and they could not well walk side by side, she was in front, so that naturally she would be the first to meet the old gentleman. A very fine old gentleman he was; a large man with a fine head, and, as his first words proved, a remarkably full, sweet voice. Seeing a lady coming toward him, he rose at once from his arm-chair, closed his book and advanced a step or two to greet her. Mary was one of those women toward whom courteous men are most courteous from the first glance; and this old gentleman, who moved toward her with all the grace and ease of a vigorous young man, was one of those men to whom gentle women are gentler, from the first, than to others.

"Good-evening," he said, as Mary looked up to him with a smile at at once pleasant and deferential. "Good-evening," and as she did not say more than these words, the gentleman continued, "I will not say, 'Come in,' for it is too pleasant out of doors for that; but let me give you chairs."

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"Thank you, sir, we are strangers, but, we hope, not intruders," she replied.

"Certainly not," he answered. "It is a great pleasure for me to receive my old friends, and a pleasure to me to make new ones; and strangers, even if they remain strangers, bring with them great interest to the quiet lives of us old people." This he said in a tone not in the least formal, or as if "making a speech," and still looking more at Mary than at her brother. They were not yet seated, and no expression but that of kindly courtesy crossed his face while looking into the sweet, gravely smiling one before him; his tones were hardly altered when he added, "I have waited for you these many long years, Mary; but I never doubted you would come at last. You must not play tricks upon my old heart; it has suffered too much to be able to sustain its part as it did in old times."

Mary drew back a step, at this strange address, but she could not withdraw her eyes from his, as in tender, gentle tones he spoke the last words. Dick stood closer to her, but said nothing.

"Indeed, you mistake," Mary said, with great earnestness; "I have told you the truth, I am really a stranger, although you have called me by my name, Mary. I am Mary Brandon, and this--"

"Is your husband. Well, Mary, are you not my daughter? If you were changed, why come to see me? I heard you were changed. I spent four years in Paris and Rome, following up the trace given me in New York, and then I came back disappointed but not despairing. 'Mary will not die without sending for me or coming to me,' I said; and I have taken care always to be ready for you. I never thought you could come to me with coldness or indifference. I was prepared for almost anything--to see you poor and broken-hearted; no shame, no sin, no sorrow that would part us. I did not think to see you come back beautiful, happy, rich," a glance at her dress, "and without a word of greeting."

"Dr. Heremore?" said Dick, not because he believed or thought it, but because the words came forced by some inward power greater than his knowledge.

"Well, Charles," answered the old gentleman, sadly but composedly, turning at this name, "can you explain it?"

And then Mary understood it all. The years were nothing to him who had waited for his child's return, She was in his arms before Dick had recovered from his first bewilderment, now, by this act of hers, trebly increased.

"Ah my child! if I spoke severely, it was only because I could not bear the waiting. I knew your jokes of old, darling; but when one has waited so long for the dear face one loves, the last moments seem longer than all the years. I will ask no questions. I see you two are together, and it is all right. You can tell me all at your leisure. Now, Mary, I must kill the fatted calf. Even though you and Charles have not returned as prodigals," he added as if he would not, even in play, risk hurting them.

"Not yet, please," said Mary. "Let us have it all to ourselves for a few minutes." And they seated themselves on the sunny porch, the old gentleman's delight now beginning to show itself in the nervous way he moved his hands, and his disjointed sentences. {191} Mary took off her hat at once, and threw it, with rather more of gayety than was quite natural to her, upon one of the short branches, looking like pegs, which had been left in the pillars of the porch.

"You haven't forgotten the old ways--eh, Mary?" Dr. Heremore asked, as he saw the movement. "I remember well how proud you were the day you first found you could reach that very peg, and you are as much a child as you were that day, is she not, Charles?"

"Pretty nearly," answered Dick, who could not fulfil his part with Mary's readiness.

"How deliciously fresh everything looks!" exclaimed Mary.

"You should have seen it in June. I never saw the roses thicker. O pet, how I did wish for you, then! The time of roses was always your time."

"And I love them as much as ever!" exclaimed Mary, telling the truth of herself. "Next year, if I am alive, I will be here with them; we will have jolly times looking after them. I have learned a great deal about flowers lately, but I shall never love roses like yours." This indeed, Mary felt to be true.

"Flora has had to be replaced," said her grandfather observing her eyes resting on a statue in the garden in front. "I will show you the alterations I have made, and a few are improvements. But you must have something to eat now. I cannot let you go a minute longer. You came up by the boat, I presume?"

"Yes, and had a hearty dinner," Mary answered, having a dread of a servant's entering, and getting things all wrong again, "To eat now will only spoil our appetite for tea, and I want you to see what an appetite I have."

"Perhaps you are too tired to go around the garden?"

"Tired! No, indeed."

"I am afraid it will not interest you much, Charles," the old gentleman said to Dick. "You never did care much about the little place."

"Oh! I assure you, I would be delighted to see it all," Dick answered, eagerly; but Mary had noticed the constraint in her grandfather's voice whenever he addressed the supposed Charles, and said quickly:

"Oh! we don't want you, you don't know a rose from a sunflower; pick up a book and read till we come back."

"This way, dear; have you forgotten?" Dr. Heremore said, looking at her in a perplexed manner as naturally enough she turned away from the house. "This way, dear, you lose the whole effect if you go around. Come through the house. There, dear old Mary," he added, smilingly handing her a glass of wine which he poured out from a decanter on the sideboard in the dining room. "Drink to 'The Elms' and no more jokes upon old hearts."

"To our happy meeting and no more parting," added Mary, drinking her wine with him. He poured out a glass for Dick, or Charles, as he thought him, and, rather formally, carried it to him It was very clear that "Charles" was no favorite.

All through the trim garden, and then through the whole house, Mary followed her grandfather, her heart, as it may be believed, full of love for the tender father of her lost mother. She stood in the room which that mother had occupied, and could not speak a word as she gazed reverently around. It was a thorough New England bedroom--a high mahogany bedstead, a long narrow looking-glass with a landscape painted on the upper part, in a gilt frame, a great chintz-covered arm-chair by the bed, a round mahogany table, with a red cover and a Bible, a stiff, long-legged washstand in the corner, a prim chest of drawers under the looking-glass between the windows, composed the furniture of the room; a badly painted picture of a young girl in the dress of a shepherdess, and a pair of vases on the mantel, were the only ornaments; a crimson carpet and white window-curtains were plainly of a later date than the furniture.

{192}

"I have had to alter some things," said Dr. Heremore, as they came out of the room, "but I got them as much like the old ones as I could, that you might feel at home here. Your baggage should be here by this time, should it not? How did you send it?" "We left it at the station," answered Mary. "You know we were not sure--not certain sure that we should find you."

"I suppose not, I suppose not. These have been long years, Mary, but they have not changed us, after all. But I must send for your trunks. I suppose Charles has the checks."

"We brought but very little with us," Mary said, considerably embarrassed, and, seeing the change in his countenance, she hastened to add, "But now that it is all right and we have found the way, we will stay with you until you turn us out; at least, I will."

"Then you will send for more things, and how about the children?" with the same perplexed look at her. Mary knew not what to say. Was it not better to tell him the real truth at once? How could she go on with this deception, as innocent as any deception can be, and yet how break down his joy in its very midst? Silently she stood beside him, at a hall window, looking upon the prospect he had pointed out to her, considering what answer to make him. He, too, was silent; for a long time the two stood there, and then it was the doctor who spoke first.

"Mary, your children must be men and women now. I had forgotten how long it was; but I remember you were here last the year the meeting-house over there was put up, and I just was thinking that was over twenty years ago. Richard was a few months old, then. Mary, don't deceive me. Tell me the truth."

Mary turned sadly toward him, and laid her hands in his.

"_Grandpapa_, I will," was all she said.

It was a great blow to him, but something had been hovering confusedly before his mind ever since they came out together, and now it was clear. He turned abruptly away from her at the first shock, then came to her more kindly than ever. "Forgive me, dear," he apologized with mournful courtesy; "I did not mean to be rude, but it is a great shock. You are very like her, very like her, but I should have known at once that those years could not have left her a girl like you. I will not ask more--your mother--"

"My _father_ is living," Mary said, with tears streaming down her face, as he stopped, "and that is my brother down-stairs."

"Is he your only brother? have you sisters?" he asked.

"We are your only grandchildren," she answered; and he understood that his child was dead, and another woman had filled her place.

"You are a noble girl," he said, with lingering tenderness in every word. "We will go down now. I will greet Richard, and then, dear, you will let me be alone for a little while. I shall have to send for your things, you know."

"If it is any trouble--" began Mary.

{193}

"None, I will see about it at once."

They went down, and he greeted Richard, then went away slowly, still begging them to excuse him for the inattention to them. Soon after, a barefooted boy of twelve or fourteen or so went whistling down the road past the house, staring at them as he went by; an hour after, the same boy returned with their bags; these were taken up-stairs by a thin, severe-looking, very neatly-dressed woman, who quickly and with only a word or two showed them their rooms, and told them that, as soon as they were dressed, tea would be ready.

Mary dressed in her mother's room with a sense of that mother's spirit around her. She fortunately had brought a dress with her, so that she was able to make a slight change. Then slowly and with great reverence she went down the stairs, meeting Dick in the hall, to whom she whispered, "O Dick! how I love him; but I am afraid it will kill him; the purpose for which he has lived these twenty years is taken from him. Can we give him another?"

"It may be that you can," Dick replied, looking tenderly into her sweet face, all aglow with the bright soul-life which had been kindled so actively in the last hours. "If you can, Mary, try it; do not think of anything else; stay with him, do anything you think right and good for him; he deserves more from us than--" Dick hesitated, not willing to speak unkindly of Mr. Brandon, who certainly had been a father to Mary--"than any other."

"I will try," Mary answered speaking quickly and in a low voice. "If it seems best that I should stay a little while, you will explain to papa? But perhaps, after all, it will be you who will be able to replace her best."

"We shall see," Dick said, and then Dr. Heremore was seen coming toward them, with less lightness in his step than they had noticed before; otherwise there was but little change, except that his voice was more mournfully tender than at first.

"It is a long time since I saw that place filled," he said, arranging a chair for Mary before the tea-urn. "And it is very sweet to me to see your bright young face before me; a long time since I have had so strong an arm to help me," he added, as Dick eagerly offered him some little assistance, "and I am very grateful for it."

There were no explanations that night; he talked to Dick and Mary as to very dear and honored guests, of everything likely to interest them, and was won by their eager attention to tell them many little things about his house and grounds, which were his evident pride and pleasure, all in the same subdued, courteous way that had attracted them from the first. There seemed, in the beginning, a far greater sympathy between Mary and him than he had with Dick, which was the reason, undoubtedly, why he devoted his attention more especially to his grandson, whose modest replies, given with a heightened color and an evident desire to please, were very winningly made.

"I have two noble grandchildren," he said to them as they stood up to say good-night. "My daughter, short as her life was, did not come into the world for a small purpose; she did not live for little good; she has sent me two to love and esteem, and to win some love from them, I trust--yes, I _believe_."

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The next day, he set apart a time and then there were full explanations from both sides. Dick's story we know already. Dr. Heremore's can be told in a few words. His daughter married, when very young and on a short acquaintance, a gentleman who was spending his summer holidays in the vicinity of Wiltshire, and, immediately upon her marriage, had gone to N---- to reside; they remained there until Richard was a month old, when his daughter made him a long--her last--visit; from there to New York, whence a letter or two was all that came for some little time; then one written evidently in great depression of spirits. Dr. Heremore, on receipt of this, went at once to New York to see her, only to hear that she had gone with her husband to Europe. A little further inquiry proved to his satisfaction that Mr. Brandon was in the South, and that his wife was not with him; his letters were unanswered, and his alarm was every day greater and more painful. At last, he followed a lady--described to be somewhat of his daughter's appearance, bearing the same name, who had joined a theatrical company, though of this last he was not aware for a long time--to Europe. As he had said before, he came back disappointed but not despairing, to hear of Mr. Brandon's death--the same false report, perhaps intentionally circulated, which his daughter had heard. Her letters to him, of which she spoke in her letter to Dick, were lost while he was away searching for her. He had not been rich, then; but coming home, he had resumed his practice, and lived patiently awaiting news of her, energetically laboring to secure a small fortune for her should she ever come to claim it. This little fortune he would divide at once, he said, between her two children; for "what," he argued with them, "what is the use of hoarding it to give to you later when, I trust, you will not need it half as much? A few hundreds in early youth are often worth as many thousands in after-years."

"That will do for Dick," Mary conceded, "because it _would_ be a great thing for him to have a little start just now; and besides, there's Somebody Else for _him_ to think of; but I will take my share in staying here. You will not drive me away?"

"Your father?"

"Papa would--it's a shabby thing to say--be very willing to have me away, in his present circumstances. He has been wishing and wishing for Fred and Joe constantly ever since they went; but for me--he thinks girls are a sort of nuisance, I know he does; and will be very grateful to you if you divide the burden with him."

"But if--just as I got used to loving you, there should be another Somebody Else besides Dick's? How about this out of civilization place, then?"

Mary grew very red indeed, but answered readily, "Oh! that's a long way off; and besides, he may not think this out of civilization, you know."

So it was settled. One of the clerks who had been from early boyhood in Ames and Narden's store had been long intending to start out on his own account, and Dick was very sure that they could fulfill their olden dream of partnership, now that Dr. Heremore was willing to give them a start. Dick went down to New York the day after this conversation, and there was a long talk between the members of the firm, and the two clerks, which culminated in a dinner and the agreement that all was to go on as it had been going, until the first of May, when there would be a new bookseller's firm in the New York Directory, to wit, BARNES AND HEREMORE.

{195}

After a brief conversation with Mr. Brandon, Dick hurried to Carlton, and was not long making his way to the shadowy lane. To her honor and glory be it said, Trot was the first to see him; and without waiting for a greeting, not even for the expected "dear 'ittle Titten," ran with all speed into the house, crying, "Thishter! Thishter! Mr. Dit ith toming!" at the top of her voice; and Rose, all blushing at being caught "just as she was," had no time to utter a word before "Mr. Dit," was beside her. There was great rejoicing over Dick; the children pulled him in every direction, to show him some new thing he had not yet seen, until he began to tell the story of his adventures, when they stood around in perfect silence. Mrs. Alaine and Mrs. Stoffs wiped their eyes between their smiles and their exclamations of delight; old Carl once held his pipe in one hand and forgot to fill it for nearly a minute, so absorbed was he; but Rose alone did not say a word of congratulation when Dick's good fortune and his brightened future were announced. I even think she had a good cry about it, after a little talk with Dick by herself, that evening, so hard it is to leave one's home.

"There's not a thing to wait for now," Dick had said, with beaming eyes; and poor Rose's ideas of "youth," and "time to get ready," and all that sort of remark, were put aside without the least consideration. "We will have a little house of our own," Dick continued, "we will not go to boarding, as some people do; you are too good a housekeeper for _that_, I am sure; and as New York has no houses for young people of moderate means, we will have a home of our own near the city. Shall we not, Rose?"

Dick was a very busy young man for a couple of months after this. One thing Dr. Heremore did that seemed hard, but not so very unnatural, and of which no one who has never felt a wrong to some one dearly loved should judge. He begged that he might never see Mr. Brandon, nor be asked to hold any communication with him. He gave Mary a certain sum of money, which he wished her to use for her father and step-brothers; but beyond that, he left Mr. Brandon to help himself.

After attending to all his grandfather's requests and suggestions, Dick, as he had been invited to do, returned to Wiltshire to give an account of his management, and to take up some things for Mary's use. He was on his way to the boat when he suddenly started and exclaimed, "Mr. Irving!" for no less a person than his "Sir Launcelot" was standing beside him. Mr. Irving, not recognizing him, bowed slightly and passed on, and Dick began to be relieved that Mary was so far away; perhaps, after all, it was a great deal better.

But another surprise was in store for Dick, who--an inexperienced traveller even yet, and always in advance of time--had gone on and waited long before the boat prepared to leave; for at the last moment a carriage drove rapidly to the pier, and a gentleman sprang from it in time to catch the boat. It was "Sir Launcelot."

"Mr. Heremore, I believe," he said to Dick, when they met somewhat later on the boat. "I called on Mr. Brandon to-day, just after you met me, to pay my respects to him on my return from Europe. I found him in a different business from that in which I had left him, and very reserved. I asked after the ladies of his family, who, he told me, were at your grandfather's and his father-in-law's, in Maine, adding that there was a long story, which I had better come to you to hear, if you had not already left. I have business in Maine, so followed you up."

So they made acquaintance; and the new-found relationship with Mary was explained, as also the reverses Mr. Brandon had met with.

{196}

"His wife dead, too, you tell me! How shocked he must have been at my questions of her! How like him not to give me a hint!" exclaimed Mr. Irving.

The new friendship progressed well, as it often will between two gentlemen, one of whom is in love with the other's sister, although there was a wide difference between their characters. Mr. Irving was many years older than Dick, as his finished manners and his manly presence attested, without the aid of a few gray hairs on his temples, not visible, and half a dozen or so in his heavy moustache, very visible and adding much to his good looks, in the eyes of most of the ladies who saw him. It seemed as natural to Dick that this travelled man, so polished, so princely as he was, should be just the one to please his high-bred sister, and he captivated by her, as that he himself should belong to Rose and she to him. Consequently he did not put on any of the airs in which brothers, especially when they are very young, delight to appear before their sister's admirers.

Dick had even tact enough, when they reached Dr. Heremore's house --for, of course, Mr. Irving's "business in Maine" did not interfere with his accompanying Dick to Wiltshire--to be, very busy with the carriage and trunks, while Mr. Irving opened the little gate, and announced himself to the young lady on the porch. When Dick, a few minutes after, greeted his sister, he had no need, though Mary's color did not come as readily as Rose's, to say with Sir Lavaine:

"For fear our people call you lily maid, In earnest, let me bring your color back."

I think that Dr. Heremore, though the very soul of courtesy, looked rather sadly upon Mr. Irving; but he was not long left in any uncertainty in regard to that gentleman's wishes; for the very next day his story was told; how he had known and loved Mary from her very earliest girlhood, but that he was afraid of his greater age, and, anxious that she should not be influenced by their long acquaintance and the advantages his ripened years had given him over admirers more suited to her in age, he had gone to Europe, but lacked the courage to remain half the time he had allotted, and now was back, and--"

"And, ah! yes, I understand; I am to lose her," said her grandfather sadly. "I knew I could not keep her."

"Giving her to me will not be losing her. We talked about it last night, and we are both delighted with this place; and as I am bound to no especial spot, (Mr. Irving was an author,) and she loves none half so much as this, we can well pitch our tent here."

But when further acquaintance had enabled the man of "riper years" to take a place in Dr. Heremore's life which neither Mary nor Dick could fill, it was settled that the old house was large enough for the three; and as Mr. Irving was wealthy, healthy, and wise, the sun of Mary's happiness shone very brightly.

There's nothing more for me to say except that Dick went down to Carlton still once again, and that in its church there is a little altar of the Blessed Virgin, whereon Rose had the unspeakable delight--so precious to every pious heart--of laying a beautiful veil--Mary's gift to her "sweet little sister"--which Trot looks critically at every Sunday, and may be a little oftener, and puzzles her small head wondering if its delicate texture--the veil's--will stand the wear and tear of the years that must pass before she can replace it with hers; which always makes uncle Carl laugh. And Rose has persuaded Mary to dedicate her own in the same way, and Mary has laughingly complied, a little shame-faced, too, at her own secret pleasure in doing it, at the same time half wondering "what will come of it." Rose does not wonder; she thinks she knows.

As for Dick, there is every reason to believe that this coming Christmas there will be two or three glad hearts travelling around in company with two or three rough, ragged, shaggy boys; that he will carve his own Christmas turkey at his own, own table; and that there will be a _couleur de Rose_ over all his future life.

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Our Lady's Easter.

I.

She knelt, expectant, through the night: For He had promised. In her face The pure soul beaming, full of grace, But sorrow-tranced--a frozen light.

But, ere her eastward lattice caught The glimmer of the breaking day, No more in that sweet garden lay The buried picture of her thought.

The sealed stone shut a void, and lo! The Mother and the Son had met! For her a day should never set Had burst upon the night of woe.

In sudden glory stood He there, And gently raised her to his breast: And on his heart, in perfect rest, She poured her own--a voiceless prayer.

Enough for her that he has died, And lives, to die again no more: The foe despoiled, the combat o'er, The Victor crowned and glorified.

{198} II.

What song of seraphim shall tell My joy to-day, my blissful queen? Yet truly not in vain, I ween, Our earthly alleluias swell.

It is but just that we should thus Our Jesus' triumph share with thee. For us he died, to set us free. Thou owest him risen, then, to us.

But thou, sweet Mother, grant us more Than here to join the festive strain: To hymn, but never know, our gain Were ten times loss for once before.

Thy faithful children let us be. Entreat thy Son, that he may give The wisdom to our hearts to live In his, the risen life, with thee.

For so, amid the onward years, This feast shall bring us strength renewed; To pass secure, o'er self subdued, To Easter in the sinless spheres.

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Two Months In Spain During The Late Revolution.

September 9, 1868.

To-day, while they are yet celebrating the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin, we enter Spain, that mysterious world behind the Pyrenees, so different from all others, and of which we know so little! To-day is also the anniversary of my birthday into the Catholic Church, and now it is my birthday into Catholic Spain! "La tierra de Maria Santisima."

Leaving Perpignan (in the Pyrénées Orientales) by diligence, we pass through a most tropical looking country, amidst hedges of aloe, and oleander, and pomegranates, (reminding one of Texas in the character of the soil, the productions, and even the houses;) we soon begin the ascent of the mountains; and, before it is quite dark, we are across the Pyrenees. By the light of a beautiful sunset we have some grand mountain views, and encounter a group of Spanish gypsies, dark, ragged, and dirty, but highly picturesque. All along these mountains are cork-trees of prodigious size, with black, twisted trunks, from which the bark has been stripped--their fantastic shapes taking the form of nuns or monks--great ghosts in the dim light. Perthus, on the other side the mountains, is the last French town; high above which towers the fortress of Bellegarde, built by Louis XIV. in 1679. Just outside this town we pass a granite pyramid, on which is written "Gallia." A fellow-passenger tells us we are on Spanish soil. All cry, "Viva España!" and we look out upon a solemn-looking soldier, who stands by a cantonnier, above which floats the red and yellow flag of Spain. La Junguera is the first Spanish town; and here is a rival fort to the towering French one so lately seen. Here our luggage is visited, and we have our first experience of Spanish courtesy. The gentlemen passengers all come to ask, "Will the ladies have fruit?" "Will they have wine?" And one of our party, wishing to give alms to a blind beggar, and asking change for a franc, one of the gentlemen gives her the money in coppers, and refuses to take the franc; which, it seems, is the Spanish custom.

At Figueras we eat our first _Spanish supper_; no inconsiderable meal, if we may judge by this one. First came the inevitable soup, (_puchero;_) then, boiled beef; next in course, cabbage and turnips, eaten with oil and vinegar, and the yellow sweet-pepper which is the accompaniment to everything, or may be eaten alone, as salad. The third course was stewed beef; next, fried fish, (fish, in Spain, never comes before the third course;) and now, stewed mushrooms; but, as they are stewed in oil, (and that none of the sweetest,) we pass them by. After this, lobster; then cold chicken and partridge; and now the delicious fruits of the country, and the toasted almonds which are universal at every meal, and cheese. Coffee and chocolate terminate this repast, for which we pay three and a half francs, and after which one might reasonably be expected to travel all night.

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Gerona appeared with the early dawn; a curious old town of 14,000 inhabitants, on the river Oña, and looking not unlike Rome with its yellow river, its tall houses, and balconies. Both this town and Figueras have made themselves memorable in wars and sieges. Indeed, what Spanish town has not its tale of heroism and brave defence during the French invasion of 1809-11? These towns were both starved into capitulation, after sieges which lasted seven or eight months, the women loading and serving the guns during the siege, and taking the places of their fallen husbands or lovers, like the "Maid of Saragossa." We were glad to leave the diligence for the railway which runs by the lovely Mediterranean coast, passing many pretty towns with ruins of old Moorish fortresses and castles on the hills beyond. In one of these towns, Avengo de Mar, the dock-yards are very famous, and a naval school was here established by Charles III.

Mataro, a place of 16,000 people, seemed very busy and thriving. This, too, has its tale of siege and slaughter. The French have left behind them in Spain a legacy of hate. Of the ruins of a monastery near one of these towns a pretty story is told. Two Catalonian students passing by this beautiful site, one exclaimed, "What a charming situation this would be for a convent! When I am pope, I will build one here." "Then," said the other, "I will be a monk, and live in it." Years after, when the latter _had_ become a monk, he was sent for to Rome, and being presented to the pope, (Nicholas V.,) recognized in him his old friend and companion, when in the act of receiving his blessing. The pope embraced him; reminded the monk of his promise; built the convent, in which, we presume, the latter lived and died. The beautiful convent was utterly destroyed in the civil wars of 1835, when the monks were all driven from Spain.

"The sacred taper-lights are gone, Gray moss hath clad the altar stone, The holy image is o'erthrown, The bell hath ceased to toll.

"The long-ribbed aisles are burnt and shrunk, The holy shrine to ruin sunk, Departed is the pious monk; God's blessing on his soul!"

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Barcelona, Province Of Catalonia. Hotel De Las Cuatro Naciones.

September 10.

How charming looks this gay, busy city, with its shady streets, beautiful gardens and fountains, the sea before it, the mountains behind, fortifications on every side, seemingly impregnable. Our hotel is on the "Rambla," a wide boulevard, like those of Paris, upon which most of the fine buildings are situated, and which is the principal promenade. In the evening, we go to one of the theatres, and hear a French opera beautifully sung.

Friday, 11.

The books tell us that Barcelona was founded by Hamilcar, the Carthaginian, B.C. 237. Cesar Augustus raised it to a Roman colony. Ataulfo, the first king of the Goths, chose it for his court. In 713, it fell into the hands of the Moors, who were expelled by Charlemagne in 801. From this time, it belonged to the Duchy of Aquitaine, and was governed by counts, until Charles the Bold made it an independent kingdom, to reward Count Wilfred el Velloso, who had aided him against the Normans. Count Raymond Berenguer IV. united Catalonia with Arragon, by marrying the heiress of that kingdom, from which time it was the rival of Genoa and Venice. It has always been the centre of revolutionary movement, restlessly endeavoring to regain its independence. The Catalans are industrious, bold, and enterprising. {201} Indeed, so much do they surpass the people of other parts of Spain in activity and enterprise, that they are called the Spanish Yankees, and Barcelona is termed the Manchester of Spain. Manufactories of cotton and silk; the most famous laces of Spain; a most flourishing trade, as well as fine schools and public libraries, are to be found here. They boast that the first experiment with steam for navigation purposes was made in Barcelona, the inventor having displayed his steamboat before Charles V. and Philip II., in 1543. Charles, being occupied in foreign conquests, took little notice of this, and, through fear of explosion, the discovery was abandoned, and the secret died with the inventor.

Barcelona has a very large French population. In the Calle Fernando, we see shops handsome as those of Paris. Already we find most tempting Spanish fans for a mere trifle; and at every turn the delicious chocolate is being made into cakes by machinery. There are many fine churches. The cathedral is a grand specimen of the Gothic Catalan of the thirteenth century--one of the most imposing churches we have seen in Europe. "Sober, elegant, harmonious, and simple," as some traveller describes it. The Moors converted the old cathedral of their Gothic predecessors into a mosque. James II., "el conquistador," one of the greatest of the Catalan heroes, commenced this in 1293. The cloisters are very interesting; have a pretty court, with orange-trees and flowers, and a curious old fountain of a knight on horseback; the water flowing from the knight's head, his toes, and from the tail and mouth of the horse. In the crypt is the body of St. Eulalia, the patron saint of Barcelona; removed from St. Maria del Mar, where it had been kept since the year 878. Before this shrine Francis I. heard mass, when a prisoner in Spain, after the battle of Pavia. In the choir, over each finely sculptured stall, is painted the shield of each of the knights of the Golden Fleece. Here was held a "chapter," or general assembly, presided over by Charles V., March 5th, 1519. Charles, then only king of Spain, occupied a throne on one side hung with damask and gold; opposite was the empty throne of Maximilian, first emperor of Germany, (his grandfather,) hung in black. Around the king were assembled Christian, King of Denmark; Sigismund, King of Poland; the Prince of Orange, the Dukes of Alba, Friaz, Cruz, and the flower of the nobility of Spain and Flanders.

There are some curious old monuments in the church, and a crucifix called "Cristo de Lepanto," which was carried on the prow of the flagship of Don John, of Austria, in the battle of Lepanto. The figure--of life size--is all inclined to one side; and the faithful of that day assure us that the sacred image turned itself aside, to avoid the Moslem bullets which were aimed at it. Certain, it was never struck.

While in the church, we see a funeral mass, which is peculiar in some of its ceremonies, and very solemn in the dim religious cathedral light, where every kneeling figure, with its black mantilla, seems to be a mourner. After the credo, little tapers are distributed, and, at a certain part of the mass, are lighted. The priest comes to the foot of the altar. Each person, bearing a lighted taper, goes forward in procession, the men on one side, the women on the other. Each one kisses the cross upon the stole of the priest, as if in submission to the will of God. The candles are extinguished, and deposited in a plate.

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Walking on the Rambla this evening, we hear a drum, and, following the crowd, witness the performance of a Spanish mountebank, whose sayings must have been very witty, to judge by the plaudits of the crowd. He had a learned dog, which so far surpassed all the dogs we had ever seen that I am persuaded he was cleverer than his master.

Saturday, September 12.

A rainy day. But we take a long walk through the crooked, narrow streets; going into the Calle de la Plateria (the street of the jewellers) to see the curious long filagree earrings worn by the peasants. We are as much objects of curiosity to these people, as they are to us, (bonnets and parasols being rarely seen in Spain.) An old man, touched my blue veil, yesterday, asking, "Queste paese?" and when I told him we were "Americanos," he rejoined, "Me speak England; me like Americanos." Even the poorest people here are courteous and respectful; and their language seems to have borrowed so much that is flowery and poetic from their Arab progenitors, that it would seem exaggerated and insincere, were it not accompanied by a grave and earnest manner as well as gesticulation. We ask a beggar the way to a certain street. He accompanies us all the way, declines any remuneration, and at parting says, "Go, and may God go with you!" A policeman, seeing us endeavor to enter the Plaza Real, to look at the monument to the king, opens the gate, though the public are not admitted. We thank him for making an exception in our favor; and upon going out, he bids us "Adios," adding,' "May your beauty never be less." At the _table d'hote_, every Spaniard bows as we enter, and all rise when we leave the table. In the centre of the table is a pyramid of cigars and matches most fantastically arranged; and it is the custom for gentlemen to smoke at every meal! We visit St. Maria del Mar, a church considered by many to be superior to the cathedral, architecturally. It was built in 1329, on the site of a former church, erected to contain the body of St. Eulalia. The arched roof is of immense height; the main altar of black and yellow marble. The church is hung with many pictures by Spanish artists, and has the usual amount of stucco and gilding for which Spanish churches have been remarkable since the days of Columbus, when gold was so plentiful with them.

Sunday, 13th.

We hear mass in the little Gothic church of St. Monica, hard by, and go afterward to the cathedral, which is even more impressive upon a second view. Several baptisms are going on, and the very babies are dressed in mantillas--the white mantillas worn by the lower classes, which are very pretty. White silk, trimmed with white lace, or of the lace alone; the silk, which is a long strip, is pinned to the hair on top of the head, and the lace falls over the face, or is folded back. Young ladies wear them of black lace, in the street or for visits; silk, for the churches; and these with the never-failing accompaniment of the fan, belong to all alike; rich and poor, old and young. The fan serves as parasol, and strange to say, that, with this alone to shelter them from the sun, these women should be so beautifully fair; and in Valencia they are famed for their white complexions! Surely the sun in Spain is kinder than in America, for freckles and sun-burn are never seen.

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The men wear a red or purple cap, which they call "gorro;" a sort of bag which hangs down behind, or at the side, or is more generally folded flat across the forehead; a red or purple sash, (_faja;_) a short jacket; sandals (_espardinya_) of hemp or straw, tied with strings. We drive through the streets, and find most of the shops closed, (Sunday;) and see through the open doors that every house, even the very poorest, looks nice and clean.

In the evening, we drive upon the Prado del Gracia, which terminates in the little town of Gracia, where are pretty villas, and stop at a convent for the evening service. It is of this very convent that they tell how, in the Moorish invasion of Al Mansour, when his soldiers were recruiting for the harems of the Balearic Islands, (Minorca and Majorca,) the poor nuns, thinking to avoid so horrible a fate, heroically cut off their noses to disfigure themselves; but it did not avail to save them; for history records that they were carried off, in spite of their noses, or, rather, in spite of the want of them.

Barceloneta is a suburb where live the fishermen, and where we find docks crowded with shipping. From this we have a fine view of the Fort Montuich, built upon a high rock. There is also a citadel near the sea, and a beautiful promenade upon the walls, (Muralea del Mar.) And amongst the public buildings is a university, said to be the finest in Spain; many hospitals and charitable institutions, and a theatre (the Lycée) which they claim to be larger than San Carlo, in Naples, the Scala, in Milan, or even the new-opera house in Paris. Barcelona is the birthplace of Balmes, the author of that great work, _Protestantism and Catholicity compared in their Influence upon Civilization_.

Valencia Del Cid, Sept. 14.

Yesterday, at six in the morning, we leave Barcelona for "the City of the Cid," arriving at ten o'clock at night; a long, fatiguing, but interesting day. The railway runs by the blue Mediterranean, with stern, bleak mountains close on the other side; or through vineyards, and fig and olive groves, with which are mingled peaches, apples, and quinces, showing that all varieties of fruits meet together in this favored clime. In passing Martorell, the third or fourth station from Barcelona, we have a fine view of Montserrat; a picturesque, jagged mountain 1000 feet high, where is a monastery, one of the most celebrated pilgrimages in Spain. On the opposite side is a famous old Roman bridge (over the Llobregat river) called "del Diablo," built in 531 B.C., by Hannibal, in honor of Hamilcar. At one end is a triumphal arch. Here the views are particularly fine.

Villafranca comes next, the earliest Carthaginian colony in Catalonia, founded by Hamilcar. Next we see Terragona, an ancient city, on a steep and craggy eminence, founded by the Scipios. It was long the seat of the Roman government in Spain; now famous for its fine wines.

Here the costume of the peasants begins to look more eastern. The full, short linen pantaloons, (on each leg a petticoat;) a red handkerchief, worn as a turban; sometimes leather leggings, but more frequently legs red from the wine-press, where they have been treading out the grape-juice. The peasants are simple and friendly, and, seeing few strangers, look upon them as guests, and seem never disposed to speculate upon our ignorance of the prices of things. One of our party offered to pay for a tempting bunch of grapes which we saw in a man's basket, who pressed to look at us in one of the stations. With difficulty he was prevailed upon to take a real, (five cents.) He then offered more, which we in turn declined. {204} Waiting till the train moved off, he sprang forward, and dropped into my lap a bunch which must have weighed several pounds, and I looked back to see him smiling most triumphantly. At another station (a poor place in the mountains) a modest, clean-looking woman came forward with glasses of water. No one paid anything for drinking it. But when she came to our carriage, one of the party gave her two reals, (ten cents in silver.) The poor thing shook her head sadly, saying, "No tengo cambia." (But I have no change.) When she was made to comprehend that she was to keep it _all_, her face glowed with delighted surprise; and as we moved off, we saw her showing the money to all around her. No doubt she took my friend for the queen herself!

At Tortosa, on the Ebro, we begin to see the palm-trees. And here we enter the province of Valencia, the brightest jewel in the crown of Spain. The Moors placed here their paradise, and under their rule it became the garden of Spain. From them the Cid rescued it in 1094, and here he governed like a king, and died here in 1099. It was then annexed to Castile and Arragon. It is a fortified town, about three miles from the sea; and with its narrow streets, tall houses, balconies, with curtains and blinds hanging outside into the street, looks perennially southern and Spanish. We come up from the station in a "tartana," a vehicle peculiar to Valencia, a sort of omnibus on two wheels, made to hold six persons; without springs, and with one horse. The driver sits on the shaft, with his legs dangling down, or supported by a strap. This vehicle jolts horribly, but is very cheap and convenient.

Tuesday, September 13.

To-day we first see the museum, in which are many pictures of Spanish artists, both ancient and modern--two of Spagnoletto, and several of Ribalta and Juanes--two Valencian artists of whom they are very proud. The last is especially famed for his beautiful pictures of our Lord. We saw here the ancient altar used by James the Conqueror, "Don Jaime," as he is called--the great hero of Catalonia, son of Pedro I. He was one of the first sovereigns who established standing armies in Europe. Amongst other wise institutions, the municipal body of Barcelona was his work. He died in Valencia, 1276, on his way to the monastery of Poblet to become a monk, confiding his goodly sword, "La Tizona," to his son Don Pedro, in whose favor he had abdicated that year.

In this museum are many remains of the ancient Saguntum, (now called Murviedro,) which is but a few miles from Valencia, and a model of its old Roman theatre. In the court of the building are some palm-trees three hundred years old.

We next visit an ancient church of the Jesuits to see one of Murillo's "Immaculate Conceptions," which is very beautiful. Then the "Audiencia," an ancient building of the sixteenth century, where are the courts of justice and other courts. Here is some wonderful old carving, and curious portraits of Inquisitors; civil, on one side, ecclesiastical on the other. We were glad to see that the former greatly outnumbered the latter. After this, we go to one of the finest hospitals in the world; with marble floors, and pillars supporting a lofty ceiling; the great windows opening into gardens of orange, and myrtle, and jessamine; all clean, fresh, and cool; with an altar so placed in the centre, under a lofty dome, that every patient could see and hear the divine office. The whole building was alike well arranged; the kitchen large and convenient, and the dispensary grand. {205} Certainly, in all our experience--and we have visited hospitals everywhere--we have seen nothing so _inviting_, so really elegant, as this. Here we meet the two loveliest women we have seen in Spain; both sisters of charity; one having charge of the dispensary, and the other of the foundling institution connected with the hospital. Such white complexions; lovely color; such eyes, and eyelashes, and teeth! Specimens of the beauty of Valencia. And such charming groups of children as we saw amongst these unhappy disowned ones! Unconscious of their fate, they played merrily in the cool court, till, seeing strangers, many ran to hide their beautiful eyes behind the sister's apron. The school-room would have done honor to the most "_enlightened nation_," which might here take a lesson from "_benighted Spain_." Great placards hold the "A B C." Slates hang in order by the little benches against the wall; pictures of beasts and birds, for natural history; maps, for geography; drawings, for mathematics; balls strung on wires, for counting; large books filled with colored engravings of Bible history, from the birth of Adam to the end of the Apocalypse. And such neatness and order! There is one department for the little ones whose mothers leave them each morning, when they go out to work, returning for them at night. Their tiny baskets hung in a row. Some, who were quite babies, were being greatly petted, because it was their first day away from the mother.

While in the school-room, one of the party began examining a large map of Spain with reference to our projected route. The sister seeing this, lowered the map by a cord, and calling a little fellow of five years, he pointed out the oceans by which Spain is surrounded, named the rivers and mountains, the provinces of Spain, and the principal towns; never once making a blunder, though he often paused to recollect himself.

We drive to see the queen's garden, where is every tropical tree and flower. This, with other gardens, borders upon the Alameda, a broad, shady promenade extending three miles to the sea. There is another promenade called the "Glorieta," where the band plays every morning from nine to eleven. We see, also, the Plaza de Toros, (the arena for the bull-fights,) one of the finest in Spain, capable of holding twenty thousand people; built so exactly like a Roman amphitheatre that we feel as if we looked upon the Colosseum in the days of its glory. It is evident that these people inherit the love of this their national pastime from their Roman ancestors. Happily, the fashion is dying out. In Valencia, the bull-fights occur but once or twice a year. They are now making preparations for a three days' "funcion," to begin on the 24th. We saw the poor horses doomed to death. Forty a day is the average number. The men are rarely killed, but often badly hurt.

Wednesday, September 16.

This morning we go to the markets to see the wonderful display of fruits for which Valencia is so famous. Never were such grapes and peaches, melons and figs, oranges and lemons, apples and pears, the last as fine as could be seen in all New England; the nuts and vegetables equally good. Potatoes, and tomatoes, and peppers, of mammoth size, and even the Indian corn and rice as good as those of America. But even the Spanish gravity is here upset at sight of our round hats, short veils, and parasols. {206} The women hold their their sides with laughter, and we are driven to resolve upon wearing mantillas and fans, which fashion we soon after, in self-defence, adopt. We go to the shops to buy fans, which are a specialty of Valencia, as are also the beautiful striped blankets, (mantas,) which are as indispensable to a Valencian as the fan is to the Valencienne; and is at once his cloak, his bag, his bed, his coverlet, and his towel. They say of a Valencian, that he has two uses for a watermelon--to eat his dinner, and make his toilette. After eating the melon, he washes his face with the rind, and wipes upon his manta. They wear it slung gracefully over the left shoulder, or over both shoulders, the ends falling behind; and over the head-handkerchief is often worn the pointed hat of Philip II.'s time, with wide, turned-up brim.

To-day we visit the cathedral and San Juanes. Like most of the great churches of Spain, the cathedral occupies the site of a Roman temple. This, made into a church by the Goths, was changed to a mosque by the Arabs, and now (since 1240) it is again a Christian church. Some of the doors, and many of the ornaments, are Moorish. The gratings--of brass--are very handsome; as are the altars and screen, of marble and alabaster. This last is most abundant in Spain. A palace opposite to our hotel (that of the Marquis de los Aguas) is beautifully adorned on the outside with statues, and vases, and flowers of alabaster in relievo.

All these Spanish churches are much ornamented with stucco and gilding, according to the taste of the time in which they were built. The cathedral has some good pictures in the sacristy; and within the sanctuary hang the _spurs_ of Don Jaime upon his shield. His body is in one of the chapels.

In an old chapter-house we were shown some great chains taken from the Moors, and a series of portraits of all the archbishops of Valencia; and so much is it the habit to gesticulate in this country, that even these dignitaries, instead of being painted in _ecclesiastical attitudes_, have their fingers in every imaginable position. One must know their expressive language to read what each of these worthies may be saying.

After some shopping, we go to call upon the present archbishop, a graceful and dignified person, who received us most kindly, and presented us each a chapelette and scapular. He has a grand old palace, very plainly furnished; a pretty chapel; and, in a fine old hall, with groined roof, were portraits of his predecessors from the sixth century to the present day.

We have a visit from the English consul, to whom we brought letters. He is very kind and friendly, and full of offers of service. The Spanish sun seems to have warmed the English heart, which seldom gives out so much, save in its own foggy island. He sends us some fine wine, which, with some iced orgeat, secures us a merry evening.

Thursday, 17.

This morning we hear mass in the Church of the Patriarch, into which no woman may enter without being veiled. Then we visit the house in which St. Vincent Ferrer, the patron of Valencia, was born, and where is a fountain greatly esteemed for its miraculous powers.

While at breakfast, a young man enters, whom we take for a Spaniard, but who proves to be an American, and from Maine! He has lived in Cuba, however, and it turns out that his father is a friend of the Spanish ladies with whom we are travelling. {207} He gives a pleasant account of his travels in the north of Spain; tells of the wonders of Burgos; of the railway between that and Miranda, which shows such extraordinary engineering skill; and of the fine scenery through which he has passed. Yesterday, on the mountains, he saw three sunsets; or rather, saw the sun set three times, in descending from range to range.

It is delightful to meet an American who, instead of complaining of the discomforts of travelling in Spain, as most of our people do, sees only what is pleasant. For ourselves, we have been most fortunate; good hotels, most obliging people, and, so far from being extortionate, (as we were told to expect,) we find Spanish hotels cheaper than those of any other part of Europe. To-day we eat the "pollo con arroz," one of the national dishes, (rice with chicken and saffron,) and find it very good.

Hans Andersen, in his little book on Spain, says:

"Connected with Valencia, are several of the old Spanish romances about the Cid--he who in all his battles, and on occasions when he was misjudged, remained true to his God, his people, and himself; he who, in his own time, took rank with the monarchs of Spain, and down to our own time is the pride of the country which he was mainly instrumental in rescuing from the infidels. As a conqueror he entered Valencia, and here lived with his noble and heroic wife, Zimena, and his daughters, Doña Sol and Doña Elvira; and here he died in 1099. Here stood around his bed of death all who were dear to him. Even his very warhorse, Babieca, was ordered to be called thither. In song, it is said that the horse stood like a lamb, and gazed with his large eyes upon his master, who could no more speak than the poor horse himself. ... Through the streets of Valencia passed at night the extraordinary cavalcade to San Peder de Cordoña, which the departed chief had desired should be his burial-place. The victorious colors of the Cid were carried in front. Four hundred knights protected them. Then came the corpse. Upright upon his war-horse sat the dead; arrayed in his armor with his shield and his helmet, his long white beard flowing down to his breast.

"Gil Diaz and Bishop Jeronymo escorted the body on either side; then followed Doña Zimena with three hundred noblemen. The gate of Valencia toward Castile was opened, and the procession passed silently and slowly out into the open fields, where the Moorish army was encamped. A dark Moorish woman shot at them a poisoned arrow, but she and a hundred of her sisters paid the forfeit of their lives for that deed. Thirty-six Moorish princes were in the camp; but terror seized upon them when they beheld the dead hero on his white charger.

'And to their vessels they took flight, And many sprang into the waves. Two thousand, certainly, that night Amid the billows found their graves.'

"And the Cid Campeador thus won, after he was dead, good tents, gold and silver; and the poorest in Valencia became rich. So says the old 'Song of the Cid in Valencia.'

Cordova -- Province Of Andalusia -- Fonda Suiza -- Hotel Suisse.

September 18.

After a long night journey, (by rail,) we reach a hotel rivalling the cleanness and comfort of the genuine Swiss hotel, and find ourselves in the ancient capital of the Moorish empire, and in that lovely, bright Andalusia, so famed throughout the world.

From the time we leave Valencia until we reach Jativa, (about fifty miles,) we pass over the "Huerta" (the "garden") of Valencia, one continuous plain of verdure; pastures which are cut from twelve to seventeen times a year. Golden oranges, and other fruits hang above these green fields; and dates, and figs, and peaches, and pears, and quinces, pomegranates, plums, apples, melons, and grapes, and olives, with Indian corn, rice, and every vegetable in equal perfection. Well might the Moors term this plain (with Andalusia) "the Paradise of the East." For centuries after their expulsion, their poets still sang verses expressive of their grief for its loss, and it is said they still mention it in their evening prayers, and supplicate Heaven to restore it to them.

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And this fertility is all their work. Every stream has been turned from its channel into numberless little canals, which water this luxurious soil; and these are arranged with such skill and care that crop after crop has its share of irrigation, and in its just proportion. From Jativa the country becomes more mountainous. We pass the ruins of an old chateau on a high hill, (Montesa,) seat of an ancient order of chivalry which existed after the suppression of the Templars. We next pass Almanzar, Chinchilla, Albacete, where they sell the famous "Toledo blades," now hardly so famous. Here we are in La Mancha, and when we stop in Alcazar at midnight, we are near the village of Troboso, which Cervantes makes the dwelling of Don Quixote's Dulcinea. Alcazar is claimed as the birth-place of Cervantes.

Here we leave our road for the grand route between Madrid and Cordova; and here we are crowded into carriages with other ladies, a fate from which we have hitherto been defended; each conductor treating us as if we had been especially committed to his care, and sparing us all annoyance. Fortunately, at Manzanares two of these ladies leave us, and we make acquaintance with the third, who is very kind and polite; offers us a share of her luncheon, and gives us much information of people and things in Spain. She is a Portuguese, and tells us how much larger and finer are the olive-trees in her country than in Spain; she remembers one tree which eight men could not clasp. From her we hear much of the queen as from an unprejudiced source, and learn, what we gathered afterward from many credible sources, that this poor queen is a good woman, a very pious woman, full of talents and accomplishments, generous to a fault, with strong feelings and affections, which induce her to reward to excess those whom she loves or who have served her; and this has given rise to the injurious reports which have found their way to every foreign newspaper, but which no _good_ people in Spain believe.

From Andujar the country is very uninteresting, more of a grazing country, where we see immense herds of cattle, sheep, horses, and goats, with picturesque shepherds minding them. The men wear short trousers, opened several inches at the ankle, showing the untanned leathern buskin, (as is seen in the old pictures of Philip II.'s time,) a red sash, and the black hat turned up all around. Presently we come upon the Guadalquivir, upon which Cordova is situated, and which is crossed here by a bridge of black marble. We drive up the cool, shady streets, catching glimpses, through open doors and curtains, of the little paradise within--the marble courts, with fountain, and orange-trees, and flowers, and vines--a vestige of the old Moorish time. In fact, everything here so preserves its Arabic character that one is transported six centuries back, into the palmy days of the Kalifs, when this city was said to have contained half a million of inhabitants, 200,000 houses, 60,000 palaces, 700 mosques, 900 baths, 50 hospitals, and a public library of 600,000 volumes. Of all these glories only the mosque remains to show by its magnificence that these accounts cannot be exaggerated.

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Saturday, September 19.

We hasten to see the mosque, (the cathedral now,) and, entering a low door-way in the wall which surrounds it, you find yourself in a beautiful oriental court, with fountains, and rows of tall palms, and ancient orange trees and cypress. This is called "the court of ranges." Open colonnades surround the court on all sides save one, from which twenty doors once opened into the mosque; only one of these is now open. Enter this, and you find yourself in a forest of pillars--a thousand are yet left--of every hue and shade, no two alike, of jasper, and verde antique, and porphyry, and alabaster, and every colored marble, fluted, and spiral; and over these, rises arch upon arch overlapping each other. These divide the mosque into twenty-nine aisles from north to south, and nineteen from west to east; intersecting each other in the most harmonious and beautiful manner. The Moors brought these pillars from the ancient temples of Rome, and Nismes, and Carthage. The mosque was built in the eighth century, by Abd El Rahman, who aimed to make it rival those of Damascus and Bagdad. It is said he worked upon it an hour every day with his own hand, and it is certain that it ranked in sanctity with the "Caaba" of Mecca, and the great mosque of Jerusalem. Ten thousand lamps illuminated it at the hour of prayer; the roof was made of arbor vitae, which is considered imperishable, and was burnished with gold. The chapel, where is the holy of holies--where was kept the Koran--gives one an idea of what the ornaments of the whole must have been. Here the carvings are of the most exquisite fineness, like patterns of lace; the gold enamel, the beautiful mosaics, are as bright as if made yesterday. In the holy of holies--a recess in this chapel--the roof is of one block of marble, carved in the form of a shell, supported by pillars of various-colored marble. Around this wall a path is worn in the marble pavement, by the knees of the faithful making the mystic "seven rounds;" and our guide tells us that, when a few years ago, the brother of the king of Morocco came here, he went round this holy of holies upon his knees, seven times, crying bitterly all the while. The chapel of the Kalifs is also remarkable, from the floor to the ceiling, the marble being carved in these beautiful and delicate patterns.

From the cathedral, we go to visit the old Roman bridge of sixteen arches, which spans the Guadalquivir. This looks upon some ruins of Moorish mills, and the orange-gardens of the Alcazar, (now in ruins,) once the palace of Roderick, the last of the Goths. As we pass the modern Alcazar, (used as a prison,) an old cavalry officer comes out of the government stables, and invites us to look at the horses--the silky-coated Andalusians of which we have heard so much, and the fleet-footed, graceful Arabians. Each horse had his name and pedigree on a shield over his stall. Returning to our hotel for breakfast, we go out again to see the markets and the shops; visit some churches, and the lovely promenade by the Guadalquivir. Our costumes excite great remark; one woman says to another, "They are masqueraders;" another lifts her hands and exclaims "Ave Maria;" and but for the intervention of our guide, who reproves their curiosity, we should be followed by a troop of children.

Sunday, 20.

Coming to breakfast, we are charmed to find our young American friend whom we had left in Valencia; and, in spite of a pouring rain, we all set out to hear high mass in the cathedral. The mosque was consecrated, and made the cathedral, when the city was captured by St. Ferdinand in 1236. {210} Several chapels and altars were then added, and in 1521, the transept and choir were begun, to make room for which, eighty pillars were sacrificed. Charles V., who gave permission for this act of vandalism, was deeply mortified when he saw what had been done, and reproved the canons of the church, saying, they had destroyed what was unique in the world, to raise that which could be found anywhere.

While we are at mass, our young American arrives with the guide, to tell us that a _revolution_ has broken out, and entreats us to return to the hotel. Some of the ladies are much alarmed; but my friend and myself, remembering that revolutions are chronic in Spanish countries, and are generally bloodless, we maintain our ground, too old soldiers to be driven from the field before a gun is fired; and the result justifies our faith.

Nobody quits the church. We have a solemn procession of the Blessed Sacrament after mass, winding through these beautiful aisles, accompanied by a band of wind instruments, the whole congregation following. We reach home to find our fellow-travellers very much frightened and annoyed at the prospect of a long detention; but we are assured that the worst which can befall us is a delay of a few days, to which we can well submit in this comfortable inn. Making acquaintance with our fellow-prisoners, we grow jolly over our misfortunes. The railways are all cut; General Prim and his colleagues (the exiled generals) are besieging Cadiz; and the queen has fled to Biarritz, to claim the intervention of the Emperor Napoleon. These are some of the rumors which are rife during the day. Hosts of red umbrellas parade the town--the most formidable weapon which we encounter; a few voices faintly cry "Libertad!" and "Viva!" some damp-looking soldiers pass by, with lances from which depend little red flags, looking limp and hopeless in the heavy rain. These troops declare for the people. We ask one of these what they want; the answer is, "Liberty." (Of course.) "And what is that?" "We want a _King_. We will not be governed by a woman." Inflammatory hand-bills are distributed amongst the crowd, very vague in their demands, "_an empty throne_" being the first requisite on the list.

One man is killed, (a fine young officer of the queen's troops mercilessly shot down,) and another man is wounded. In the evening, we hear that the revolution is accomplished in Cordova; the insurrectionists have the city!

Monday, 21.

All is peaceful in appearance, and we go out to shop, to find some of the filagree jewelry for which Cordova is remarkable--an art retained from the time of the Moors. The rain drives us in, and we spend the day with music, books, and in conversation with our new friends--a Spanish lady of rank, who has come to Cordova about a lawsuit, and who shakes with fright, and goes about with a glass of water and a cup of vinegar to quiet her nerves; the poor lady neither eats nor sleeps. The others are of different calibre; a sturdy Scotch lady, and her companion, a sweet and charming German girl. "Who's afeard!"

Tuesday, 22.

We are roused by the sound of military music, and find that 5000 of the queen's troops are entering the city. Such. splendid-looking fellows! Such handsome officers! It is plain the city is taken in earnest _now!_ The inconstant populace clamor and shout; all is enthusiasm; the report is, that the insurrectionists are fled to Seville; the roads are repaired, but we are not allowed to leave the city. {211} Still prisoners of _war!_ Later in the day, we hear that the troops we saw this morning are those which had joined the insurgents at Seville. The queen's troops, commanded by the Marquis de Novaliches, are outside the town, fearing to be too few for those within, and waiting the turn of events. It is supposed there will be some compromise entered into; a convention patched up; and no fighting. The prime minister, Gonzales Bravo, has fled from Madrid, where all is anarchy. This man, who has been the author of all the oppressive measures, and all the banishments which have made the queen's government unpopular, now, in her hour of need leaves her to her fate, after cruelly deceiving her. When she feared the danger of revolution, he assured her she might leave the country without any anxiety; and she went to Biarritz in ignorance of the truth; thus giving her enemies the very opportunity they desired. Even now, (they say,) were she to return, and throw herself upon the generosity of the people, she would be received kindly; such is the loyalty of Spaniards to their monarchs. The influence of Bravo banished the Montpensiers, (the queen's sister and her husband, the son of Louis Philippe,) who were naturally her best friends, and to whom she had showed every kindness. He sent away many of her most popular generals; and now they return, with men and arms, and British and Prussian gold; the people sympathize with them, the troops join them; we hear from Cadiz, that there was a perfect ovation upon their landing.

To-day, we have a fine walk in a beautiful park, on one side of the city, from whence we have a charming view of the mountains; on one side, so grand and bold, with olive groves, and white country houses sparkling in the sunshine; on the other side, the hills are low, and their graceful, wavy outlines have the peculiar purple hue belonging to Spain, and form a striking contrast to the others. Between the two, lies the city, and the fertile plains about it. We lose our way in the tortuous streets, and spend the morning peeping into the beautiful patios, (courts,) which open to the heavens, or have sometimes a linen awning over them; with marble pavements, over which the cool fountains play; with orange-trees, and flowers, amongst which sofas, and chairs, and pictures are disposed; and around which often runs a marble corridor, with pillars and curtains, communicating with the other apartments. Here the family sit, and here take place the "tirtulias," the meetings for talk and music. A picture of one of these patios is thus charmingly translated from one of Fernan Caballero's beautiful tales by a late English traveller; and which any one who has been in Spain will recognize:

"The house was spacious, and scrupulously clean: on each side the door was a bench of stone. In the porch hung a little lamp before the image of our Lord in a niche over the entrance, according to the Catholic custom of putting all things under holy protection. In the middle was the 'patio,' a necessity to the Andalusian. And in the centre of this spacious court an enormous orange-tree raised its leafy head from its robust trunk. For an infinity of generations had this beautiful tree been a source of delight to the family. The women made tonic decoctions from its leaves; the daughters adorned themselves with its flowers; the boys cooled their blood with its fruits; the birds made their home in its boughs. The rooms opened out of the 'patio,' and borrowed their light from thence. {212} This 'patio' was the centre of all the 'home;' the place of gathering when the day's work was over. The orange-tree loaded the air with its heavy perfume, and the waters of the fountain fell in soft showers on the marble basin, fringed with the delicate maiden-hair fern. And the father, leaning against the tree, smoked his 'cigarro de papel;' and the mother sat at her work, while the little ones played at her feet, the eldest resting his head on a big dog, which lay stretched at full length on the cool marble slabs. All was still, and peaceful, and beautiful."

We close the day with a farewell visit to the cathedral. Surely it is the most wonderful building in the world. Even St. Peter's hardly fills one with greater astonishment. This is altogether unique; and its grace, and elegance, and harmony win one to love it. We lingered by the chapel of the holy of holies, finding beauties which we had not before seen, and bade farewell to it with deep regret; then wandered to the bridge over the Guadalquivir, and gazed upon the truly eastern prospect it reveals.

To-day, a great robber from the mountains, upon whose head a price had been fixed by the late government, comes boldly into town. The people cry, "Viva Pacheco!" In half an hour after, we hear he has been shot--the victim of private revenge.

Cordova is the birthplace of Lucan, the author of the _Pharsalia_; of the two Senecas; of many eminent Moslem poets and authors, and of the famous Gonzales de Cordova, "El Gran Capitan."

Pope Or People. [Footnote 50]

[Footnote 50: The _Congregationalist and Boston Recorder_, Boston, March 4th, 1869.]

We confess to having read with no little surprise an elaborate article in the _Congregationalist and Boston Recorder_ entitled _Pope or People_. Had we met the article in a professedly Unitarian journal or periodical we should have thought little of it; but meeting it in the recognized organ of the so-called orthodox Congregationalists of Massachusetts, we have read it with no ordinary interest. It shows that the Protestant, especially the old Puritan mind of the country, is profoundly agitated with the church question under one of its most important aspects. He who reads with any attention the leading American sectarian journals can hardly fail to perceive that there is a growing distrust in the Protestant world of the Protestant rule of faith, and a growing conviction that the only alternative, as the journal before us expresses it, is either pope or people. Of course the journal in question has no clear apprehension of either of the alternatives it suggests, but it does see and feel the need of certainty in matters of religious belief, and is in pursuit of it. It says:

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"One of our great men once declared that the thing most to be desired in this world, by an intelligent mind, is an unfaltering religious belief. In the sense in which he meant it, his remark is unquestionably true; and it explains the philosophy of much of the success of the Romish Church. Men do crave certainty in their conviction; such certainty demands infallibility on which to found itself, and the papal system offers the promise of just that infallibility. And thousands upon thousands of minds rest in that; and being able to receive it, it meets that innate and inextinguishable craving of the soul for stability under its feet, and gives them a great--though it be a fallacious--peace.

"But multitudes, and some even among the nominal adherents of the papacy, are not able so to receive that doctrine, and are consequently driven to seek for some other rock on which to found the house of their faith; too often with the result of building it on the sand, with its seductive security for fair weather, and its terrible and irremediable fall when the tempestuous night-time of death shall come. But for those who reject the pope and that certitude of conviction which he offers, what solid ground is there on which to stand secure?"

If the writer knew the Catholic religion better, he would know that the peace we find in believing is not "fallacious," for "we know in whom we believe and are certain;" but he does see that to an unfaltering religious belief infallibility of some sort is absolutely indispensable, and that the Catholic Church promises it; yet, unable or unwilling to accept the pope or the church, he looks around to see if he cannot find elsewhere some infallible authority in which one may confide, an immovable rock or some solid ground on which one may stand and feel that his footing is sure. Does he succeed? We think not. He finds an alternative indeed, but not an infallible authority, and he has proved very conclusively that outside of the church there is and can be no such authority for faith. He says:

"As we look at it, only two alternatives are possible in this matter of an infallible faith; either the conditions of it exist outside of the soul in some constituted and certified authority, or within the soul in the purest and loftiest exercise of its reason--and we use this word as _including_ conscience--under the enlightenment of God's Spirit through his Word. If outside of the soul, in any central and constituted authority, then in the pope; for it may as well be in him as anybody, nobody else claims it, and he does. If inside the soul, then any pope is an impossibility and an insult, and God remits every man to those conditions of secure decision which he has established in his breast, and holds him responsible for a judgment and a life founded upon them. And this latter, precisely, is God's way with men. He never commands them to hang their faith on the pope or the bishop; but rather inquires--in that tone of asking which is equivalent to the highest form of injunction--'Why, _(aph' heauton,) out of your own selves_, do ye not judge what is right?' Even in that precept which many will be swift to quote against us in this connection,'Obey them that have the rule over you, and submit yourselves,' it is first true that these 'rulers,' as the context proves, are mere (_hëgoumenön_) leaders, and men of example who were already dead, with no flavor of potentiality therefore about them; whose 'faith' is to be imitated rather than whose commands are to be submitted to; and true, in the second place, that the entire appeal of the apostle is to the tribunal of the Hebrews' reason as the court of ultimate decision, inasmuch as he declares that for them to fail thus to follow the good example of the illustrious and holy dead who had walked before them in the heavenly way, would be 'unprofitable' for them; leaving the necessary inference that men are bound to do what is for their highest profit, and therefore bound to decide, in all solemnity, what will be for that profit, and, so deciding, by inevitable necessity, to assume in the last analysis the function of positive masterhood over themselves and their destiny."

The alternative here presented is not pope or people, but pope or no external authority for faith. But why, supposing the internal or subjective authority to be all that is here alleged, is the pope an impossibility or an insult? Why may there not be two witnesses, the one internal, the other external? Is the revelation of God less credible because confirmed by two witnesses, each worthy of credit? {214} The external and the internal do not necessarily exclude, and, if both are infallible, cannot exclude each other, or stand opposed one to the other. I do not deny or diminish the need or worth of reason by asserting the infallibility of the church, nor the importance and necessity of the infallible church by asserting the full power and freedom of reason. The Catholic asserts both, and has all the internal light and authority of reason that our Puritan doctor can pretend to, and has the infallible church in addition.

We may say the same when is added to "the purest and loftiest exercise of reason" the enlightenment of God's Spirit through his Word. This word, on the hypothesis, must be spoken inside of the soul, or else it is an authority outside of the soul, which the writer cannot admit. His rule of faith is reason and the interior illumination of the Holy Ghost. The Catholic rule by no means excludes this; it includes it, and adds to it the external word and the infallible authority of the church. Catholics assert the interior illumination and inspiration of the Holy Spirit as fully and as strenuously as the Puritan does or can. The authority inside the soul, be it more or be it less, does not exclude the external authority of the church, nor does the external authority of the church exclude the internal authority of reason and the Spirit. Catholicity asserts both, and interprets each by the authority of the other. Catholics have all the reason and all the interior "enlightenment of God's Spirit" that Protestants have, and lay as much stress on each, to say the least, as Protestants do or can.

The great mistake of non-catholics is in the supposition that the assertion of an external infallible authority necessarily excludes, or at least supersedes, reason and the interior illumination of the Spirit. This is false in logic, and, as every one who understands Catholic theology knows, is equally false in fact. There is a maxim accepted and insisted on by all Catholic theologians, that settles, in principle, the whole controversy; namely, _gratia supponit naturam_. Grace supposes nature, revelation supposes reason, and the external supposes the internal; and hence no Catholic holds that faith is or can be produced by the external authority of the church alone, though infallible, or without the grace of God, that illuminates the understanding and inspires the will. Hence our Lord says, "No man cometh to me, unless the Father draws him." In our controversies with Protestants we necessarily insist on the external authority, because that is what they deny; hence is produced an impression in many minds that we deny the internal, or make no account of it. Nothing can be more untrue or unjust, as any one may know who will make himself at all familiar with the writings of Catholic ascetics, or with the Catholic direction of souls.

But while we assert the internal we do not concede that it is alone sufficient. "Dearly beloved, believe not every spirit, but try the spirits, whether they be of God," (I John iv. i.) Saints may mistake their own imaginations or enthusiasm for the inspirations of the Spirit, and even in their case it is necessary to try the spirit, and, in the very nature of the case, the trial must be by an external test or authority. The test of the internal by the internal is simply no test at all. {215} The beloved apostle in this same chapter of his first epistle gives two tests, the one doctrinal and the other apostolical: "By this is the Spirit of God known: every spirit that confesseth Jesus Christ to have come in the flesh is of God, and every spirit that dissolveth Jesus (by denying either his humanity or his divinity) is not of God." "We are of God. He that knoweth God heareth us; he that is not of God heareth us not; by this we know the spirit of truth, and the spirit of error." The internal, then, must be brought to the test of apostolic doctrine and of the apostolic communion or the apostolic authority, both of which are external, or outside of the soul. The assertion of the external does not supersede the internal, nor does the assertion of the internal supersede the necessity of the external infallible authority. The error of our Puritan journalist is in supposing that if the one is taken the other must be rejected; he should know that no one is obliged to choose between them, and that both, each in its proper place and function, may be and must be accepted. It is true, neither reason nor the inspiration of the Spirit can deceive or mislead, us; but we may be deceived as to what reason really dictates, and as to whether the internal phenomena really are interior inspirations of the Spirit; and therefore to the safety and certainty of our faith, even subjectively considered, the external infallible authority of the pope or church is indispensable.

This is evident enough of itself, and still more so from the article before us. The insufficiency of reason and the spiritual light, either in the writer or in us, appears in his understanding of the text of St. Paul, Hebrews xiii., which, as he cites it, reads, "Obey them that have rule over you, and submit yourselves;" but as we read it, "Obey your prelates and submit to them." Which of us has the true version of the words of the apostle? The Puritan interpreter says these prelates, or "these rulers," were mere leaders, and men of example, who were already dead, with no flavor of potentiality, (sic,) therefore, about them; and whose "faith" is to be imitated, rather than whose commands are to be submitted to. We are disposed to believe that they were not dead men, but living rulers placed by the Holy Ghost over the faithful, to whom the apostle commands them to submit; and we are confirmed in this view by the reason which the apostle assigns for his command: "For they watch as having to give an account of your souls, that they may do this with joy, not with grief." Which of us is right? The journalist tells us, moreover, that "the entire appeal of the apostle is to the tribunal of the Hebrews' reason as the court of ultimate decision." We hold that the apostle, from beginning to end, appeals to the revelation held by the Hebrews, and argues from that and the character of their sacrifices and the levitical priesthood, that both were types and figures of the real and everlasting priesthood of Christ and his one all-sufficient sacrifice. Christ having come in the end of the world, and offered himself once for all, the types and figures must give way to the reality they prefigured and announced. Therefore the Hebrews should accept Christ as the fulfilment of their law. He undoubtedly reasons, and reasons powerfully, but from revealed premises. Here we and the journalist are at odds; we cannot both be right: who shall decide between us? While we thus differ, supposing us equally able, learned, and honest, how can either find his cravings for certainty satisfied?

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It is a very common prejudice among Protestants and rationalists that Catholics eschew reason, and assert only an external authority which operates only on the will. It seems to be forgotten that it was the reformers who denied reason, and set up the authority of the written Word against it. No one, as far as our knowledge extends, ever spoke more contemptuously of reason than did Doctor Martin Luther; and the old Puritan and Presbyterian ministers to whose preaching we listened in our boyhood were continually warning us to beware of the false and deceitful light of reason, which "dazzles but to blind." This was in accordance with the doctrine of total depravity with which the reformers started; man being clean gone in sin and totally corrupt in his nature, his reason, as well as his will, must be corrupt, turned against God and truth, and therefore worthy of no confidence. No doubt, Protestants have softened the harshness of many of the doctrines of the reformers, and in several respects have drawn nearer to what has always been the teaching of the church; but it is hardly fair in them to charge the errors of their ancestors, which they have outgrown or abandoned, upon the church which has always condemned them. The Bishop of Avranches, Pascal, the Traditionalists, and some others, commonly regarded as Catholics, yet for the most part tinctured with Jansenism, have indeed seemed to depreciate reason in order the better to defend faith; but the church has expressly or virtually condemned them, and vindicated the rights of reason. Whoever knows Catholic theology, knows that the church never opposes faith or authority to reason, but asserts both with equal earnestness and emphasis, and denies that there is or can be any antagonism between them.

The reformers did not assume that no external infallible authority is necessary to faith. They denied the infallible authority of popes and councils, but asserted that of the written Word, interpreted by private judgment, or rather, by the private illumination of the Spirit, called by some in our day the Christian conscience, or consciousness. Our Puritan journalist, though he rejects not the Scriptures, very ably refutes this theory of the reformers:

"There lies before us a recent number of a religious quarterly containing an elaborate article entitled 'An Infallible Church or an infallible Book--which?' the great object of which is to dethrone the Pope and enthrone the Bible, as the subject of indubitable faith, with that religious certitude with which it may logically comfort the soul. To quote its own language, it would make the Bible 'the supreme and only arbiter in things spiritual.' And this, it thinks, would cause' divisions to cease among us for ever.' But this forgets that the Bible is always at the mercy of its interpreters, and that its unity becomes continual diversity--being all things to all men, as they compel it, by the manner in which they receive it. This is not true merely in the extreme cases of those who are--and who know that they are--'handling the Word of God deceitfully;' it is true, as well, of those who mean to treat it with extremest reverence and humility or receptive faith. Here, for example, are two meek and lowly, yet wonderfully clear-headed disciples, like Francis Wayland and Bela Bates Edwards; both able scholars and patient students of the Word; both, so far as human eye can judge, eminently seeking and securing the habitual guidance of the Holy Spirit: and yet, as a matter of fact, reaching, upon certain points which both feel to be of serious importance, conclusions as to what is taught in the Bible, diametrically opposite, and beyond possibility of reconciliation. And who can deny that the one--seeming to himself to find them in the Bible--was as sacredly bound to hold, practise, and teach Baptist, as the other, Pedobaptist views."

We need add nothing to this refutation. Protestants have had from the first all the Bible, all the private judgment, or private illumination, they now have or can hope to have; and yet they have never been able to agree among themselves on a single dogma of faith. The only point on which they have been unanimous is their hostility to the Catholic Church. {217} They have no standard by which to try the spirit; and the Bible, not a few among them are accustomed to say, profanely, "is a fiddle on which a skilful player may play any tune he pleases." Protestants may go to the Bible to prove the doctrines they have been taught by their parents or ministers, or held from Protestant tradition; but they never, or rarely ever, obtain their doctrines from the study of the Holy Scriptures. Hence, sects the most divergent appeal alike to the Bible; and each seems to find texts in its favor. How can any thinking Protestant, who knows this, not be perplexed and uncertain as to what he should believe? The writer admits the difficulty, and asks:

"Are we to understand, then, that Christ is divided? Is there no such thing as absolute truth? This cannot be admitted, and we avoid the admission of it by the claim that God's absolute truth is a truth of love and life, through dogma yet not of dogma; so that it may be reached and realized by approaches not only from different but sometimes from opposite directions."

But this does not, as far as we can see, help the matter. Concede that charity or love is the fulfilling of the law, and that nothing more is required of any one than perfect charity, yet the love here asserted is, though not of dogma, "through dogma." Unless, then, we are sure of the absolute truth of the dogma, how can we be sure of the truth of the love and life, since there are many sorts of love? The dogma, according to the Puritan writer, is not the principle, indeed, but it is the medium of the love and life. Will a false medium be as effectual in relation to the end as a true medium? Can a falsehood be, in the nature of things, any medium at all? If we say the absolute truth is a truth of love and life through dogma, it seems to us absolutely necessary that the dogma should be absolutely true; but, whether the dogma is absolutely true or not, the writer concedes that those who reject the infallibility of the church have no certain means of determining. If it be said that the true love and life are practicable with contradictory dogmas, as is said in the last extract made, then dogmas are indifferent; and whether we believe the truth or falsehood of God or Christ; of the human soul; of the origin and end of man; of man's duties, and the means of discharging them,--can make no difference as to the truth of our love and life. The truth of love and life is not, then, an intellectual truth; a truth apprehended by the mind; but must be a mere affection of the heart, or, rather, a mere feeling, dependent on no operation of the understanding, but on some internal or external affection of the sensibility. The love will not be a rational affection, but a simple sentiment, sensitive affection, or sensible emotion, and as far removed from charity as is the sensuous appetite for food or drink.

The _Congregationalist and Recorder_ seems aware that it has not yet found a solid ground to stand on, and fairly abandons its pretension to be able to arrive at absolute truth at all without the pope. It says:

"It is, then, both the privilege and the duty of every man to be a law unto himself; and out of his own reason and conscience, enlightened from all knowledge that can be made available by his own researches and those of his fellows, and more especially by the patient and docile study of the Bible--all in the most profound, uninterrupted, and prayerful dependence upon the Holy Spirit--to judge what is right. From the decision which he thus reaches there can be, for him, no appeal. Whether it is anybody's else duty to follow the course prescribed therein, or not, it is _his_ duty to do so. He has plead his cause before his infallible tribunal, and its decision over him is necessarily supreme and inexorable. {218} Not to obey it, would be to be false equally to God and to himself. _If it be not absolute right which he has reached, it stands in the place of absolute right for him; and only along its road, however thorny, and steep, and high, can he climb up toward heaven_. Practically, then, we insist upon it, there is no infallibility possible to man, but that which is resident in his own soul."

The conclusion is that to which all who seek their rule of faith in private judgment and private illumination, or inside the soul, must come at last; namely, the man is a law unto himself; that is, is his own law, and, therefore, his own truth. Out of his own reason and conscience, enlightened by the best study he can make, he is to judge supremely what is right. This, we need not say, is pure rationalism. It is man's duty to abide by the conclusion at which he arrives; for although it may not be the absolute right, yet it is the absolute right for him. This makes truth and duty relative; what each one, for himself, thinks them to be. What infallibility is here to oppose to the infallibility of the church? Suppose it is announced to a man that God has established a church which he by his presence renders infallible, to teach all men and nations; will it not be the duty of that man to listen to the announcement, and to investigate to the best of his ability, and with all diligence, whether it be so or not? If, through prejudice, indifference, or any other cause, he fails to do so, will his conviction against such church be excusable, and absolute truth or right, even for him? The article continues:

"And, in the matter of systems, we submit that there is no logical pause possible between the two extremes to which we referred, near the beginning of this article--that each man's own conscientious reason be his umpire, or that that reason be implicitly surrendered to some sole arbiter without. It must be pope or people; the absolutism of the papacy or the democracy of Congregationalism. There is no intermediate stand-point on which the aristocracy of Presbyterianism, or the limited monarchy of Methodism, or Episcopacy, can solidly build itself. And this is, in point of fact, the unintended confession of actions that are louder than words, in all these systems; inasmuch as an appeal to the people in their individuality is their quick, sharp sword which cuts every knot that draws hard and cannot be untied."

But we do not see how this follows. The writer, if he has proved anything, has proved, not that Congregationalism is a ground on which one can stand, but that the individual is. He places the infallible tribunal in the inside of the individual soul; Congregationalism places it, if anywhere, in the congregation or brotherhood. He should have said, therefore, that it is either pope or individualism. We readily agree that there is no solid ground between the pope and the people, taken individually, on which any third or middle party can stand; but is individualism, or the individual soul, a solid ground on which any one can stand, without danger of its giving way under him? We have seen that it is not, because an external standard is needed by which to try the internal; and the writer himself concedes it, if he understands the force of the terms he uses. He confesses that a man, after due investigation, with all the helps he can derive from the Holy Scriptures and the Spirit, cannot be certain of arriving at absolute truth--that is, at truth at all; he can only arrive at what is true and right for him, though it may not be so for any one else. At best, then, he attains only to the relative, and no man can stand on the relative, for the relative itself cannot stand except in the absolute. {219} His whole doctrine amounts simply to this: What I honestly and conscientiously think is true and right, is true and right for me; that is, I may follow what I think is true and right with a safe conscience: but whether I think right or wrong; in accordance with the objective reality or not, I do not and cannot know. What is this but saying that infallibility is both impossible and unnecessary? Relying on what is inside of the soul, then, without any authority outside of it, we cannot attain to that certainty the writer began by affirming to be necessary, and craved by the soul; and which he proposed to show us could be had without the pope. All the writer does, is to show us that without the infallibility of the pope or church, we cannot have infallible faith; and to attempt to prove that we do not need it, and can do very well without it. What does he establish, then, but what Catholics have always told him, that there is no alternative but pope or no infallibility? He says:

"We are even prepared to go so far as to claim that, as human nature has been divinely constituted, it is a psychological impossibility for any man to waive this prerogative of being the _supreme authority_ over himself in regard to his religion; for if he decides to accept the pope and his dictum as conveying to him the sure will of God, that infallibility can only be received as such by an express volition of his own thus to receive it; that is, the man infallible stands behind the pope infallible, and decrees that he shall become to him an infallible pope; so that all the infallibility which the pope can have is just only what the man had before, and gives to him by his volition."

In this it is not only conceded that the internal, as we have seen, does not give infallibility, but asserted that man is so constituted that he is incapable of having an infallible faith. Consequently, there can be no infallible teaching. It goes farther, and denies the supreme authority of God in matters of religion; and, like all error, puts man in the place of God. It says: "It is a psychological impossibility for any man to waive his prerogative of being the supreme authority over himself in regard to his religion." This is the necessary conclusion from the writer's assumption in the outset, that the infallible authority is inside the soul, not outside of it; therefore, purely subjective and human. Consequently, man is his own law, his own sovereign; therefore independent of God, and the author and finisher of his own faith. This is pretty well for a Calvinist, and the organ of New England Puritanism! But we charitably trust that the writer hardly understands the reach of what he says. He confounds the action or office of reason in receiving the faith, or the internal act of believing, with the authority on which one believes, or on which the faith is received. The act is the act of the rational subject, and therefore internal. The authority on which the act is elicited is accredited to the subject, and therefore necessarily objective or external. I believe on testimony which comes to me from without, or a fact or an event duly accredited to me. I believe the messenger from God duly accredited to me as his messenger, although he announces to me things far above my own personal knowledge, and even mysteries which my reason is utterly unable to comprehend. Hence, Christians believe the mysteries recorded in the Holy Scriptures, because recorded by men duly instructed and authorized by God himself to teach in his name.

The Puritan writer will hardly deny that St. Peter was a duly accredited apostle of our Lord, and therefore, that what he declares to be the Word of God is the Word of God, and therefore true, since God is truth itself. {220} Suppose, then, the pope to be duly accredited to us as the divinely authorized and divinely assisted teacher and interpreter of the teaching of our Lord, whether in person or by the mouth of the apostles, would reason find any greater difficulty in believing him than in believing St. Peter himself? Of course not. Now, Catholics look upon the pope as the successor or the continuator of Peter, and therefore as teaching with precisely the same apostolic authority with which Peter himself would teach if he were personally present. It is not more difficult to prove that the pope succeeds to Peter than it is to prove that Peter was an apostle of our Lord, and taught by his divine authority. The same kind of evidence that suffices to prove the one suffices to prove the other. Suppose it proved, should we not then have an infallible authority for faith other than that which is inside the soul? Should we not be bound by reason itself to believe whatever, in the case supposed, the pope should declare to be "the faith once delivered to the saints"?

Our Puritan psychologist, and Protestants very generally, contend that, since the authority of the pope is accredited to reason, and we by reason judge of the credentials, therefore we have in the pope only the authority of our own reason. This is a mistake. We might as well argue that an ambassador accredited to a foreign court can speak only by authority of the court to which he is accredited, since it judges of the sufficiency of the credentials he presents, and not at all by the authority of the court that sends him. This would be simply absurd. The ambassador represents the sovereign that sends him, not the sovereign to whom he is sent or accredited. The credentials of the pope are presented to our judgment, but what the pope, the accredited ambassador from God, announces as the will of his sovereign and ours, must be taken not on the authority of our own judgment, but on the authority of the ambassador. The pope is not, indeed, commissioned to reveal the truth, for the revelation is already made by our Lord and his apostles, and deposited with the church. The pope simply teaches what is the faith so revealed and deposited, and settles controversies respecting it. Our own reason, operating on the facts of the case, judges the credentials of the pope or the evidences of his divine commission, but not of the revelation to which he bears witness. The fact that God has revealed and deposited with the church what the pope declares God has so revealed and deposited, we take on his authority. It is a mistake, then, to say that there can be no authority in faith or religion but the authority which every man has even of himself. To deny it is simply to deny the ability of God to make us a revelation through inspired messengers, or otherwise than through our natural reason.

It is equally a mistake to suppose that belief or an external infallible authority is simply a volition or an act of the will, without any intellectual assent. We might as well argue that the credit a jury yields to the testimony of a competent and credible witness is simply a volition without any conviction of the understanding. Infallible authority convinces the understanding as well as moves the will. We do not believe the revealed truth on the authority of the pope; we believe it on the word of God, who can neither deceive nor be deceived; but we believe on the authority of the pope or church the fact that God has revealed it. The church or the pope is not authority for the truth of what is revealed--for God's word suffices for that; and we believe it on his veracity--but is the infallible witness of the fact that God has revealed or said it. {221} If God has made a revelation of supernatural truth, as all Christians hold, the fact that he has made it, since it confessedly is not made to us individually, must be received by us, if at all, on the testimony of a witness. This is what is meant by believing on authority. If we believe the fact at all, we must believe it either on some authority or on no authority. If on no authority, we have no reason for believing it, and our belief is groundless. If on some authority, then either on a fallible or an infallible authority. A fallible authority is no authority for faith. Then an infallible authority, and as the authority must be duly accredited to us--therefore, be itself outside of us--it must be an infallible external authority. The Puritan journal should therefore have headed its article, not Pope or People, but, Pope or no Faith. Without the infallible authority or witness, we may have opinions, conjectures, guesses, more or less probable, but not faith, which excludes doubt, and is the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen. The Puritan is able, but has not mastered his subject. There are many things for him yet to learn.

We have called attention to the article we have reviewed, as one of the signs of what is going on in the Protestant evangelical world. It is beginning to learn that there is no resting in the infallible Book without an infallible interpreter. It begins to see that it has therefore no authority for dogmas, and it is gradually giving them the go-by. Dogmas discarded, Christianity, as a revelation of mysteries or of truth for the intellect, goes with them, and Christianity becomes a truth only for the heart and conscience. Then it is resolved into love, and love without understanding, therefore a sentimental love, and, with the more advanced party, purely sensual love. This is whither Protestantism is undeniably tending, and well may Dr. Ewer say that, as a system of religion, it has proved a failure. It has lost the church, lost practically the Bible, lost faith, lost doctrine, lost charity, lost spirituality, fallen into a sickly sentimentalism, and is plunging into gross sensuality. Here endeth the "glorious reformation."

Translated From The German By Richard Storrs Willis.

Emily Linder.

II.--Her Conversion.

We are now arrived at the most important period of her life. Miss Linder often referred with thankful heart to God's guiding providence; and in the steady progress of her spiritual life thus far is this not to be mistaken. Naturally religious, and inspired with an unaffected yearning for the entire truth, she was happily conducted into a circle of friends where her dawning faith received both impulse and guidance. Exterior incidents strengthened a certain interior magnetic bias. Since the day which rendered Assisi so dear to her, an invisible power had drawn her toward the visible church, and her leaning to Catholicity was imperceptibly strengthened. {222} Her activity in art deepened her sympathies with a church in which art finds its true place and consecration. An intellectual intercourse of many years with friendly Catholic men and families could not fail to remove many a prejudice. Thus had an unexpected but powerful combination of circumstances conspired to lead a mind ingenuously seeking the truth to Catholicity. It would be quite a mistake, however, to suppose, as has been thought by some, that the personal influence of any friend whatever had worked decisively upon her determination to take the final step. No one could do this; not even Brentano, strong as was his interest in her spiritual life.

Clemens Brentano had come to Munich in October, 1833, and made his domestic arrangements in his usual characteristic style at Professor Schlotthauer's, "in one of the most pious and genial of Noah's arks," as he facetiously describes it. His associations led him into the same social circle in which Miss Linder moved, and soon after his arrival he made her acquaintance. Her pious earnestness, her cultivated, artistic nature, her charming and judicious benevolence, enchained his interest; and he believed, as is stated in his biography, to have found in her just the nature for the Catholic faith. One knows with what strength and zeal Brentano devoted himself (and in increasing ratio with increasing years) to such friends as were dear to him in the matter, particularly, of their acquaintance with the faith of his own church, and their participation in her blessings. His animated desire to instruct, which was ever without affectation or concealment, expressed itself in just such cases with the utmost freedom and frankness. Whoever reads that clever letter, "To a Lady Friend," written during these years at Munich, can tolerably well judge of the tone and style with which he brought home to a pious Protestant the warmth and depth of his religious convictions.

Certain is it that Miss Linder gained, through Brentano, a deep insight into the inner life of the church and the hidden graces and forces which stream through her. He had the power, as she said, "of making some things intelligible which might otherwise remain for ever closed to one." The life and the visions of Katharina Emmerich, which he read aloud on her weekly reading-evenings, made a profound impression upon her. As though in confirmation of what she heard, she saw with her own eyes at Kaldern a similar phenomenon in Maria von Mörl, that astounding living wonder, and was penetrated with the atmosphere of truth with which, as Gorres expresses it, Maria von Mörl seemed enveloped. She caused a portrait of this phenomenon to be executed by her lady friend, Ellenrieder; and always gladly gave her visitors (as is stated by Emma Niendorf) a full description of the _stigimated_, just as Brentano was wont to do in his letters. In this, as in other ways, was her intercourse with Brentano of service to her. To many an outwork of knowledge did he build a bridge, a _pontifex maximus_, as he once jestingly applied the term to himself. Finally, his own Christian death made a profound and lasting impression upon her.

Any other influence than mild, patient instruction was, once for all, excluded by her. Even the holiest zeal, if it sought, in any way, to crowd in upon her, could only force a nature like hers into antagonism, and check everything like quiet development. {223} With all her humility, this lady possessed the self-reliance and genuine independence of a Swiss. She sought the way of truth with such deep longing that she willingly accepted guidance; but with such severe scrutiny, that she was not to be confused, and was inaccessible to every kind of coaxing from any side. For, from the quarter of her old theological standpoint there was no lack of friendly advice, or of opinions bringing great weight with them,--supposing that mere human opinions could ever have decided such a question. Even raillery was not lacking. Platen gave his particular attention to this kind of weapon, and put himself to no little trouble to ridicule her out of her Catholic proclivities. The theological tendency she had taken since the days passed at Sorrento had become to the poet of the _Abassiden_ altogether "too romantic," and he hoped to cool her religious zeal with a cold irony. Thus, he once satirically addressed himself to her from Florence, (February 24th, 1835,) "Might one be so bold as to enquire what progress you have made in your conversion to the only saving church; or is this a secret? In case of a change of religion, I trust you will follow the advice of a friend, and turn, rather, to the Greek Church. For, if you prize Catholicism on account of its antiquity, the Greek Church is doubtless older. And is it the ceremonial which particularly attracts you; then here, too, is the Greek service far more aesthetic and imposing." Count Platen doubtless felt that in a theological controversy he was no match for his well-informed friend; and therefore, in his letters he appealed to her as an artiste. True, the barrenness of Protestantism in art he quietly admitted; but all the better success he promised himself in an attempt to belittle the merit of the church in the field of art by certain cunning sophistries. In several of his letters he stumbled upon the neither very bright nor novel idea of presenting the church as at an obsolete standpoint. "Certainly," he admonishes the artist, "Catholicity, as a thing of a former age, is highly to be esteemed, but not for the present. Her time is past, even for art. Perhaps by and by an artera may dawn upon her, but this will be of a purely aesthetic nature; for a blending of art with religion is no longer among the possibilities," etc. The thought that his friend, after all, might take some such fatal step evidently gave the poet much uneasiness; for even in his last letter to her, written but two weeks before his death, he makes another attempt at the same style of argument. It is contained in a description of Palermo, written at Naples, September 7th, 1835: "I received your welcome letter shortly after my return from Calabria. I know not how my mother could write you that Palermo did not please me; or, if so, to what extent this was the case. I simply remember saying that the location of Palermo bore no comparison with that of Naples. There are certainly lacking the islands, Vesuvius, and the coast of Sorrento; although the mountain background of Palermo is very beautiful. The Rogers chapel, there, is something that would please you--a church of the twelfth century, in perfect preservation; its style that of the old Venetian and Roman churches; and although of smaller dimensions, yet the finest of them all. It is the more interesting to attend a service there, because one sees that Catholic culture was calculated solely for the Byzantine style of architecture; for with such surroundings, only, could it be effective. Thus does Catholicity, even as to architecture, prove itself a thing of the past."

{224}

Enough of this. Such platitudes as these were not calculated to entangle a nature far too deep for them, or check the development of a work so earnestly undertaken. Emily Linder well knew that the church has already outlived many just such "obsolete standpoints," and many such prophets of evil, who have mistaken their wishes for reality, and phrases for axioms. How dignified and how welcome, in comparison with this sophistry from Naples, must have seemed to her the greeting of an old friend and art companion addressed to her from Rome, in the spring of 1833: "Be assured that I often fervently remember you to our Lord. Do you the same by me. May a holy unrest and impatience fill us to take 'by violence' the kingdom of heaven!"

This holy unrest had indeed for some time possessed her, and on many an occasion broke forth in expressions of touching and yearning expectancy. While viewing the cathedral of Cologne, in the year 1835, she ardently exclaims, "Ah! of a certainty an age whose lofty inspirations (and of no transient kind) could produce such monuments as this, deserved neither the epithet of rude nor dark. There resided in it a light which we, with our (gas!) illumination, could never produce." Again, as to the interior of the grand cathedral--"I know not why, but I cannot repress my tears. An irrepressible melancholy and yearning seizes me here." The same year, after viewing with Schubert the minster at Ulm, she makes this noteworthy observation in her journal, "It almost pained me that the old cathedral is no longer used for Catholic service, and that the choir and sanctuary are now so desolate." Already had she adopted many Catholic views. At an early period she believed in an active sympathy between this and the other world, and a purification of the soul in that world. The church's benediction was highly prized by her; for which reason, even as Protestant, she was in the habit of bearing about with her on her travels a little flask of holy water. Many of her views were as yet very undecided; but strong and irrepressible was her longing for that truth which should bring her peace. This clung by her in all her wanderings, and often drew from her a deep cry of the heart. The notes which she made during a trip to Holland, in company with Schubert, in the year 1835, closed with the following words, "These lonely days of travel have left me much time for meditation. To-day a crowd of thoughts and emotions fairly thronged upon me. I said to myself, To what purpose all this? Whither is this invisible power impelling us? Are we really advanced by it, or made the happier? Often this affluence of emotion rises to a kind of transport; then, again, it turns to pain, for I know not the why nor the whither. Is there a connectedness in all this? Is it enduring? Once more, then, why? During this journey of mine I have often prayed, O Lord, let me know thy will. Let me follow the path which is pleasing to thee. Lead me but to thyself, and in any way thou mayst choose. Let it become clear what thou really desirest of me. By this means I experienced great relief, and also the certainty that He, who with such signal fidelity had thus far led me, would clearly make known to me his will, would guide me into his paths."

{225}

As the interior movement increased, she was impelled to confer with intelligent friends in the distance concerning this most momentous interest of her life. Especially with Overbeck there ensued a correspondence which, continuing for years, was of great assistance in attaining to religious clearness. Overbeck took kindest interest in her doubts and scruples. He had formerly gone over the same ground, and could therefore confer with her about such matters "as a brother." His letters grew into a connected vindication of Catholic doctrine, and the truth and beauty of the church, expressed in the mild, clear, fervent, and touching language of one equally worthy of respect as man and artist. With a nature like Overbeck's, where the man and the artist are not two distinct individualities, but are united in a higher form --Christianity--words have a more elevated significance; and a correspondence with him must have necessarily possessed an import more than usually edifying. Emily Linder deeply felt this. We take her own testimony when we say that Overbeck's letters contributed largely toward her religious development; and, by the overwhelming conviction of his words, no less than by his own deep spirituality, she attained to a knowledge of very vital truths. She viewed the assistance he rendered her in the light of a perpetual obligation; and in later years, long after she became a Catholic, she breathed, in her letters to the admirable master, a "God reward you for it."

Meantime, however, she had to pass through many a severe struggle. The wrestling and testing which her conscientiousness imposed upon her was of long continuance. The dread of a hasty step which might afterward plunge her into the deepest unrest, caused her to advance but cautiously. Her mental vacillation continued for quite a period, during which she was filled with unsatisfied spiritual yearnings. She stood just on the portal of the church, afraid to enter. Many a prayer, far and near, ascended in her behalf to heaven. Brentano lived not to witness the conversion he so longed for. But the hope which gladdened his last days attained a realization the year after his death.

In 1842, she wrote to an artist friend in Frankfort, "I am fully satisfied that I entertain no prejudices, and honestly wish to know God's will. He has already cleared away many a spiritual obstacle, and transformed much within me. When it is his holy will to lead me into the church, I am confident that he will remove every remaining hinderance to my conviction." She thought, however, that the church did not give Protestants a very easy time. Their acceptance of the Tridentine confession of faith was a hard matter. Still, her mind had already attained to such clearness that she now desired the instruction of some competent priest. Through the instrumentality of Diepenbrock, a theological teacher was brought to her, who gained her confidence. She earnestly began her task, zealously and perseveringly devoting to it several hours a week for an entire year. The structure of Catholic faith began to open itself to her now with all its interior consistency and harmony. One scruple after another vanished, including those which finally troubled her; as, for instance, the expression, "Mother of God;" the alleged mutilation of the holy sacrament, by withdrawal of the cup from the laity, etc. In the words of her spiritual guide, she learned to distinguish that which is divine, and essential, and immutable in the church, from that which is human, and incidental, and mutable; and what had hitherto proved an insurmountable obstacle, the seemingly mechanical, and often rude devotions of the common people, as also the worldly splendor of the hierarchy--this ceased to trouble her more.

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In the autumn of 1843, Miss Linder made another tour to the Tyrol and Upper Italy, and few could surmise that she was so near to the decisive step. She writes from Munich, on the 16th of October, "I have just made with the Schuberts a somewhat fatiguing trip as far as Verona, where, by the way, I had almost come to a standstill, to copy a picture there. We then remained for a couple of weeks in Botzen, where all was so quiet, and reposeful, and secluded, that it was right grateful to me." Amid this stillness and seclusion to which she abandoned herself, still more than in Munich, was finally brought to maturity "the great work of redemption."

Toward the end of November, 1843, on the approach of Advent, there burst upon her spiritual life a new era, and her long suspense and yearning resolved itself into the cry, "I will enter the church!" The final word of decision was immediately winged to heaven on a prayer. Upon the threshold of that expectant season, when the church sings, "Drop down dew, ye heavens, from above, and let the clouds rain the just," she participated, one morning, with the most ardent devotion, in a low mass celebrated in conformity with her intention. This was the decisive hour. She left the chapel with the joyous and unalterable resolve to enter into fellowship with the Catholic Church. All was overcome, aided and enlightened by the grace of God. Standing before her little house altar, she rehearsed, for the first time, the Catholic creed.

The first to whom the glad intelligence flew was a noble pair, Apollonia Diepenbrock and her brother, the latter of whom was subsequently the celebrated cardinal and bishop of Breslau, but at that time, the vicar-general of Regensburg. Both were associated with the pious artiste in a friendship of many years, and had been long familiar with the course of her religious development. Melchior von Diepenbrock, during just this last period, had been a faithful and intelligent adviser to her. The disciple of Sailers responded to the joyous intelligence with a peace-greeting befitting a shepherd of the church. He wrote on the 29th of November, 1843:

"Hindered by very unwelcome business, I was unable, either yesterday or the day before, to express my heartfelt sympathy and delight over the surprising intelligence of your note of Saturday. Surprising, because I had not anticipated so sudden a loosening of the fruit, ripe as it was. But the wind 'which bloweth where it listeth,' stirred the tree, and the ripe, mellow fruit fell into the lap of the true mother, where it will now be well cared for, growing mellower and sweeter until the coming of the Bridegroom. My hope and prayer for you now is, that peace and rest may be yours after a suspense and unrest which has thus loosed itself in the simple and welcome words,'I will enter the church.' But you have every reason to be at rest; for a church which has given birth to a Wittman, a Sailer, a Fénélon, a Vincent de Paul, a Tauler, a Suso, a Thérèse, a Bernard, an Augustine, an Athanasius, a Polycarp, and so on, up to the apostles themselves, and which has nursed them on her breast with the self-same heavenly doctrine; from whose mouth and from whose life, in turn, this same identical doctrine has been breathed down like a fragrant aroma, through a course of eighteen hundred years; in such a church is there safe and good travelling companionship for heaven. Following their guidance, you need not fear going astray. I therefore, from my very soul, bid you welcome to this noble company to which you have long since, through your intense yearning, and by anticipation, belonged, but now have identified yourself with openly, by a grasp of the hand and a kiss of reconciliation; with whom you will soon fully and finally be incorporated by that most sacred seal and covenant, that highest consecration of love, the holy Eucharist. You have had a rough and thorny path to travel, and passed through long years of struggle, doubt, and conflict, to arrive at this goal. {227} Bind, now, the olive wreath of peace coolingly around your heated temples. Let all labor of the brain, all strain of the intellect, now subside. Live a life of tranquillity. Open your heart to a reception of the holy gifts which the church, as you enter, proffers you. And above all, banish all anxiety and doubt, for therewith you gain nothing, and spoil all. Let your barque, wafted by the breath of God, glide peacefully down the broad stream of the church's life. Revel in the stars, and the flowers which mirror themselves therein, the denizens that disport there; and, should now and then an uncouth, repulsive creature catch your eye, reflect that the kingdom of God is still entangled in the contradictions of developement. Think upon that great world-net which gathers souls of every description, and upon the angel who, upon the great day, will separate them all. And now I commend you to God. Once more, may peace and joy in the Holy Ghost be your morning-gift."

And soon this "morning-gift" possessed her soul. Being fully prepared, her admission, as she had wished, could be immediate. But she desired to take the step in all quietness, and only a few of her friends, like Professor Haneberg and Phillips, were informed of it the evening before, she desiring to secure for herself their prayers.

On the 4th of December, 1843, Emily Linder, accompanied by her friend Apollonia, in the Georgian Seminary chapel made solemn profession of the Catholic faith. On the day following, the papal nuncio, Viale Prelà, administered to her, in his house-chapel the sacrament of confirmation; delivering, at the same time, an eloquent address in German. The friend before mentioned was godmother, and, as one present remarked, by her faith, her love, her prayers, and her efforts, she had indeed proved her spiritual mother. In company with this friend, she went to Regensburg, in order to withdraw into retirement, and to be alone with her new-born joy.

Her letters during this period give animated testimony to what extent, and with what daily increase, this joy was experienced. A jubilant rapture pervades the letters which announce the event to distant friends, particularly those addressed to Overbeck in Rome and Steinle in Frankfort; both friends and companions in art. These and a few others had been admitted to her confidence in spiritual matters. To the latter, whom, of her younger friends, she particularly prized and respected, she thus announces the circumstance, "This time I come to you with but few words; words no longer conditional, but right conclusive. I am a Catholic. Could I have written to you, as I wished, to ask your prayers for me before the eventful hour, even then you might have been taken by surprise; but now the news has doubtless reached you from Munich, and I write this letter simply as confirmation, and because I wish that you should be informed of it by me personally. You have lately hardly thought, I suppose, that it would come so soon; and yet I was long prepared for it. After many a struggle, particularly of late, it had become to me a positive necessity, a natural and necessary development of my spiritual life. When I had once announced my determination to the clergyman who for some time had been instructing me, my desire was to take the step right quickly. My good Apollonia left Regensburg immediately for Munich, to be present at my reception into the church; and the day following this I was confirmed. I have now accompanied my friend hither to escape from all excitement and pass some days in retirement; needed opportunity of fortifying myself against much that must necescessarily come, that is hard and disagreeable. {228} Yet has God been inexpressibly kind and gentle in his dealings with me thus far."

A letter to the same friend on the 19th of January thus reads:

"My last letter was very, very brief; but the glad tidings had to come first, and for this few words were needed. But now six weeks have flown, and it may give you pleasure to hear that I am daily newly bleat, newly affected by the great goodness of God. You may not have doubted this, yet you may be glad to be assured of it, having always taken such interest in my welfare. Ah dear Steinle! how sweet, how sweet a thing to be in the church! I ask myself every day, Why then, I? Why just to myself has this grace been vouchsafed, in preference to others so much worthier of it? How can this have come about? For no other reason, surely, than because so many faithful souls living close to God, have interceded, so untiringly interceded for me, that God could not resist their importunity. How often, how very often must I exclaim, as you have done, God be praised and extolled for ever. Now for the first time do I understand that deep longing and incessant yearning of the heart. Oh! would that all, all were in God's one, great house; would that all could experience the friendliness, the inexpressible friendliness of the Lord, he whose mercy transcends all understanding and conception. Ah dear friend! supplicate and implore God for me, that this grace--I will not say may be deserved, how could this ever be?--but that I may daily more deeply comprehend and appreciate it, and that my life may become one song of thankfulness and benediction. I am still like a happy little child at rest in the lap of its mother. The cross will yet come, and perhaps must necessarily do so; yet am I not dismayed; for well I know where, at any hour, courage, and strength, and consolation are to be found.

"Hitherto has God made it very easy to me. My sister--the only one I have--was surprised and grieved at the first intelligence; but rather, I think, from a loving dread that I might be estranged from her. Now that she finds this is not the case, I hear no complaint from her. My nieces and my intimate friends at home are all unchanged. Just here, too, my friends have remained the same; only two of my young lady acquaintances thought it due to their religious convictions to break with me; but lo! on New Year's day they both came and threw their arms around my neck. ... God be with us all! May he purify and sanctify us and help us mature to life eternal. Once again, pray to God for me. Join me in ascribing thanks to him for his inexpressible goodness. With heartfelt friendship, "Emily Linder."

From this time forth Advent possessed for her a peculiarly festive significance. She celebrated each recurring anniversary with feelings of the humblest gratitude, making it a threefold festival, and greeting it with the joyousness and bliss of a child who had received on that day the costliest of gifts; for it was the anniversary of her day of final decision, her reception into the church, and her confirmation. On the 27th of December, 1844, she thus writes again to the same friend:

"Shall I attempt to depict to you the experience of my inner life? Oh! it is ever yet to me, to use your own expression, the pure mother-milk of inexpressible grace and goodness. Such, at times, is the intensity of my joy, that it is as though I must hold fast my heart with both hands. I have been celebrating of late a great festivals of the soul; for at advent time I entered the church, but included in my devotional intention, also, was the celebration of my decision and confirmation; all these were occasions of spiritual festivity. One entire year of grace and blessedness! ... The kind Tony F---- calls me 'the pet-child of the Lord.' This may be so; but when I enquire, Whence this to me? oh! then I must deeply, deeply bow myself, and with profoundest shame can only still enquire of my Lord, Whence this to. me? ... Nor will I entertain forebodings for the future. He who infuses such rapture into the heart, can--yes, must--impart strength and courage, when he lays the cross upon our shoulders. He will do it, too--benedictions on his holy name!"

{229}

How idle, now, appeared all the fears and anxiety as to a too hasty step, which had rendered her final decision so difficult, while still standing at the diverging pathways. Not a trace more of the unrest which had so troubled her. The morning-gift of peace and joy in faith, which Diepenbrock's kind wishes bespoke her, had become indeed her assured inheritance. A song of thankfulness warbled unceasingly in her heart.

A few more expressions which escaped her, will show that the transport she experienced was not the effect of transient excitement. On one occasion she thus addresses a friend:

"You may be assured, of course, without written proof, that I often think of you: but how often I breathe to you spiritually my joy, my exceeding joy--do you know this? My heart often sings like that of a little child before a Christmas-tree, over the inexhaustible goodness of God, and knows not how it should demean itself in the possession of such imperishable gifts. How good, how very good has God been thus to call me into his holy church!"

On the recurrence of advent she writes again on the 8th of December, 1845, as to the celebration of this festive period of hers:

"During the past week I have been celebrating my apparently quiet but really great and momentous festival, the anniversary of my reception into the church. Ah! dear Steinle, what can I say more than, Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me bless his holy name! How inexpressibly great his mercy and grace, how past all thinking and conceiving! ... To be safe-sheltered in the church in times like these, when no hold and no firm footing outside of her can be found! Oh! if our brethren but knew what peace is hers--if they could but imagine what they are thrusting away from them! It is enough to make one's heart bleed. But this I can assure them, that only in the church can one really know her; only by living her life can one understand that life. Outside of the church can one learn much about her, of course, and to a certain extent inform himself; but then, she is not only a something that _has_ been--an historical church--she is a present-existing, living church, because Christ is still alive in her, and still active in his work of reconciliation. Of such a church-life. we can have no outside idea, just because we do not live it. How often should I like to tell Clemens how it is with me now. But, God willing, he surmises it and rejoices thereat. In all things be praise to God!"

In these words there rings out, certainly, the genuine, clear tone of a heart happy in its faith. Equally evident in these passages is the fact, that her personal relations with her Protestant friends and relatives knew no change. With a certain pious fidelity of friendship, which was peculiar to her, she sought to hold fast to the old ties which had become so dear, and always met her former companions in faith with the same simple, trusting affection. Cornelius, who welcomed her conversion with heartfelt interest, after his return from Rome writes to her from Berlin, on the 4th of June, 1844:

"In Rome I learned that you had at last fully _taken heart._ It did not surprise me. God bless you, and protect you hereafter both from spiritual pride and indifference."

Certainly no one could less need this admonition than Emily Linder, who was a pattern of lowly humility. No one was more sweetly considerate and liberal than she; and Abbot Haneberg most justly remarked at her grave, that, after her conversion, she was scrupulous to discharge all the duties of friendship toward her former companions in faith, and never failed fully to appreciate all who proved worthy of her respect.

This unchanging fidelity induced her to make a trip, the very summer after her conversion, to her native city of Basle, and to Lucerne, where resided other relatives of hers. A personal visit just at that time seems to her then more a duty than ever, in order that her relatives might have ocular evidence "that the Catholic Church is not an estranging one, and cherishes no feeling like that of hate." {230} This sentiment regulated her conduct throughout. A longing for a universal religious reunion strongly possessed her, and she was deeply grieved to see many honest Protestants standing so near Catholicity, who did not recognize "the historic church in the existing one," mainly (judging by her own experience) from a lack of proper information and from a certain shyness, which they could not explain even to themselves. "The emergency is great; souls are hungering and thirsting; but the more sensitive of the Protestants shrink from that shock to the feelings and social relations which they fear will ensue--a great mistake; for love will experience no diminution; it will be increased. But outside of the church they know nothing of this. Alas! how much do they not know!"

This was written in 1846. Three years later she recurred again to her favorite idea in a charming letter addressed to Professor Steinle from Regensburg, on Ascension-day, May 17th, 1849:

"As I stood gazing at the people thronging up the steps and through the grand old portals of our superb cathedral, my heart was strangely moved. I saw in spirit the time when all people, united again and happy, would stream with songs of hallelujah through these portals and proclaim the wonderful works of God. Could I but see this and then depart in peace! Such may not be my lot, but in eternity the intelligence may yet reach me and be a theme of thanksgiving to God."

As though from her very childhood a member of the church, she felt from the first moment entirely at home in her precincts and in the blessed activity of her communion, becoming quickly and easily wonted to all Catholic practices, to which she gave herself up with all the intelligence and abandonment of her soul. How well she now appreciated the truth of the words addressed to her on joining the church by the noble Cardinal Diepenbrock, "You press now the ground which, not only Christ's own footsteps, but his very hands, betokened as the foundation of his church; which his spirit consecrated, which, his love hallowed: the soil whence all those vines should spring, which clinging around and clambering over his cross, may literally by and on him bear fruits of love, of humility, of fidelity, to all eternity!" And following his faithful precepts, she forthwith launched her barque, and, wafted by the breath of God, it glided peacefully over the broad stream of the church-life.

Amid the deep peace which flowed in upon her, she now recommenced with fresh vigor her artistic occupations, devoting herself with more fervor than ever to religious painting. The forenoon was regularly passed at the easel. What a pleasure it must have been to her now to produce altar and other pictures for the house of the Lord! These she donated to poor churches, sending them sometimes to great distances, even to poor Catholic communities in Greece and Paris. Whenever a call for assistance reached her, according to her capacity she was ready with her offering. Her great industry in art enabled her to respond to numerous requests, and in the course of a long life she rendered many a poor parish happy, which would otherwise have been long compelled to dispense with churchly embellishment. Free from all artistic fastidiousness, she never disdained to make copies of other pictures. Thus with great interest and ability she made a copy of a picture by Overbeck, which she had in her collection, for the chapel of the Sisters of Mercy in Munich. {231} With a modest esteem for her own abilities, she always worked under the supervision of an old master, whose judgment never failed to have its weight with her. A deep and tender sensibility pervades her pictures; and if she betrays a certain timidity in the technical execution, there is evidence of great industry and attention to detail. One of her best works, perhaps, is a portrait of Brentano, an oil painting remarkable for likeness and spirituality of expression. After his death, she had this lithographed by Knauth, and copies struck off. It is given in the first volume of his complete works, and is accompanied by a verse which serves as a burthen to one of his most beautiful legends, as it might to the legend of his life, commencing,

"O star and flower, soul and clay, Love, suffering, time, eternity."

The ancient and laudable habit among lovers of art to enrich, by special orders and purchases, their own homes--that noble privilege of educated wealth!--she practised to a lavish extent. Her collection of pictures embraced gradually works of the most eminent artists. Besides the masters already mentioned, (Overbeck, Cornelius, Eberhard,) Steinle was represented in a series of glorious creations. Several of these, like the "Manger-Festival of St. Francis," the "Legend of St. Marina," were the source of some of Brentano's beautiful inspirations and are now included in his sacred poems. In addition to these artists were Schnorr, Schraudolph, Schwind, Führich, Neher, Eberle, Ahlborn, Koch, etc. In another respect, also, she approved herself a true artist, namely, by rendering constant assistance to such pupils of the distinguished masters with whom she was friendly, as gave evidence of talent. Her helping hand alone rendered, indeed, many an artistic undertaking possible; and not a few artists had occasion, in such instances, to admire not only the liberality but delicacy with which she dispensed orders and bore with trying delays. She exhibited an extraordinary degree of patience in the friendly manner with which she would conform herself to personal circumstances and private relations which did not at all concern her, even in cases of work delayed for years and paid for in advance. She would even heap coals of fire upon their heads by surprising them with further money advances--a charity which at times was exceedingly opportune. By this and similar methods Miss Linder, without any display, accomplished much good, and constantly experienced the pure pleasure of making others happy. And in yet another manner she showed a noble liberality. With rare unselfishness she would allow copies to be made and disseminated of the most valuable drawings in her collection, her own private property. She not only encouraged efforts of this kind, but sometimes at her own expense actually initiated them. By this multiplication of fine works of art she shared prominently in that noble task undertaken by Overbeck and his companions--the establishment of a more dignified and elevated art standard.

True art seemed to assume with her, year by year, a graver aspect. In judging of a work, she deemed its intent just as important as its execution. She discerned in art a reflected radiance from the world of light: and all that did not tend upward to this she regarded as idle effort and labor lost. She observed with pain an increasing tendency to the material, particularly since the year 1850; and nothing more deeply incensed her than a demeaning of art to low and base uses. {232} Even in Munich, after Cornelius left and Louis. I. descended the throne, there existed no longer the ancient standard. What is now left of that school of sacred art, once blossoming out with such inspiriting vigor? It now leads the existence of a Cinderella. Even in the year 1850, Miss Linder remarked: "Our academy affords me no longer any very great pleasure: the period of love and inspiration has passed. Shall we ever see its return?"

The gathering clouds in the political horizon and the disturbance of social relations were not encouraging to any hope like this. But at just such a time, when outside life was forbidding, she found how grateful a definite aim and mission may be, and experienced the quiet delight of art and art-occupation more than ever. She thus writes from Pöhl, a favorite resort of hers in summer, adjacent to the Ammersee, "I shall yet make a little tour in the Tyrol and then ensconce myself in winter quarters, where I shall be happy in a work already commenced and which will immediately engross me. It is a source of the greatest happiness in these days to have a given task. How much it enables one to get rid of!" On viewing Gallait's picture of "Egmont and Horn" in the exhibition, she remarked, "I should not care to own the picture, and yet there is much to admire in it. The sphere of art is so extensive and yet so limited--after all, one cannot but feel that everything not in God's service is, to say the least, superfluous."

An evening quiet overspread her relations with the outside world. But uninterruptedly until her death she kept up, in her own home, the accustomed hospitality. Her house was always a central point of really good society. No literary or artistic celebrity could long tarry in Munich without an invitation to her table, around which every week a little circle was gathered. Privy-Counsellor von Ringseis usually acted as host, a man whose varied knowledge, ripe experience, and inexhaustible humor better befitted him than any other to blend the most opposite characteristics of the guests. With friends in the distance she maintained an extensive correspondence, and also cultivated her friendly relations with them by regular summer trips: a passion for travel and a love of nature remaining true to her into advanced old age.

A nature so profound, so true, and so enlightened was constituted for friendship, and Emily Linder served as a model in this regard. She possessed those two qualities by which it is best retained--candor and disinterestedness. What she was capable of as to the latter quality has already been sufficiently shown. An open frankness was the groundwork of her character. She possessed a kind but impartial judgment, and in the right place she knew how to assert it. The same sincerity was expected of others, and nothing with her outweighed truthfulness. Whoever offended in this point came to conclusions with her speedily and once for all. A half-and-half sincerity or prevarication could force even her dovelike mildness to resentment. When called to pass judgment upon the work of a friendly artist, there arose a noble contest between frankness and kindness. Her opinions were always to the point, and by the soundness of her judgment she gave food for reflection. But in cases of a change of opinion after more mature consideration, she was quick to acknowledge herself at fault. A single incident may illustrate this. On occasion, of a defence, by an artist, of a celebrated master, to one of whose works she had taken exceptions, she replied:

{233}

"My first judgment, then, was unquestionably hasty. But among friends I shall never like that degree of caution always insisted upon which admits of no quick and impulsive word; for thus would all open-heartedness be repressed; a thing which no amount of shrewdness or cool deliberation could ever replace. I beg for myself the privilege therefore, hereafter, just as often, and perhaps just as hastily, to express my opinion."

She reposed the same confidence in the judgment of others. All the more weighty art matters about which she concerned herself were submitted to the counsel and decision of intelligent friends of art. She took the most lively interest, also, in every important event or crisis in the families of these friends. Her thoughtful consideration loved to express itself in pleasant souvenirs and playful surprises of gifts; and her fidelity often extended even to the departed. Many a friend, after having passed to a long home, was endowed with a memorial Mass which she established for the repose of his soul. The Klee and Möhler memorial, a composition of Steinle, copies of which she caused at her own expense to be made, she intended (an intention, indeed, never realized) as an aid to the establishment of a Klee and Möhler fund; and a lasting monument it would have proved to the memory of these two noble men. For any expression of fidelity toward herself she was deeply grateful; particularly in her more advanced years, after she became more and more aware how rare a thing is disinterested attachment in this age of unprincipled selfishness. "Any instance of loyal attachment," said she, "moves me the more deeply in these times, when truly it is no fashionable virtue."

A special object of her loving thoughtfulness was her beloved Assisi, the little convent of the German sisters of St. Francis. In times of great distress, particularly during the ravages of the Revolution, it was no small consolation and delight to receive thence, after a long interval, reassuring intelligence. Particularly was this the case during the Mazzini terrorism of 1849. In the autumn of this year, she announced to a friend, with something like motherly pride: "I have received tidings lately from our German nuns at Assisi. Appalling things have happened at Rome, and indications of the same have threatened elsewhere, even at Assisi. But the good women bravely set at naught all intimidation and threat, and have come out entirely unharmed. Yes, even the gangs themselves are reported to have said: One cannot get the better of these Germans, they pray too much. May we all of us lay hands upon the same trusty weapon!" The burgher-maiden whom she took with her as candidate to Assisi on her journey to Rome in 1829, has already been, for the last twenty-four years, Superior of the German convent; it so chanced that she attained to this position the very year that Emily Linder became a Catholic. During that time, more than twenty Bavarian maidens followed her to Assisi. If the gratitude of happy people, who praise God daily that they have found "the true ark of peace," ever proved a blessing, this blessing accrued, in rich measure, to the artist from Assisi. Her name is entered in the memorial book of the convent, and, so long as this spiritual order exists, she will live there as their "best benefactress, and as their dear, good mother in Christ." Thus is she spoken of in the numerous and touching letters of the pious sisters.

{234}

Seldom has a human being made a more magnanimous use of a large income than the departed Emily Linder. Her benevolence was on a grand scale. Her whole nature was generosity itself; but that which at first was but natural good will to all became afterward, by the pious spirit which pervaded her, an element of her religious worship. She considered herself but as the almoner of the riches God had entrusted to her. Her goodness was of that serene character which never showed aught of impatience toward those begging or initiating charities. She gave to both with equal friendliness. She contributed lavishly to public institutions for the sick and suffering. And yet what she gave to the individual poor, and such special families as were commended to her, must also have been a very considerable sum. In these simpler distributions of charity she showed a marked delicacy. The modest poor who came to her house she never allowed to be waited on by her servants, but administered to their wants herself. In some instances she bore her gifts on certain specified days to their dwellings; and in these cases she was just as systematic, and as punctual to the day and the hour, as in all things else. Christmas in her house was a festival of the poor. The lines of Clemens Brentano in his collection of sacred poems, entitled _To the Benefactress, on the Occasion of her Presentation to the Poor_, refer to this incident. To what extent and in what instances she served as unknown guardian angel, her intimate friends rather guessed at than knew. The character of her benevolence, generally, was piously-noiseless and still. Through hidden channels she often reached far in the distance, sustaining and rescuing (both physically and spiritually) where the need was very urgent. Often, thus, a gift flowed forth from her and sped like a sunbeam into some languishing heart. Many an obstacle has she removed from the path of a struggling child of humanity; into many a stout but wounded spirit has she infused new life and energy. Clemens Brentano termed this a "heavenly little piece of strategy."

This noiseless activity in art and benevolence did not withdraw her attention from what was going on outside, and although she never stepped beyond the natural boundaries of her position, and was of too quiet a nature to mingle generally in the strife of parties, she nevertheless, to the last year of her life, maintained a lively interest in all the great church and political questions of the day. The prodigious changes which took place in the world during the fourth period of her life, what heart would not have been profoundly stirred by them? But, however painful to her the prevailing Machiavelism of the age, the insanity of the revolutionary leaders, the pitiable confusion of the people, and the undermining of all conservative bulwarks in state and society, courage and hope still maintained the upper hand. The pressure upon the church and the Pope filled her perhaps with concern, but did not dismay her. She had the right standard, and the consolation which it brought, in judging of the destinies of the nations. When the revolutionary storms of 1848 and 1849 burst upon them and swept over Germany and Italy, she remarked: "The experience of all history, and the consolation it imparts, is just this: God allows men their way to a certain point, and where the end seems just achieved. But then is inscribed with an almighty hand, the '_Thus far_.' And though his church be shaken, this is far better for us than to be reposing upon cushions of ease."

{235}

Her confidence was similarly undisturbed during the succeeding momentous years. During her attendance upon the drama of _The Passion_, at Oberammergau, in the year 1860, she was occupied with reflections upon the stupendous drama of passion of our own times. "There is something so fearfully grand in the present events of the world," she wrote to her friend in Frankfort, "that a certain elevation fills the soul, raising one above this little life of ours upon earth. The image in our mind of the holy father is already so spiritualized that it begins to be invested with the sanctity of the martyr. How many may have to follow in his martyr footsteps? Shall we live to see the victory? At my time of life, no; and yet a secret joy often possesses me at the thought of this glorious era. But I say with you, the great task for us all is to gain heaven. God vouchsafe this!" The latest period of German distress she lived through with the intensest sympathy. She accepted the appalling catastrophe as a severe trial, even to her own personal feelings and hopes, and recognized in this calamity the initiation of a still greater. "For me," she wrote to the same friend, "the hope of any kind of a future is now past. I must subject my heart to no more disappointment; but the mercy of God for the individual is still attainable and great; to every one accessible and possible. You belong, of course, to the younger generation, and can still dream of a sunrise for our German fatherland. The result of the present calamity, swiftly as it may seem to be plunging us into irremediable ruin, will, nevertheless, never go the length intended by the Prince of Evil. God stands above him; that is certain. The future will be a different one; a very different one, from that which we could ever surmise or guess, even the future of the church. And this future will be God's. Let that content us."

Her life was a bright contrast to the demoralization, the unrest, the arrogant selfishness of our age. She presented to those among whom she lived the picture of a self-sustained, unselfish, reposeful soul. Humility, trust in God, and compassion, this was the fundamental harmony of her daily life. Old age, which often, indeed, smooths away from the good all little imperfections and blemishes of character, rendered her still more considerate, patient, and gentle. Her love of simplicity was as great as were her means. In her own household, well systemized, careful economy; outside of this, severe, almost noticeable plainness. But to her applied the line of the poet:

"A blessing she could see in lowliness to be."

While denying herself, she gave with lavish hand to poverty and distress, to art and to the church. She moved with measured, dignified pace; but a certain religious harmony of action imparted to her being and doing an indescribable grace, which is always the accompaniment of inward purity, and a religion based upon humility.

The Abbé Haneberg, in his beautiful tribute at her grave, remarked, "She seemed, during the last twenty years of her life, to emulate the most pious of her friends and daughters of Assisi, and to aim even to outdo them, so systematic and untiring was her service to God." Of this, however, her friends knew but little. How much she thus quietly accomplished was never fully known until after her death. It will suffice here to state that in the year 1851 she informed herself, through the Superior at Assisi, of their daily regulations, and the usual succession of religious exercises. Her everyday life was identified with the daily life of the church. {236} She appreciated the significant beauty and expressive symbolism of churchly ordinances, and in close observance joined in their celebration. To this end, she followed the _Ordo_ of her diocese, and her favorite prayer-book was the Missal. Her knowledge of languages stood her in good stead here; for, in addition to the modern languages, she had also learned Latin, and had become sufficiently familiar with it to follow intelligently the language of the church. Cardinal Diepenbrock, in 1850, wrote to her of a lady who was occupying herself with the Latin, or church, language; "A worthy study," he remarked. "Have you not also begun it? It strikes me that Clemens was saying something about it. But perhaps you were able to get no farther than the _mensa_; the _mensa Domini_ would naturally be enough for you." But she went farther than this. In her manuscripts were found Latin exercises, written under the guidance of the worthy old Bröber. One room of her spacious residence was arranged as a chapel, in which was the superb altar-piece by Eberhard, "The Triumph of the Church." This chapel was favored by the ordinariat with a Mass licence. On the anniversary of her union with the church she was accustomed to receive holy communion here; and here the departed Bishop Valentin, of Regensburg, once celebrated Mass. Here, also, she devoted daily a certain time to meditation and the perusal of the Holy Scriptures. Her favorite place of devotion, however, was the little chapel of the ducal hospital which she frequented twice a day; early in the morning, and again at evening. She had for years a quiet little place in the organ gallery where, day by day, in all weather, and at all seasons of the year, she consecrated a couple of hours to prayer.

As the years flew by, she withdrew herself more and more from the world, and sought to be "hid in God." The departure to their final home of so many friends, together with other events, served as slight admonitions, which by her thoughtful heart were not unheeded. She recognized in this matter fresh cause of gratitude to God, who was dealing so tenderly with her to the very end. "I consider it," she wrote, "a special favor of the Lord that he grants me so long a preparation for my final hour." Years previously, she had put herself in Christian readiness for her last journey, and only hoped that it might prove "a good death hour." With customary precision, she had ordered all her temporal affairs. She had even made provision as to her interment, and the final burial service. Her arrangements for the latter of these, written in a bold and beautiful hand, were dated the 7th of October, 1865. On the festival of the Epiphany, 1867, she was for the last time in her favorite little chapel of the ducal hospital. Only a few weeks previously, she had begun to feel ill, and now symptoms of dropsy suddenly developed themselves. The invalid recognized her condition with Christian resignation, but did not yet relinquish hope of a recovery. "The task now is, to resign myself and to be patient. God help me to this," she wrote at the close of January. It was her last letter. Her friend Apollonia hastened from Regensburg, and she, who, twenty-three years before, had stood at her side when received into the church, was now to stand at her death-bed. The invalid requested that her friend should remain with her one week; and exactly at the close of the week she died. During her illness she found special consolation in the house-altar, where, to her great spiritual comfort, her worthy confessor repeatedly celebrated mass. {237} From this Eberhard altar, where she first made profession of Catholic faith and where she yearly commemorated that happy event, she now received the viaticum and extreme unction. In conformity with her wish, on the festival of St. Apollonia mass was again celebrated in her little chapel. It was her last mass, and the final union of the two friends in holy sacrament. She seemed now to rejoice in her approaching dissolution as though it were a return home. One morning as her priest entered, she stretched out her arms and exclaimed, "May I--oh! may I go home?" "Yes, the guardian angel accompanies you, he guides you thither," was the reply. Thereupon she was silent, remained in deep meditation, and spoke but little after. Yet she seemed to participate in all that transpired; if prayer were uttered, she prayed also; to all who drew near she gave a friendly glance, but, for the most part, remained absorbed and still.

On the day preceding her death, she summoned all her strength, and with difficult effort gave expression to several wishes, the last of her earthly life. She recalled an admirable artist, whom she held in high personal esteem, from whom she had long desired a picture as an addition to her collection. She directed a very considerable sum to be sent to him for a historical picture, which was now to be painted for the museum at Bale. The future of her poor, also, such as had been accustomed to receive little charities, engaged her thoughts; she desired that these charities should be continued until they had found other benefactors. Her last words were in allusion to Jerusalem. She bethought herself of the "Watchers at the Holy Sepulchre," (of the order of St. Francis,) and also of the "Zion Society," to both of which she had made yearly contributions, and which she now similarly remembered. Thus had her life its characteristic close. Her last mental activity was exercised in works of charity, of art, and of religion. With a glance at Jerusalem and the sepulchre of her Saviour, she now went forward toward the new Jerusalem. Her end was the falling asleep of a child. In the early morning of the 12th of February, 1867, without a single death-struggle, she sank into slumber--quietly, painlessly, peacefully.

A gentleman, intimately befriended with her, remarked, "After her death, I had occasion to observe the intense grief of those who had been recipients of her bounty, and then first became aware what a truly royal munificence had been hers, which all were ignorant of, save God and the poor." Such were the tears that followed her, together with those countless others, which during her life she had already dried.

On the afternoon of the 14th of February a long funeral procession, composed of the best Catholic society of Munich, and throngs of the poor, together with the superintendent of public charities, (then represented by the mayor of the city,) moved from the pleasant mansion on the corner of Carl street toward the cemetery, to render their last homage to this noble friend of art and the poor. The Abbé Haneberg, an old friend of hers, pronounced the benediction of the church over her grave, which was located not far from the grave of Möhler. {238} In her written instructions, Emily Linder desired only a simple stone cross above her, the pedestal of the cross bearing the inscription:

The slumberer, here, confides in the mercy of God:

the simplest, but in its simplicity, the most touching testimony to a being whose interior life was all humility and trust in God, and whose exterior activity had been the purest mercy itself. To her might be applied a verse of the beautiful requiem addressed by Brentano to another departed friend:

"He, for whom our willing gifts On the needy we confer, From his eight beatitudes Singled Mercy out for her."

The whole spirit which accompanied her through a life of seventy years still lived on in her bequests. The half of her large fortune she left to benevolent and charitable objects; chiefly to schools and hospitals. True Swiss that she was, she was specially mindful of her native city. The largest amount donated--200,000 florins--was bequeathed to the Bishop of Bale, for the benefit of his diocese. Her art-treasures were, with few exceptions, incorporated with the museum of Bale, to whose first establishment she had originally contributed no small amount, and which, with true patrician feeling, lavishly endowed during her life.

In these bequests to art and to the church, Emily Linder reared for herself a monument which will keep her in blessed remembrance; and this monument is only the last milestone of record on the pathway of a life thickly studded with works of charity. Truly a significant, steadfast existence, harmonious from its commencement to its very close.

In days of depression and perplexity would we gaze upon a portrait of true humanity, ennobled and enlightened by Christianity, (a portrait we might well present as a study to the young,) we may point with quiet confidence to the departed Emily Linder, and exclaim: Behold here a character noble, unselfish, and complete--a nature of rare purity and depth--a transparent and beautiful spirit, who verified her faith by her love.

The Irish Church Act Of 1869.

"They" (the Anglican ministers of Ireland) "will not fleece the sheep they cannot feed, and spend the spoils of a people conquered, not won.-- "_London Times_, March 4th, 1869.

The measure for the disestablishment and disendowment of the English Church in Ireland, recently introduced by the English premier into the British Parliament, is one of the most startling and boldest steps which has yet been taken by that body to rectify the criminal blunders of three hundred years of mistaken legislation. Mr. Gladstone, in moving the first reading of the act, in a very long speech, evidently prepared with great care, while admitting it to be "the most grave and arduous work of legislature that ever has been laid before the House of Commons," felt the necessity of cautiously and almost apologetically stating the case and explaining the views of those with whom he acted. Mr. Disraeli, the leader of the opposition, while agreeing with his distinguished successor in office in nothing else, was forced to allow the scheme to be "one of the most gigantic that had ever been brought before the house"--an opinion which, judging from the temper of all parties inside and outside of parliament, appears to be unanimously entertained.

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The friends of the act are numerous in England as well as in Ireland, embracing all the Catholic population and a very large portion of dissenting Protestants of more advanced and liberal views in both countries. The Catholics of Ireland see in it the destruction of that infamous system which has not only robbed them of their altars and the graves of their ancestors, but compelled them to support in idleness and luxury what even Disraeli himself long since denounced as "an alien church." Though the partial restitution contemplated at this late day by this act bears no corresponding comparison with the magnitude of the evils borne, it is still restitution, and a most significant and, in a sense, abject admission of the utter failure of the experiment of the English government to force Protestantism on an unwilling people. The successful passage of the act will also necessitate the expenditure of large sums of money for purely charitable purposes, and what, in a national sense, is of more importance, it will remove one of the most salient and fruitful causes of Irish discontent. But it is in England that the question assumes the most portentous magnitude; for it has become apparent to every one there that the fall of the Irish Establishment is but the first act in the drama of the total severance of church and state in the entire British empire. The entering wedge well driven home in Ireland, the results in other parts of the United Kingdom become merely a matter of time. Sir John Grey, one of the strongest supporters of Mr. Gladstone's bill, himself a Protestant, hints at this in an article in a late number of his paper, the Dublin _Freeman's Journal_, in which he says: "He (Gladstone) will soon have powerful auxiliaries in the English curates, and they have more influence in forming public opinion in England than the bench of bishops and the ten thousand incumbents. The Irish curates will be in Mr. Gladstone's favor, and if ever disestablishment should be the lot of England--_and he would be a rash politician who would negative such a proposition_--the English curates would have in Mr. Gladstone's Irish measure a precedent for an equal measure of justice to themselves."

The opposition to the act comes in the first place from the whole body of Anglican bishops and clergymen in Ireland, if we except the Bishop of Down and a few badly paid curates who would benefit by its passage. The Orangemen, that most pestiferous of all social and political scourges, of course sustain their reverend friends, and their loyalty on this occasion has culminated in a remonstrance signed, it is said, by over two thousand noblemen and landed "gentry." Hostility to the policy foreshadowed by Mr. Gladstone was very active and virulent in England during the late elections, and is now exhibited in the Commons by a large and active tory minority. The English ecclesiastics have also taken up the cry with equal earnestness and scarcely less vehemence. At the last sitting of the New Convocation of Canterbury in London, an address to the queen in opposition to the provisions of the act was proposed and carried by the upper house, and upon being sent down to the lower house for adoption, the following and similar amendments were enthusiastically added: {240} "Above all," say those reverend gentlemen, "we are constrained by our sense of duty to your majesty and to the Reformed Church of England and Ireland, humbly to represent to your majesty that disestablishment of the church in Ireland cannot be had without repudiation, on the part of the nation, of the necessity and value of the Reformation." This language is explicit and forcible enough, but the Synod of both Houses of Convocation of the Province of York, held on the same day, goes a little farther. "This convocation," they affirm, "view with sorrow and alarm the proposed attempt to disestablish and disendow the Irish branch of the United Church of England and Ireland, as seriously affecting the interests of the church in that part of the British dominions; as a fatal encroachment on the prerogatives of the crown; as unsettling the constitution of church and state guaranteed by engagements entered into by acts of union, and confirmed to members of the church by the solemn sanction of the coronation oath."

That part of the coronation oath prescribed by the first William and Mary, chapter sixth, to which allusion is here made and which is the straw that the drowning Anglicans are endeavoring to grasp, reads as follows: "_Question:_ Will you, to the utmost of your power, maintain the laws of God, the profession of the Gospel, and the Protestant Reformed Religion established by law? And will you preserve unto the bishops and clergy of this realm, and to the churches committed to their charge, all such rights and privileges as by law do or shall appertain unto them or any of them? _King and Queen_: All this I promise to do, (king and queen lay hands on the holy Gospel, saying,) so help me God." The condition of this solemn oath would at first sight appear to preclude the queen from signing the act, were we not assured by the confident tone, and even the express words, of Mr. Gladstone that her majesty's views were entirely in accord with those of her first minister, and in fact, that she had already placed in the hands of parliament her right of ecclesiastical appointments in Ireland.

The history of the Irish Church Establishment, now happily about to disappear for ever, is so familiar to most intelligent readers that it requires but a passing notice. Since its birth at a so-called Irish parliament, summoned by Lord Grey in 1536, down to the present time, so unjust have been its proceedings, so rapacious its ministers, and so oppressive its exactions of an ill-governed and neglected people, with whom it never had the least sympathy, that Christendom has stood aghast in mingled wonder and disgust. Not only were the Catholics of Ireland despoiled of their churches, abbeys, and convents, the monuments of piety and learning and the dispensaries of Christian charity, reared by the hands of benevolent ancestors for over a thousand years, but the very humblest abodes of worship were handed over to a foreign clergy, preaching a new religion at the point of the sword, ignorant of the very language of the country, and by birth and training bitterly hostile to every interest, spiritual and temporal, of the people they were sent to teach. Nor was this all. The despoiled masses were compelled to pay, and still pay, for the support of this "alien" church a tithe on every foot of cultivated land in the kingdom, and upon the produce and stock derived from or raised on the same. {241} The amount of property thus filched from the overburdened farmers and peasantry of Ireland under color of law, and the additional _annual revenue_ wrung from that half-famished nation, is thus estimated by no less an authority than the English premier: [Footnote 51]

[Footnote 51: This, of course, is but a very small portion indeed of the property taken from the Catholic Church in Ireland under Henry VIII. and succeeding monarchs. Most of the abbey lands were first vested in the crown and then granted to courtiers and others at a nominal rent as the reward of their apostasy. Many of the wealthiest families in Ireland derive their titles to their lands from those acts of spoliation.]

"The commissioners appointed in 1868 estimated the annual value at £616,000, but, with all respect for their long labors, he must differ from them, for they had placed it too low; for one of their body, in a subsequent publication, estimates it at £835,000, but for the present purpose he would take it at £700,000. The capitalized amount was as follows:

Tithe rent charge, £9,000,000 Land, £6,250,000 Other property in money, etc., £750,000 Total, £16,000,000

The result is that the whole value of the ecclesiastical property of Ireland, reduced and cut down first of all by the almost unbounded waste of life tenants, and secondly by the wisdom or unwisdom of well-intentioned parliaments--the remaining value is no less than £16,000,000 of money, considerably more than on a former occasion I ventured to estimate, but then my means of information were smaller than they now are."

From the contemplation of past injustice we can now turn with a sense of relief to the provisions of the act itself, and which, under such peculiar circumstances, are perhaps as wisely and judiciously framed as can be expected. On its passage it may be slightly altered in some of its minor details, but there is little room for doubt that the act substantially as first presented will become law.

And first, those parts of the Acts of Union of the Irish and English parliaments, passed at the beginning of this century, permitting certain Irish bishops to sit _ex officio_ as lords spiritual in the British House of Peers, and giving to the decrees, orders, and judgments of certain ecclesiastical courts in Ireland the force and authority of law in that part of the realm, are unconditionally repealed. The thirteenth section of the act prescribes: "On the 1st day of January, 1871, every ecclesiastical corporation in Ireland, whether sole or aggregate; every cathedral corporation in Ireland as defined by this act shall be dissolved, and on and after that day no archbishop or bishop of the said church shall be summoned to or be qualified to sit in the House of Lords."

Thus we see that Irish Anglican bishops will no longer be considered worthy to sit beside their right reverend brethren of England on the benches of that respectable but rather sleepy conclave known as the House of Lords, and that the Protestant Church in Ireland will be resolved into a mere voluntary body consisting of clerics and laity, whose regulations will only affect themselves as matters of mutual contract, but who will have no legal jurisdiction nor recognition except such as may be conferred by subsequent acts of parliament on local corporations. When we reflect that the prelates thus so unceremoniously thrust out of the Lords, and who with their _confrères_ are stripped of all extrajudicial authority, were, and still are, the most active promoters of the Act of Union and the fiercest opponents of its repeal, we cannot help admiring the poetic justice which now offers the bitter draught to their lips. Like Macbeth, they but taught "bloody instructions, which, being taught, return to plague the inventor."

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The act next provides for the appointment of a commission which shall exist for ten years from the commencement of its operations, and be clothed with full power to reduce to its possession all the property, lands, tenements, and interests of or now belonging to the Established Church of Ireland, and to reconvey, sell, or dispose of the same according to the provisions of the act, after the 1st day of January, 1871. The church-buildings now in use by the Established Church will be handed over, with all their rights, to the "governing body" of the particular church under the voluntary system of organization; those not in general use or so dilapidated as to be incapable of repair, being from their antiquity or the beauty of their architecture, like St. Patrick's, Dublin, to the number of twelve, will be transferred by the commissioner to the care of the Board of Public Works, with an adequate appropriation in money for their proper care and preservation. Against this latter arrangement we entirely and emphatically protest. St. Patrick's Cathedral at least, if not every one of those twelve churches which the Anglicans have neither the numbers to decently fill nor the generosity to keep in repair, instead of being put in care of poor-law commissioners or any other secular body, should be handed over to the Catholics of the country, the real owners and spiritual heirs of their founders. This, after all, would be nothing more than an act of tardy justice, and a reproof not only to the sacrileges committed in them by the "Reformers" of the sixteenth century, but to Anglican poverty and niggardliness in the nineteenth century. In the hands of the poor-law commissions, who have shown little reverence and less antiquarian lore, those magnificent temples will become simply objects of wonder to the passing tourist; surrounded by all the artistic and beautiful graces of our holy faith, they would be living, breathing evidences, as it were, of the unswerving devotion to and the glorious rejuvenation of that faith in the Island of Saints. If not too late, we wish to see this portion of the act changed; if this cannot be done, we wish to see the Catholic and the liberal members of parliament move in the matter by the means of subsequent legislation.

See and glebe houses and their curtilages and gardens vested in the commissioners may be sold to the governing body of any church to which they are attached, for a sum equal to twelve times the annual value of the house and land so conveyed, payment to be made in installments within twenty-two and a quarter years. Upon application from the same or a similar governing body, the commissioners may sell, in the case of a see house, thirty acres, and of any other ecclesiastical residence, ten acres, contiguous land, for such sum as may be agreed upon by arbitration. It is further provided that, whenever any church or church sites vest in the commissioners, not subject to the above conditions, they shall dispose of the same by public sale at their discretion. This latter clause, though simple in its terms and apparently unimportant, constitutes in reality one of the most interesting features in the act. Knowing as we do the intense devotion of the Irish Catholics for the crumbling ruins of the old churches built by their brave and zealous ancestors, where in the olden time walked so many holy men now with the saints in heaven, and the cold indifference or ignorance of the Anglican clergy in relation to such sanctified places, we can confidently predict that not many years will elapse ere those precious memorials of the past will be in the possession of the people who have so watched in silence and in tears their desecration by the followers of the religion of Henry and Elizabeth. {243} It will also be remarked in this part of the act the constant recurrence of the term "governing body," so expressive of the total reduction of the once proud Church of England in Ireland as by "law established" to the same condition as that occupied by mere Methodists and Presbyterians.

Graveyards, a subject scarcely less attractive than churches, is next dealt with in this elaborate act. When a church having a burial ground attached to it is vested in the commissioners, and the church-building is subsequently reinvested in the "governing body," the burial ground will be included in the order conveying the same; otherwise the burial grounds will be transferred to the poor-law guardians within whose district the same may be situated, to be used by them in a manner similar to those already taken or purchased by such guardians. This clause when carried out will change many graveyards now exclusively controlled by Protestants, but which in reality are and formerly were the property of Catholics, into places of public burial, and, _a fortiori_, Catholic.

Having disposed of the material interests and franchises of the Irish Church, we next come to the most important part (only, however, as far as the parties immediately affected are concerned) of the act, though the framers, evidently with a keen eye to the pockets of the disestablished, place it among the first in general interest. It appears under the unostentatious sub-title of "Compensation to persons deprived of Income." It provides that, on and after the 1st of January, 1871, the commissioners, having in the mean time ascertained the amount of annual income of the holder of any archbishopric, bishopric, benefice, or cathedral preferment, curacy, etc., shall pay to the holder of the same an annuity equal in amount to such income for life, or as long as such incumbent continues to perform the duties of such office; or such incumbent may commute his annuity in return for a certain payment in bulk, upon his own application and at the discretion of the commission. For these purposes the sum of about £5,000,000, or twenty-five millions of dollars, will be required to be paid out of the assets in the hands of the commissioners. This amount divided between two thousand ecclesiastics would give an average of twelve thousand five hundred dollars for each, but as that number includes the curates, the most numerous and worst paid of the Anglican clergymen, the archbishops and other high dignitaries will find themselves in receipt of enormous revenues during the term of their natural lives. Then there are other persons who are to become pensioners on the public bounty to the amount of four million five hundred thousand dollars; such as parish clerks, sextons, officers of cathedrals and ecclesiastical courts, parochial school-masters, organists, and all that sanctimonious and useless tribe whose mock gravity and unbending advocacy of church and state so frequently proved a source of amusement and derision to their less orthodox and perhaps less mercenary neighbors. With a sigh we part with that grave, shabby-genteel link between the Protestant curate and the seldom-met poor pauper of the Anglican Church, well remembering in our early boyhood with what awe we gazed upon their long, sallow visages as they stalked by meditatively, clothed in all the little brief authority of quasi-clerical life. {244} Thirty millions of dollars may be considered a large sum with which to pension off the clergy and their followers of a church which does not count three quarters of a million of souls, of all degrees, sexes, and ages; but it will be money well spent if it heep [helps?] to eradicate an evil which has so long afflicted a patient people. [Footnote 52]

[Footnote 52: A late number of _The Catholic Opinion_ (London) gives us the following statistics: There are, it is said 700,000 Anglicans in Ireland and 36,000,000 Catholics in France; that is, 51 times as many Catholics in France as Anglicans in Ireland. The budget therefore of Catholic worship in France should be 51 times £800,000, or £40,800,000, to write which is enough to show the monstrous iniquity of which Ireland has been the victim. The Presbyterians, numbering 523,291 persons, receive a _regium donum_ for their ministers amounting to £40,547, and a subsidy of £2050 for their theological college at Belfast, making a total of £42,597. Protestant dissenters have no endowment, nor yet Catholics, excepting a subsidy to the college at Maynooth of £26,360. Thus the Anglican Establishment in Ireland has a revenue of about £800,000 for 700,000 persons, or about £1 3s. per head. The Presbyterians receive from the government £42,597 for 523,291 persons, or about 1s. 7 1/2d. per head. Catholics, £26,360 for 4,505,265 persons, that is, LESS THAN ONE PENNY HALFPENNY per head.

According to the last census, that of 1861, there were in Ireland:

Per Cent of the whole Population.

4,505,265 Catholics, that is, 77.7 693,357 members of the Established Church, 11.9 523,291 Presbyterians, 9.0 76,661 Protestant dissenters, 1.2 393 Jews, 0.0 5,798,967 Total 100.0]

The holders of advowsons, or the right to appoint to church livings--with the exception of the queen, corporations sole and aggregate dissolved by the act, and trustees, officers, and persons acting in a public capacity--are entitled to certain compensation to be ascertained by arbitration; one million five hundred thousand dollars being allowed for the liquidation of this description of claims. As no Catholic can exercise this right, even though the owner of the land in fee from which the right to appoint arises, it follows that whatever compensation is made will go to Protestants only. It would seem to any person other than an Anglican landlord that this clause is not only not in harmony with the equitable spirit of the body of the act, but that it is manifestly unjust. Advowsons are as much a relic of ancient feudal barbarism as any that were abolished by law under the commonwealth or Charles II., and should have been swept away when all the other devices for defrauding the industrious poor were abolished centuries ago. We waive altogether the question of their simoniacal character; for a custom so convenient for the land-holder and so profitable for younger sons of aristocratic families would hardly be condemned on that account by those who so largely profit by it. In addition to all the money which the commissioners are to reimburse as above mentioned, we find that upon the property of the Irish Church there is a building debt of some one million and a quarter dollars for the repair of churches, glebes, etc., which the commissioners are instructed to pay.

Thus we see that the sum of nearly thirty-two millions of dollars has been set aside as an inducement to the loosening of the grip of a very small and mercenary faction on the public purse ostensibly, but in reality on the very vitals of the industrial interests of the country. Let us now see what corresponding compensation has been made for the Catholics and dissenters.

It is well known that for over a century the Presbyterians of Ireland have been annually in the receipt of a limited sum of money called the _regium donum_. At first, as the term indicates, this was simply a gift from the crown, but of late years it has been regularly voted by parliament, and last year it amounted to £45,000. This grant is to be withdrawn; and as an equivalent, a sum of about four millions of dollars is to be capitalized by the commissioners, the annual interest of which will be nearly equal to the present donation. In addition to this, seventy-five thousand dollars are to be bestowed on the Presbyterian college of Belfast.

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But the Catholics, who, notwithstanding the vast emigration of the last twenty-five years, form three fourths of the entire population, fare even worse than their dissenting brethren. The paltry grant of £26,000 to Maynooth College is to cease, and a sum equal to less than a half of that appropriated to the Presbyterians is to be substituted, the interest only of which will be devoted to the support of that distinguished nursery of Catholic learning. The building debt of some twenty thousand pounds which the college owes to the Board of Public Works is to be paid off by the commissioners; but, apart from this trifling sum, the Catholics of Ireland gain no direct material advantage from the enforcement of the new act; and it is to be hoped that, when time confirms the sagacity of the statesmen who have suggested the introduction of the present reform, and has done full justice to the moral courage of the men who have proposed it to the imperial parliament, the self-denial and disinterestedness of the Irish Catholic hierarchy, clergy, and people will be duly appreciated. However little flattering such unequal distribution of funds may be to the rightful claims of Catholics, we presume they will not think it worth their while to object to it. Many of them, we are disposed to think, would be willing to dispense altogether with state aid, if the rule were made general as far as regards Protestant sects. The Catholic Church in Ireland has never been desirous of leaning for support on the arm of the British government, and the experience of its members at home and in this country has amply proved that the church is always more prosperous and more powerful for good in inverse proportion to its reliance on the secular arm.

There is no provision made for Trinity college, that being left for future legislation, with an intimation from the premier that, while its interests will be properly attended to, it shall be deprived of its exclusively sectarian character. This is well. Trinity was endowed with many thousand broad acres violently taken from the rightful owners, the Irish chiefs, by Elizabeth, which must now yield an enormous revenue. It has been in times past, to a great extent, the nursery of enlightened intolerance and philosophic indifference; but when we recall the names of Swift and Mollineux, Grattan, Curran, the Emmets, Petrie, and McCullough, and many other illustrious friends of Ireland, who studied in its venerable halls, and there partially developed the germs of that keen wit, fiery eloquence, and scientific lore which graced a nation even in its darkest hour of humiliation, we can forgive their old _alma mater_ a great many backslidings. Trinity should be allowed to retain her revenues, and when her wide gates are thrown open for the reception alike of the Catholic, the Anglican, and the Dissenter, her sphere of usefulness will not only be enlarged, but doubly increased by the competition between the diverse elements of which the population of Ireland is composed. She will then cease to be sectarian, and become, in the truest sense, national.

We now come to the matter of assets to be reduced into possession by the commissioners, out of which the several sums above mentioned are to be paid--assets which, according to Mr. Gladstone's estimates, will amount to £16,000,000, or eighty million dollars. {246} Of this sum, £9,000,000, it is expected, will be derived from the commutation or obliteration of tithe rent charges; that is to say, the owners of lands from which tithes are now derived can, by the payment of a fixed sum to the commissioners, be for ever relieved from the tithe exaction; and, should they be unable to pay the whole sum down, they are to be allowed forty-five years wherein to pay it by instalments. Tithes, it must be remembered, have not, for nearly forty years, been collected directly from the cultivator of the soil, but from the owner, who, of course, added it to the rent, and thus, though the objectionable adjuncts of distrain and imprisonment for tithes, as such, were done away, the tenant had still to pay the odious tax in another form. As the clause of the act regulating this branch of the duties of the commissioners is perhaps the last of such a nature that will ever be allowed to encumber the statute-book of the British parliament, we quote it entire, simply premising that it seems fair enough, and in terms decidedly favorable to the landlords. Section 32 recites:

"The commissioners may at any time after the 1st day of January, 1871, sell any rent charge in lieu of tithes bestowed on them under this act to the owner of the land charged therewith, in consideration of a sum equal to twenty-two and a half times the amount of such rent charge, and upon any such sale being so made, the commissioners shall, by order, declare the rent charge to be merged in the land out of which it issued, and the same shall merge and be extinguished accordingly. Upon the application of any owner so purchasing, the commissioners may, by order, declare his purchase money, or any part thereof, to be payable by instalments, and the land out of which such rent charge issued to be accordingly charged as from a day to be mentioned in such order, for forty-five years thence next ensuing, with an annual sum equal to four pounds ten shillings for every one hundred pounds of the purchase money, or part thereof, so payable in instalments. The annual sum charged by such order shall have priority over all charges and incumbrances, except quit or crown rents, and shall be payable by the same persons, and be recoverable in the same manner as the rent charge in lieu of tithes, heretofore payable out of the same lands. Owner, for the purposes of this section, shall mean the person for the time being liable to pay rent charge in lieu of tithes under the provisions of the acts of the first and second years of the reign of her present majesty, chap. 109."

When all the charges incumbent on the commissioners are provided for, including one million dollars for themselves, a matter which they will not be likely to neglect, there will be left of the effects of the defunct Establishment the handsome sum of over seven million pounds sterling. What disposition to make of this money was a puzzling question for a long time among the legislative administrators. That it was to be devoted to some Irish purpose was understood from the first; but grants of money to Ireland have heretofore turned out to be mere jobs, much more beneficial to government employees than to the supposed recipients of the bounty. Besides, as Mr. Gladstone says, they wanted to make this measure a finality, and to dispose of the money once and for ever. To have divided it among all religious denominations _per capita_, would throw the bulk of it into possession of the Catholics, to the great chagrin of the sects; and to have expended it on one or two local internal improvements would have created sectional jealousy, and given rise to the cry of favoritism. Appreciating these difficulties, the friends of the act have resolved, and, we think, very wisely, to devote it to the general charities of the island, not directly connected with any particular denomination, as follows:

{247}

"1. The support of infirmaries, hospitals, and lunatic asylums in connection with the grand jury cess or other assessment in lieu thereof.

"2. In support of reformatory and industrial schools, Ireland acts, and in aid of other grants for that purpose.

"3. The salaries of trained or skilled nurses for poor persons in sickness or in labor.

"4. The suitable education and maintenance of the blind and of the deaf and dumb poor in separate asylums.

5. The suitable care, training, and maintenance, in separate asylums, of poor persons of weak intellect, not requiring to be kept under restraint. The commissioners may, from time to time, during their trust, report to her majesty whether there is any income available for the purposes mentioned in this section, and, upon such report being made, it shall be lawful for her majesty, by order in council, to direct such available portion of income to be applied for the aforesaid purposes, or any of them, under such management and control as aforesaid."

The poor-law commissioners are to be entrusted with this capital sum, and the distribution of the annual revenue arising therefrom, which is calculated at £310,000. There are two very patent reasons for this distribution. Already the sum of £140,000 for similar purposes is annually raised by a tax called "county cess;" "a heavy tax, an increasing tax," says Mr. Gladstone, "and a tax not divided, like the poor law, between the owner and the occupier, but paid wholly by the occupier; and a tax not limited, like the poor law, to occupations above four pounds in value, but going down to the most miserable huts and cabins. The holders of these most wretched tenements are now required in Ireland, and required increasingly from year to year, to pay, not that which is done by the wealthier portion of the occupants who contribute to the poor law, but to pay for that class of want and suffering which ought undoubtedly to be met, which in every Christian country should be liberally met, but which can only be met by the expenditure of considerable funds in comparison with those which are paid to support the pauper." The frightful increase of those classes of unfortunates to be thus provided for in view of the decrease of the entire population by emigration [Footnote 53] calls loudly for some legal interposition. From 1851 to 1861 the number of deaf and dumb persons increased from 5180 to 5653; and during the same decade the blind increased from 5787 to 6879, while the number of lunatics increased from 9980 to 14,098, or nearly fifty per cent!

[Footnote 53: The emigration from Ireland from May 1st, 1851, to December 1st, 1865 amounted to 1,630,722 souls.]

With this last act of Christian charity, we hope to see the traces of former injustice gradually fade away from the public mind, and the bitter memories and sectarian jealousies of the past give place to a new era of good feeling and brotherly affection. Time is not only a great healer of wounds, but a great reformer of ideas. Taking a retrospective glance at the history of Ireland for the past hundred years, and watching how, step by step, the church in Ireland, from the veriest depths of despondency and contumely, has risen in power, strength, and numbers by its own innate vitality, we are not too sanguine in believing that it has a glorious future before it, unsurpassed by that of any country in Europe. Though its members embrace the great majority of the poorest classes in the land, they have, in that short period, studded the country with magnificent cathedrals and substantial parish churches; though unaided by a government which, if not positively hostile, was certainly indifferent, they have built and are generously sustaining, hundreds of colleges, convents, hospitals, and asylums, where learning flourishes as in the pristine ages, and where the poor, the needy, and afflicted are comforted and consoled. {248} And though famine has decimated the hardy peasantry, and emigration has torn millions of the "bone and sinew" from their native shores, the Catholics of Ireland are still, as they always will be, the people of Ireland. It is true that a great many changes have yet to be effected through the means of legislation before the Irish or English Catholic is placed on an equal footing with his more favored fellow-subject. In Ireland, he must eventually have equal representation in the British parliament. The laws controlling the marriage of persons of different religious beliefs, those relating to the tenure of lands and spiritual devises, and to the disqualification for office on account of religious opinions, must be repealed and sent to dwell with all the other legal rubbish of a bygone age of bigotry. The Ecclesiastical Titles Bill, which is a disgrace to an enlightened government and a standing insult to the bishops and people of the country, must share the same fate before the crown can expect or ought to receive that heartfelt loyalty which springs from good and impartial government. The times in which we live imperatively demand those reforms, and we are very much mistaken in the strength and spirit of our co-religionists in the United Kingdom if they do not also quickly and pertinaciously demand them.

We are gratified, in looking over our files of leading English journals, to find that they all with one voice, a few old and obscure tory papers excepted, support the liberal party in its leading measure, and are waging war with their trenchant pens against the effete anti-Catholic party in the Commons. We hope, also, to see our brothers of the American press, secular and religious, who so generally advocate the support of churches by voluntary contributions, giving a word of encouragement to their cousins across the Atlantic.

Granting that the passage and proper execution of the present act will be a most important step in the right direction, it still seems to us unfortunate that it was not taken years ago. With a fatality that so generally attends English political and religious concessions, it has been so long delayed that it now appears to be more the offspring of fear and intimidation than the result of wise and mature conviction. If British statesmen will yield only to force what they refuse to sound argument and the logic of facts, they must expect the same motive power to be again applied when demands neither so reasonable nor so well founded are to be put forward. In common with our brethren in every part of the world, we view with great satisfaction this awakening sense of public justice in the English mind; but let it not falter now, as if exhausted by one solitary effort. Let a good landlord and tenant act be passed without unnecessary delay, and some comprehensive measures be adopted for the development of the industrial resources of the nation, and then, indeed, that chronic state of disaffection which has afflicted every generation in Ireland since the invasion may be radically cured.

{249}

My Mother's Only Son.

The rain is falling heavily, to-night. It has a dull, desolate, lonely sound, as if it were bent upon reminding me of another night more desolate, dull, and lonely even than the present. What right have I, who have so much happiness about me now, to be searching the dark annals of past sorrow, or to unearth a hidden misery, that will come like a blighting shadow between me and all the pleasures that might be mine? Yet that rainy, dismal night _does_ come back to me with a force and terror I would rather not remember.

I would rather not remember it, because my son, just budding into manhood, has left me to-night, for the first time, and gone to take his place in an old firm in a neighboring city. The world and its allurements are temptingly laid out before him. He is a noble, handsome boy, so bright and promising. They tell me he will always have friends, plenty of friends; that he has all the elements of popularity, and is destined to become a general favorite. Dangerous attractions these; they have made wiser heads than yours, my darling, very giddy and very light; hearts, too, have been brought to mourning, while the admiring friends of yesterday could cast only a look of pity on their lost friends as they passed by.

My own brother was all this; gifted in an eminent degree with energy and manly courage to sustain him in any generous undertaking. We had everything to hope from him; he had everything to hope from himself. With prospects fair and bright, an old banker, a friend of my father's, gave him an eligible situation. It was an office of trust; he was proud of the confidence placed in him, and left home with the full resolve of filling it with honor to himself and credit to the good man who had placed him there. His letters were pleasant and joyous, full of the new pleasures he had never dreamed of in our quiet life at home. His graceful manners and natural gentleness soon established him as a favorite in society; his social pleasures were daily increasing, and his attention to business was both active and energetic.

My mother had a slight misgiving. It was only the shadow of a thought, she said--that Arthur, in the new pleasures that surrounded him, might become weaned from us or might learn to be happy without us. In her deep love for her gifted boy she had never thought such an event possible, and instantly reproached herself for the thought.

In going from home, my brother had left a great waste, an empty place behind him, and his letters were our only comfort.

What light and pleasure they brought to our quiet fireside, that would have been so dreary without them. There were only three of us, and while his letters were so fresh and vigorous, they almost kept up the delusion that we were not separated; but there came a change.

We may have been slow in discovering it, but we did discover it, and then to miss him as we missed him through the long winter nights seemed like losing a star that had led us, that we had followed, until it passed under a cloud and left us, still waiting, still watching, for it to come again. {250} He paid us a flying visit now and then, and my mother, unconscious of the cause of his disquietude--for he was both anxious and disturbed--would redouble her exertions to bring back his waning love, making every allowance for the indifference, the coldness, and the neglect that were so glaringly apparent to other eyes, yet so delicately obscured from her motherly vision. Not that my brother made any effort to conceal his restless desire to leave us, or that his interests and pleasures were centred elsewhere. I was very young, yet old enough to see that there was a mercy in _this_, my mother's blindness.

Her beautiful boy seemed to carry the sunshine of her life with him; she thought him caressed and petted, the favorite of society, and the embodiment of all that was noble. He has seen so much of the luxury and elegance of life in the great city, how can we expect him to be contented with our home, where everything is so different? Thus she would reason with me, and thus, I sometimes thought, she would reluctantly reason with herself.

One day, a letter came to us from the banking-house, where my brother had gradually risen to an honored position. It was from the banker himself, our dear old friend; he told, in the tenderest manner, that Arthur had acquired habits which rendered him unfit for an office of trust. He deeply regretted the necessity of making this known to her; he ended by suggesting that the gentle influence of home might do much toward bringing him to a sense of his condition.

My mother read the letter, folded it carefully, reopened it, and read it again. She then handed it to me without speaking a word. When I had finished reading it, I looked at her; she was still immovable, helpless as a child in this her great despair. Her apathy was the more distressing to me as I was entirely alone. I dare not consult any one, dare not ask the advice of our kind neighbors. She had roused herself just enough to tell me it must be kept as secret as death. I was only sixteen, I had never acted for myself--there had been no occasion in our quiet life for a display of individual courage or independence. I had grown up under my mother's guidance, had never been five miles away from home, where every day was like all the yesterdays that had gone before it. And now this great journey lay before me. There was no one else to go; _I_ must take it alone.

We were both ignorant of the nature of my brother's disgrace. Mr. Lester had made no mention of it further than to say that he could keep him no longer in the bank. I could only conjecture in my own mind what it might be. Of course I thought of dishonesty; what else could have driven him from a situation where he was so honored and trusted?

The railroad was some miles distant from our little village; despatch was necessary; I must meet the evening train. My brother was ill; I was going to him; this would quiet our neighbors and put an end to curious speculations. Surely I was not far from the truth--he must have been ill indeed when his proud head was brought down so low.

Again and again reassuring my mother that I would bring him back, telling her in all sincerity that I knew he would be able to clear himself in her eyes so that not a spot or blemish would be left on his fair name, (Heaven knows how easy this might be. {251} Let him lay his head on her faithful breast, and twine an arm about her neck, and lovingly whisper, "Mother, I am _innocent_, all is right;" the _world_ might sit in judgment and cry "_Guilty_," she would heed it not,) I became so preoccupied, so entirely absorbed with the _object_ of my journey, that the journey itself had no novelty for me, though everything was new and startling. Now I was hurrying to the great city that I had so often thought and dreamed about. It was only in a confused way that I could settle it in my mind that I was really going there. That I was strange, and new, and unused to the busy scenes that lay before me seemed no part of my business. My brother--would he come home with me? He might be angry that I had come. Could I ask him to tell me the truth? No, I could not see him so humiliated; I would rather hear the story of his shame from other lips than his.

It was near midnight when I reached his lodgings.

"Is Arthur Graham at home?" I, trembling, asked of a kindly looking woman who opened the door.

"He is, miss, and sorely in need of some one to look after him."

Had it come to this? Was my brother an object of pity, even to her? I asked to see him, not wishing to prolong this painful interview. She desired me to enter, and we approached his room. I opened the door cautiously. The woman's manner was so mysterious, I trembled and began to be afraid; she had told me he was not sick. Of course I thought he was a prisoner and perhaps chained in his own room. The light was very dim, and, as I advanced, I stumbled and was near falling over--what?--over the prostrate form of my own brother, lost, degraded, fallen.

As I bent down to see why he did not speak to me, I discovered the truth. He, the pride and hope of our lives, had sunk into a drunkard. I uttered no cry; I was no longer terrified; I thought only of my mother.

I was all that was left her now, and, as I bent over him, wondered if that face was his, so changed, so sickening; neglect and ruin had already settled there. I tried to smooth the heavy hair, that lay in thick, dank masses about his reeking forehead. How old, how terribly old, he had grown in so short a time! I dare not cherish a feeling of loathing; he was my brother, and needed my love as he had never needed it before. For him--for in him I was protecting my mother--I must set aside all youth and girlhood. A woman was needed now, a woman calm, firm, and resolute. Of myself I was weak, but Heaven would help me. A conviction settled upon me, as I sat there, with my travelling wrappings still unremoved, that his case was hopeless. I could see a lonely, dishonored grave, far away from us in a strange land. I know not why this sight should rise before me, my brother was young, and others as debased as he had risen to a good and noble life. Thus I reasoned with myself, and yet that lonely mound of earth would come before me, and I felt powerless.

But I had no time for misery. I had come to protect and assist. My girlhood was passing away with the shadows of the night, for to-morrow's sun must find me a woman, prepared to meet the stern duties that were now mine.

The night was far advanced, and I was trying to gather up my newfound energies, when I felt a kindly hand removing my bonnet. It was the good woman who had met me at the door; she was waiting to show me my room and to offer me some refreshment.

{252}

"You can do no good here," she continued, as she assisted me to arise, "until morning."

She shook her head doubtfully as she whispered, "You are very young, yes, quite too young to undertake it even then. But if you are afraid he will give you the slip before you are up, (he often does that,) just lock the door."

She did so and put the key in her own pocket.

The little room assigned me was cleanly; it had an air of comfort about it greatly in contrast with the slovenly chamber I had just left. The gentle creature made nothing of undressing me, lamenting the while as if I had been a stricken child that had unexpectedly fallen into her motherly hands.

I had made no allusion to my brother as yet. I could not speak of him, and only ventured to ask the woman as she was leaving me how long he had been in this condition. "I might ask you the same question, miss, for surely it is not a day nor a month that has brought him to _this_."

To _this!_ What a world of misery there was in that one simple word! It seemed to carry with it the low wailing of a lost soul.

We were to have paid my brother a visit soon, my mother and I. It was to have been a surprise, and I had gone so far as to arrange the dress I should wear, for I was anxious to appear at my best before Arthur's friends. And here I was spending my first night in New York. No kin of mine had bid me welcome. No brother had folded me in his loved embrace, and held me out to see how pretty I had grown, proudly kissing me again and again, and telling me how happy my coming had made him.

In my peaceful days I had thought of all this; and oh! how easily it might have been!

I arose early; but, early as it was, the woman had apprised Arthur of my arrival. I found him morose and sullen. He demanded my reasons for coming so abruptly upon him. He had not asked after my mother, nor given me one word of kindly greeting; and when, in a harsh tone, he asked why I thus intruded myself, my great reserve of womanly strength fled from me, and I cried long and bitterly.

He was naturally kind and gentle. He came to me, wiped the tears from my cheek, and told me he did not intend to be cruel. His hand trembled violently, as he laid it on my head, and his whole frame shook and quivered, though I could see he made a desperate effort to control himself. When he had recovered his composure, he seemed to know why I had come, and implored me not to say one word to him; he was miserable enough already.

"Come home with me, Arthur dear," I whispered. "You can soon change your life, and be your own self again."

I ventured to tell him that mother had been taken very ill, when, with a look, he begged me to say no more. He could not bear even an allusion to his condition, and I had no wish to harass him. What a slave he had become to the one ruling passion of his life!

Regardless of my presence, he drank again and again from a bottle near him. Once when I laid my hand upon the glass, he told me that he needed it to steady his nerves, and he would be all right soon. It was in vain that I urged him to accompany me home. He told me he had another situation in view, not anything like the one he had just left, but very good in its way. I could tell my mother this; it might comfort her.'Twas all the hope I had to carry home.

{253}

As years went by our sorrows were softened. We had become accustomed to Arthur's manner of life. At times he seemed changing for the better, and again he would go back to his old habits.

It was in early summer time, when everything on our little farm was at its best. The solitary womanly habits that had come so early upon me were still very strong with me. I was not yet old, only twenty-two; and on this lovely summer night I was planning our quiet future, when a carriage stopped before the door, and Arthur came in, leading, or rather carrying, a delicate young girl.

'Mother," said he, "this is my wife! Grace, this is my mother and sister."

"Your wife!" we repeated.

"Oh! yes," he replied. "We have been married nearly a year, and I hoped to better my circumstances before I should make the fact known to you." We saw that the poor child, for such she seemed, was sadly in want of woman's kindly care. So pale, so sorrow-stricken, so young, yet so bowed down and disappointed! I knew nothing of her story, but she was my brother's wife, and I gave her a sister's love. That night I watched by her bed; and, as the pale moonlight fell upon her rippling hair, I wondered what art, what witchery or power my brother had used to bring this delicate creature to be a sharer of his misery and shame. She waked with a sudden start, and called in a wild, frightened way for help. She was really ill, now, and before morning the doctor laid a feeble baby in my mother's arms.

My new-found sister and her wailing infant had all our tenderest care. We were glad that she had come to us that we might, in the love we gave her, make up in some degree for the sorry life the poor unfortunate child had taken upon herself. She staid with us; our home was hers. Arthur returned to New York.

Her history was soon told. She was an orphan, entirely dependent upon the bounty of an aunt who had daughters of her own to be settled in life. She met Arthur. The fascination of his manners and the interest he took in her friendless condition won her heart. The misfortune of his life was well known to her, but she trusted to _her_ love, feeling sure that a life's devotion must redeem him. A dangerous experiment, this; too often tried, and too often found a hopeless failure. For her sake, he _did_ try to be firm and strong, and manfully combated his besetting sin; but an hour of weakness came; old associates returned, and old habits with them. In a moment of hilarity and pleasure all his firmness gave way; his delicate young wife was forgotten, and she awakened all too soon to the knowledge that her husband's love for liquor was greater than his love for her. The dear, sweet girl and her pretty infant had lived with us nearly a year, when, one cold, drizzly night like this, Arthur came home. He had grown so reckless of late, that we were not surprised when he came reeling into our presence. He began by demanding a small amount of money which Grace had been husbanding with care. She made no reply to any of his angry threats, nor did she give him the money. Dead to all sense of manhood, he rose to strike her. Her infant was sleeping on her breast. She leaped to flee from him, but before we could save her, he struck her. She fell heavily; the sleeping babe was thrown against the iron fender. It uttered one feeble cry, and closed its eyes _for ever_.

{254}

The mother rose, and with a desperate effort snatched her dead child from my arms, pressed it to her breast, rocked it to and fro, and tried to give it nourishment. My mother and I spent that terrible night with a dead infant, a frenzied mother, and a father lost in hopeless despair. Every rustle in the trees, every sound in the air, brought the horror of death upon us, for each murmur seemed fraught with vengeance. Was my brother a murderer? His own tender infant had fallen dead at his feet. The act must pass without a name, for in our woe we had none to give it.

He sat there through the weary hours of the night, a haggard, desperate fear settling upon him. He dare not approach his wife; the sight of him increased her frenzy, and she prayed that she might never see his face again.

Misery had made my mother strong and she could help me. Calm, cool, and deliberate action was necessary now.

Arthur must leave us before morning. No one had known of his coming. The child's sudden death must be in some way accounted for, in what way I knew not. My mother whispered God would help us.

Arthur slunk away in his guilt and misery. He took no leave of us, but silently crept out in the darkness. There was darkness on every side, it was bearing down upon him with the weight of an avenging fury. I watched him, bowed and desolate, stealing away from us, away from all that was dear to him, from all that had loved him, and could not, even now, cast him off. I lingered until the last sound of his footsteps died away. I knew then as I know now, that we should never see him again. The rain fell upon him as he passed out. It fell upon me as I stood there, and I thought it was falling far away where I had seen a lonely grave.

I washed our martyred babe and dressed it for the burial. There was a mark upon its little neck that the solemn wrappings of the grave must cover. It might be bared before the judgment-seat to plead for an erring father.

My mother died soon after of a broken heart. She never recovered the shock of that terrible night. The curse that settled upon her poor, misguided son made him none the less her child; and she would try, with all the tenderness of her wounded spirit, to think of him as he was, innocent, true, and noble, when first he left her. When we learned that he had died on foreign shores, and was buried on a lonely island, she thanked God that he was no longer a homeless wanderer.

My sister Grace is with me still, loving and cherishing my young children, leading them and me to better life by the chastened beauty of her own Christian character.

{255}

Catholicity and Pantheism.

Number Six.

The Finite.

In the pantheistic theory, the finite has no real existence of its own. It is a modification, a limit of the infinite. The sum of all the determinations which the primitive and germinal activity assumes, in the progress of its development, constitutes what is called cosmos. The interior and necessary movement of the infinite, which terminates in all these forms and determinations, is creation. The successive appearance of all these forms in this necessary development is the genesis of creation. The finite, therefore, in the pantheistic system, does not exist as something substantially distinct from the infinite, but is one form or other which it assumes in its spontaneous evolutions.

As the reader may observe, this theory rests entirely upon the leading principle of the system that the infinite is something undefined, impersonal, indeterminate, and becomes concrete and personal by a necessary, interior movement; a principle which, viewed in reference to the finite, gives rise to two others, first, that the finite is a modification of the infinite; second, that the finite is necessary to the infinite, as the term of its spontaneous development. Now, in the preceding articles, we have demonstrated, first, that the infinite is actuality itself; that is, absolute and complete perfection; second, that in order to be personal, he is not impelled to originate any modification or limit. Hence, two other principles concerning the finite, quite antagonistic to those of pantheism. First, the finite cannot be a modification of the infinite, because perfection, absolutely complete, cannot admit of ulterior progress. Second, the finite is not necessary to the infinite, because the interior and necessary action of the infinite does not terminate outside of, but within himself, and gives rise to the mystery of the Trinity, explained and vindicated in the last two articles. Consequently, his necessary interior action being exercised within himself, he is not forced to originate the finite to satisfy that spontaneous movement, as Cousin and other pantheists contend. The finite, therefore, can neither be a modification nor a necessary development of the infinite. And this consequence sweeps away all systems of emanatism, of whatever form, that may be imagined. Whether we suppose the finite to be a growth or extension of the infinite, as the materialistic pantheists of old seemed to imagine; or mere phenomenon of infinite substance, with Spinoza; or ideological exercise of the infinite, as modern Germans seem to think--according to the principle laid down, the finite is impossible in any emanatistic sense whatever. To any one who has followed us closely in the preceding articles, it will appear evident that these few remarks absolutely dispose of the pantheistic theory concerning the finite, and close the negative part of our task respecting this question.

{256}

As to the positive part, to give a full explanation of the whole doctrine of Catholicity concerning the finite, we must discuss the following questions:

In what sense is creation to be understood?

Is creation of finite substances possible?

What is the end of the exterior action of God?

What is the whole plan of the exterior action of God?

Before we enter upon the discussion of the first question, we must lay down a few preliminary remarks necessary to the intelligence of all that shall follow.

God's action is identical with his essence, and this being absolutely simple and undivided, his action also is absolutely one and simple. But it is infinite also, like his essence, and in this respect it gives rise, not only to the eternal and immanent originations within himself, but also may cause a numberless variety of effects really existing, and distinct from him, as we shall demonstrate. Now, if we regard the action of God, in itself originating both _ad intra_ and _ad extra_, that is, acting within and without himself, it cannot possibly admit of distinction. But our mind, being finite, and hence incapable of perceiving at once the infinite action of God, and of grasping at one glance that one simple action originating numberless effects, is forced to take partial views of it, and mentally to divide it, to facilitate the intelligence of its different effects. These partial views and distinctions of our mind, of the same identical action of God, producing the divine persons within himself, and causing different effects outside himself, we shall call moments of the action of God.

There are, therefore, two supreme moments of the action of God, the interior and the exterior. Whenever we shall speak of the action of God producing an effect distinct from and outside of him, we shall call it exterior action, to distinguish it from the interior, which originates the divine personalities. Moreover, we shall call exterior action of God, all the moments of it which produce different effects. We shall call creation that particular moment of his external action which, as we shall see, causes the existence of finite substances, together with their essential properties and attributes.

Now, as to the first question, in what sense can creation be understood; or, otherwise, what are the conditions according to which creation may be possible? On the following: First, the terms laid down by the action of God must be in nature distinct from him. Second, they must be produced by an act which does not cause any mutation in the agent. Third, therefore, they must be finite substances. For, suppose the absence of the first condition, creation would be an emanation of the divine essence; since, if the terms created were not different from the nature of God, they would be identical with it, and consequently creation would be an emanation or development of the substance of God. The absence of the second condition would not only render it an emanation of the substance of God--because, if creation implied a mutation in him, it would be his own modification--but it would render it altogether impossible, since no agent can modify itself but by the aid of another. If, therefore, creation cannot be either an emanation or a modification of God, it must be distinct from his substance. Now, something distinct from the substance of God, and really existing, and not a modification, cannot be anything but finite substance. Finite, because, the substance of God being infinite, nothing can be distinct from it but the finite; substance, because something really existing, and which is not a modification, gives the idea of substance. {257} Creation, therefore, cannot be understood in any other sense except as implying the causation of finite substances. But is creation of finite substances possible? In answer to this question, let it be remarked that the essence of a thing may have two distinct states: one, intelligible and objective; the other, subjective and in existence. In other words, all things have a mode of intelligible existence, distinct from the being by which they exist, in themselves; the one may be called objective and intelligible; the other, subjective. To give an instance, a building has two kinds of states: one, intelligible, in the mind of the architect; the other, subjective, when it exists in itself.

Now, the possibility of a thing to have a subjective existence in itself, depends upon the intelligible and objective state of the same thing. Because that only is possible which does not involve any contradiction. But that which does not involve any repugnance, is intelligible. Therefore the possibility of a thing implies its intelligibility, and its subjective existence depends upon its objective and intelligible state. This is so true, that the transcendental truth of beings, in their subjective state of existence, consists in their conformity with their intelligible and objective state. As the truth of a building consists in it conformity with the plan in the mind of the architect.

From these principles it follows that, in order to establish the possibility of the creation of finite substances, we must prove three different things: First, that they have an intelligible state; in other words, that their idea does not involve any repugnance. Second, that there exists a supreme act of intelligence, in which the intelligible state of all possible finite substances resides. Third, that there exists a supreme activity, which may cause finite substances to exist in a subjective state conformable to their objective and intelligible state. When we have proven these three propositions, the possibility of creation will be put beyond all doubt. Now, as to the first proposition, pantheists have denied the possibility of finite substances. Admitting the general possibility of substance, they deny the intrinsic possibility of a finite one; and, as everything which is finite is necessarily _caused_, the whole question turns upon this--whether, in the idea of substance, there is any element which excludes causation and is repugnant to it. Every one acquainted with the history of philosophy knows that Spinoza coined a definition purposely to fit his system. He defined substance to be that which exists in itself, and cannot be conceived but by itself. [Footnote 54]

[Footnote 54: Eth. 1, Def. 1.]

This definition is purposely insidious. That which exists in itself may have a twofold meaning; it may express a thing, the cause of whose existence lies in itself, a self-existing being; or it may imply a thing which can exist without inhering in or leaning on any other. Again, that which cannot be conceived but by itself may be taken in a double sense--a thing which has no cause, and is self-existent, and consequently contains in itself the reason of its intelligibility; or it may signify a thing which may be conceived by itself, inasmuch as it does not lean upon any other to be able to exist. Spinoza, taking both terms of the definition in the first sense, had the way paved for pantheism; for if substance be that which is intelligible by itself because self-existent, it is evident that there cannot be more than one substance, and the cosmos cannot be anything but phenomenon of this substance. {258} Hence the question we have proposed: Is there, in the true idea of substance, any element which necessarily implies self-existence, and excludes causation? Catholic philosophy insists that there is none. For the idea of substance is made up of two elements: one positive, the other negative. The positive element is the permanence or consistence of an act or being--that is, the _existing_ really. The second element is the exclusion or absence of all inherence in another being in order to exist.

Now, every one can easily perceive, that to exist really does not necessarily imply self-existence, or contradiction to the notion of having been caused by another. Because the notion of real existence or permanence of a being does not necessarily imply eternity of permanence, or, in other words, does not include infinity of being. If the permanence or real existence of a being included eternity of permanence, then it could not have a cause, and should necessarily be self-existent. But we can conceive a being really existing, which did not exist always, but had a beginning. The better to illustrate this conception, let it be remembered that duration or permanence is one and the same thing with being; and that, ontologically, being and duration differ in nothing. The permanence and duration of a being is, therefore, in proportion to the intensity of a being. If the being be infinite, the highest intensity of reality, the being is infinitely permanent; that is, eternal, without beginning, end, or succession. If the being be finite and created, the permanence or duration is finite also; that is, has beginning, and may, absolutely speaking, have an end. Everything, therefore, really existing without inhering in another, whether it be infinite or finite reality--that is, whether it have a cause or be self-existent--is a substance. If it be self-existent, it is infinite substance; if it be caused, it is finite substance. This is so evident that none, slightly accustomed to reflect, can fail to perceive the difference between being self-existent and existing really. The two things can go separately without the one at all including the other. A thing may exist as really after being caused, as the substance which is self-existent and eternal, so far as existing really is concerned.

To show that the idea of substance, however, is such as we have been describing, it is sufficient to cast a glance at our own soul. It is evident from the testimony of consciousness, that there is a numberless variety of thoughts, volitions, sensations; all taking place in the _me_, all following and succeeding each other without interruption, like the waves of the ocean rolling one upon the other, and keeping the sea always in agitation. We are conscious to ourselves of this continual influx of thoughts, volitions and sensations; but, at the same time that we are conscious of this, we are conscious also of the identity and permanence of the _me_ amid the fluctuations of those modifications. We are conscious that the _me_, which yesterday was affected with the passions of love and desire, is the same identical _me_ which is to-day under the passion of hate. This permanence or reality of the _me_, amid the passing and transitory affections, gives the idea of substance or real existence; whilst the numberless variety of thoughts and feelings which affect it, and which come and go while the _me_ remains, gives the idea of modification, or a thing which inheres in another in order to exist.

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The above remarks must put the possibility of finite substance beyond doubt. But before we pass to the second question, we remark that any one sooner than a pantheist could call in question the possibility of finite substance; because if, as we have demonstrated in the second article, the infinite of the pantheists be not an absolute nonentity, a pure abstraction, it is nothing but the idea of finite being or substance. Hence, to prove the possibility of finite substance to the pantheist, we might make use of the argument _ad hominem_. That which is intelligible is possible, by the principle of contradiction. But the idea of finite substance is intelligible to the pantheists, being the foundation of their system; therefore, finite substances are possible.

Second question: Is there a supreme act of intelligence, in which reside all possible finite substances in their objective and intelligible state?

The demonstration of the second proposition follows from that of the first.

For the idea of finite substance does not involve any repugnance, by the principle of contradiction. Therefore it is necessarily possible, as we have demonstrated. But that which is necessarily possible, is necessarily intelligible; because everything that is possible may be conceived. Therefore the idea of finite substance is necessarily intelligible, and may be conceived by an intelligence able to grasp the whole series of possible finite substances. But God is infinite intelligence, and as such is capable of apprehending all possible finite substances. Therefore in God's intelligence resides the whole series of possible finite substances, in their intelligible and objective state.

To render this argument more convincing, let us look into the ontological foundation of the possibility of finite substances. Finite substances are nothing but finite beings; consequently they are not possible, except inasmuch as they agree with the essence of God, which is the infinite, _the being_, and as such is the type of all things which come under the denomination and category of being. God, therefore, who fully comprehends his essence, comprehends, at the same time, whatever may agree with it; or, in other words, comprehends all possible imitations, so to speak, of his essence; and consequently, all the possible imitations of his essence residing in his intelligence, there dwells at the same time the intelligible and objective state of all possible finite substances. St. Thomas proves the same truth with a somewhat similar argument. "Whoever," he says, "comprehends a certain universal nature, comprehends, at the same time, the manner according to which it may be imitated. But God, comprehending himself, comprehends the universal nature of being; consequently he comprehends also the manner according to which it may be imitated." Now, the possibility of finite substance is a similitude of the universal being. Hence, in God's intelligence resides the whole series of possible finite substances.

Third proposition: There exists a supreme activity which may cause finite substances to exist in a subjective state. For St. Thomas argues that the more perfect is a principle of action, the more its action can extend to a greater number and more distant things. As for instance, if a fire be weak, it can heat only things which are near it; if strong, it can reach distant things. Now, a pure act, which is in God, is more perfect than an act mixed of potentiality, as it is in us. {260} If therefore by the act which is in us we can not only produce immanent acts, as for instance, to think and to will, but also exterior acts by which we effect something; with much greater reason can God, by the fact of his being actuality itself, not only exercise intelligence and will, but also produce effects outside himself and thus be the cause of being. [Footnote 55] The great philosopher Gerdil, appropriating this reason of St. Thomas, develops it thus: "In ourselves, and in particular beings, we find a certain activity; therefore activity is a reality which belongs to the _being_ or the _infinite_. The effect of activity when the agent applies it to the patient, consists in causing a mutation of state. The intensity of acts, depending on intelligence, has a force to introduce a mutation of state in the corporal movements. This may be seen in the real though hidden connection of which we are conscious to ourselves, between the intensity of our desires and the effect of the movements which are excited in the body; and better still, in certain phenomena which sometimes occur, though rarely, when the imagination, apprehending something vividly and forcibly, produces a mutation of state in the body which corresponds somewhat with the apprehension of the imagination. [Footnote 56]

[Footnote 55: C. G. lib. ii. ch. 6.]

[Footnote 56: An imminent danger of being burned to death, vividly apprehended, has sometimes entirely cured persons altogether paralyzed and unable to move.]

Now this change in the body, corresponding to what takes place in the fancy, that is, in the objective and intelligible state, shows that there exists a certain, though hidden, force and energy by which, from what exists in an intelligible state, may be introduced a mutation in the corresponding state of subjective existence. Therefore the efficacy of the supreme intelligence, being the greatest and the highest, in force of the supreme intensity of being which resides in it, may not only effect a change conformable to a relative, intelligible state in things already existing, but also cause them to pass altogether from the intelligible state into the state of existence. And, assuredly, if the finite intensity of desire and of imagination may produce an effort of corporal movement, the supreme intensity of the Infinite Being may, certainly, produce a substantial, existing being; since the supreme intensity of the Being bears infinitely greater proportion to the existence of a thing, than the intensity of desire does in relation to a corporal movement. The term, therefore, of the supreme activity, is to effect, outside of itself, the existence of things which had only an intelligible and objective being in itself." [Footnote 57]

[Footnote 57: Gerdil, _Del Senso Morale_.]

It is well to remark here, that the supreme activity is not by any means determined necessarily to create; for the activity may be determined to a necessary operation, in that case only when the agent is actually applied to the subject capable of receiving a change of state. But creation is not the result of the application of the supreme activity to a subject coexisting with itself; because nothing coexists originally with the supreme activity. Therefore creation cannot be an action determined by any necessity, but must depend only upon the energy or will of the supreme intelligence in which the highest activity dwells. Hence it follows, that creation, as to its term, is not necessary, either because there is any principle in God impelling him necessarily to create, as we have seen, or because there is any principle outside of God forcing him to create; because outside of the supreme activity nothing exists. {261} What is necessary about the creation of finite substances, is their intelligible and objective state, or their intrinsic possibility. For everything which does not imply any repugnance by the principle of contradiction, is intrinsically possible and intelligible. That which is intrinsically possible is essentially, necessarily, and eternally so. Consequently, the objective state of finite substances is necessarily so.

Pantheists, confounding the objective and intelligible state of the cosmos with its state of subjective existence; in other words, identifying the ideal with the real, the ideological with the ontological, have been led to admit the necessity of creation. This is particularly remarked in the systems of Schelling and Hegel; the one admitting, as first principle, the absolute identity of all things; the other identifying the _idea_ with _being_. Both confounded the objective and intelligible state of the cosmos with its state of subjective existence; and once the two are identified, it follows that, as the one, which is the intelligible, is necessary, eternal, and absolute, the other, the subjective, becomes also necessary and eternal; and hence the necessity of creation. Catholicity, on the contrary, carefully distinguishing between the ideal and the real, the objective and the subjective, and admitting the necessity and eternity of the first, because everything intelligible necessarily and eternally resides in the supreme intelligence, denies the necessity of the second, because of that very intelligible state which it admits to be necessarily and eternally so.

For a finite substance is not, and cannot be conceived as possible or intelligible, except it is supposed to be contingent or indifferent in itself to be or not to be, not having in itself the reason of its existence. This is the only condition according to which finite substances can be possible. Were it otherwise, were a finite substance supposed to be necessary, it would be self-existent, and have in itself the reason of its existence; and in that case it would no longer be finite, but infinite. To suppose, therefore, a finite substance not contingent is to suppose it necessary, is to suppose a self-existing finite substance, or, in other words, an infinite finite substance, which is absurd, and, therefore, unintelligible and impossible.

The intelligibility, therefore, or objective state of finite substances, which is necessary, eternal, and absolute itself, requires the contingency of their existence in a subjective state; and, consequently, their contingency is necessary because their intelligibility is necessary; and their creation is free, because whatever is indifferent in itself to be or not to be, absolutely depends, as to its existence, upon the will of the supreme intelligence.

An objection is here raised by pantheists impugning the possibility of the creative act. It is as follows: Given the full cause, the effect exists. Now, the creative act, the full cause of creation, is eternal; therefore, its effect must exist eternally. But, an eternal effect is a contradiction in terms; because it means a thing created and uncreated at the same time. Therefore, creation is impossible in the Catholic sense, and can be nothing more than the eternal development and unfolding of the divine substance. Given the cause, the effect exists. Such an effect, and in such a manner as the cause is naturally calculated to produce, it is granted; such an effect and in such a manner as the cause naturally is not intended to produce, it is denied. {262} Now, what is the cause of creation but the will of God? And how does the will naturally act, except by a free determination, and in the manner according to which it determines itself? Consequently, creation being an effect of the will of God, it will follow just when and how the will of God has determined it shall. Hence the will of God being eternal, it does not follow that the effect should be eternal also. In other words, given the full cause, the effect exists when the cause is impelled to act by a necessary intrinsic movement. But when the cause is free, and perfectly master of its own action and energy, the cause given is not a sufficient element for the existence of the effect, but, two elements are required, the cause and its determination, and the free conditions which the cause has attached to its determination. Nor does this imply any change in the action of God when creation actually takes place. For that same act which determines itself from eternity to create, and to cause substances and time, the measure of their duration, continues immutable until the creation actually takes place; and the creation is not an effect of a new act, but of that same immutable and eternal determination of God.

We conclude, finite substances are intrinsically possible; they have an intelligible and objective state in the infinite intelligence of God. God's infinite activity may cause them to exist in a subjective state conformable to their intelligible mode of existence. Therefore, creation in the Catholic sense is possible.

Before we pass to the next question, we must draw some corollaries.

First. God can act outside himself, since he can create finite substances with all the properties and faculties which are necessary elements of their essence, and naturally and necessarily spring from it.

Second. The creative act implies two secondary moments; one, called preservation, and the other, concurrence. Hence, if God does create, he must necessarily preserve his effects, and concur in the development of their activity. Preservation implies the immanence of the creative act, or the continuation of the creative act of God, maintaining finite substances in their existence. The necessity of this movement is proved by the following reason:

Every finite being is, in force of its nature, indifferent to be or not to be; that is, every finite being contains no intrinsic reason necessarily requiring its existence. Hence, the reason of its existence lies in an exterior agent or cause. But the finite being once existing, does not change its nature, but intrinsically continues to be contingent, that is, indifferent to be or not to be. Therefore, the reason of the continuation of its existence cannot be found in its intrinsic nature, but in an exterior agent; that is, in the action of the Creator. So long, therefore, as the action of God continues to determine the intrinsic indifference of contingent being to be or not to be, so long does the finite exist. In the supposition of the act ceasing, the finite would simultaneously cease to be.

Nor does this argument impugn the _substance_ of finite beings. For, as we have seen, substance is that which exists really, though the reason of its existence lie in the creative act; whereas, what we deny here in the argument is the continuation of existence by an intrinsic reason, which would change the essence of the finite, and, from contingent, render it necessary.

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The second moment of the creative act is concurrence. Finite substance is a being in the way of development; a being capable of modification. Now, no being can modify itself, can produce a modification of which it is itself the subject, without the aid of another being who is pure actuality. Therefore, finite substances cannot modify themselves without the aid of God. The action of God aiding finite substances to develop themselves, is called concurrence. We have already proved, in the second article, the principle upon which this moment of the action of God is founded. We shall here add another argument. A finite substance is a being in the way of development; a being in potency of modification; and when the modification takes place, it passes from the power or potency to the act. Now, no being can pass from the power to the act except by the aid of being already in act. Consequently, finite substances cannot modify themselves except by the aid of being already in act. Nor can it be supposed that finite substances can be at the same time in potency and in act with regard to the same modification; for this would be a contradiction in terms. It follows, then, that having power of being modified, they cannot pass from the power to the movement without the help of another being already in act. This cannot be a being which may itself be in power and in act, for then it would itself require aid. It follows, therefore, that this being, aiding finite substances to modify themselves, must be one which is pure actuality, that is, God.

Third corollary: From all we have said follows, also, the possibility of God acting upon his creatures by a new moment of his action, and putting in them new forces higher than those forces which naturally spring from their essence, nor due to them either as natural properties, attributes or faculties. For, if God can act outside himself, and effect finite substances distinct from him; substances endowed with all the essential attributes and faculties springing from their nature; if he can continue to maintain them in existence, and aid them in their natural development, we see no contradiction in supposing that he may, if he choose, grant his creatures other forces superior altogether to their natural forces, and, consequently, not due to them as properties or attributes of their nature.

For the contradiction could not exist either on the part of God or on the part of the creature. Not in the former, because God's action being infinite, may give rise to an infinity of effects, one higher and more sublime, in the hierarchy of beings, than the other. Not in the latter, because the capacity of the creature is indefinite. It may receive an indefinite growth and development, and never reach a point beyond which it could not go. Therefore, the supposition we have made does not imply any repugnance either in God or in the finite, the two terms of the question. Now, that which involves no repugnance is possible. It is possible, therefore, that God may act upon his creatures by a moment of his action distinct from the creative moment, and put in them forces higher than their natural forces, and not due to them as any essential element or faculty.

The other questions in the next article.

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Aubrey de Vere in America. [Footnote 58]

[Footnote 58: _Irish Odes and Other Poems_. By Aubrey De Vere. New York: The Catholic Publication Society, 126 Nassau street. 1869.]

The first if not the strongest attraction this book will have for American curiosity is not in its contents, but in their selection. The poems presented are culled from a much greater number, especially and expressly for the American market, and the choice interests us vividly as indicating an English author's deliberate _business_ opinion of that market. This edition has not been prepared without thought: Mr. De Vere does not often do anything without thought. Moreover, it has been, if we are not misinformed, somewhat unusually long in press, and several of the poems already published have been actually revised and improved on by their painstaking author to the very last copy, and differ in quite a number of minutiae from their former selves. Hence Americans must be all the more surprised at the singular estimate of taste and the singular conception of their character, which appear to underlie this book. We cannot help thinking--nay, we cannot help seeing--that Mr. De Vere has not selected so well as he would have done if he had ever lived in America, or, if he had had intelligent, practical, and experienced American advice. There was only one way to do this thing rightly. It was to consider either what we, the Americans, ought to like the best, or what we would like the best; to weigh the facts well, to settle on some definite plan or theory of selection, and carry this out with some little sternness to the end, only leaving the path for the very choicest flowers. We cannot trace any strictness of system in this book: it has neither spinal column nor spinal cord, but is made up of miscellaneous samples--_disjecta membra poetae_. Sometimes we imagine it to be a compromise of plans, and sometimes a random jumble. Too many of the best poems we miss, and some of the author's most taking _lines_ of thought stated nearly, and some totally unrepresented. On the other hand, some mediocre pieces abound as to which we seek but cannot find an extrinsic cause for their reproduction. Our own suggestion to Mr. De Vere would have been to make _general interest_ his prime criterion in choosing. We are a very heterogeneous nation, and it is not every topic that can unite our various tastes. For any wide or national success here, a book must have at least a kernel of thought or sentiment which shall appeal directly to almost the only thing we have in common here--our humanity. Next to such poems--and Mr. De Vere has written not a few--we should have taken the best expressed; the boldest or most beautiful. This indeed is but a branch corollary of the other principle, because we all love fine expressions of ideas. On these two principles we think we could have made up from the copies of Mr. De Vere's poetry one of the most attractive books of the year. We think he has missed this in several ways. To begin with, we cannot see anywhere that he ever once grasped the idea of addressing himself to the whole American people. There is pabulum enough for Boston, and for devout Catholics everywhere; but where is the intelligence of Georgia, or California, or Ohio in his estimates for the popularity of this volume? {265} Some of the poems err in the direction of abstruseness, many in being founded on obscure facts; a few embody the gross fault of being occasional pieces--the flattest and most surely flat of all possible forms of dulness. That Mr. De Vere could forget himself to this last degree is to us proof positive that he never thought of pleasing the whole American reading community.

We have heard this praised as sagacity, since this work's appearance, on the ground that, as an outspoken Catholic and Irishman, he could never have succeeded. To this the American observer says, "_Distinguo_." Mr. De Vere is too elevated and refined a thinker to be a poet of the people anywhere; but it is, if anything, his religion, not his Celtic outbursts, that stand in his way here. We are--heaven knows with good reason--tolerably well past literary prejudices against foreigners. A foreign author, having no friends nor enemies, no clique nor counter-clique among the critics here, will have a fair trial by American public opinion always, on the one condition that he do not stand upon his being a foreigner and insist on cramming pet theories down our throats.

But we do question whether there may not be a measure of truth in the suggestion that Mr. De Vere, here as everywhere, is too conspicuously Catholic for popularity. We see little of sectarian prejudice among our best non-Catholic men; perhaps because so many of them are freethinkers or indifferentists in religion. But Protestant prejudice controls some otherwise first-class criticism, much more of lower grade, and very many ordinary readers and buyers of books. Perhaps Mr. De Vere is too pronounced for these--too full and too proud of his faith. Many a bigoted Protestant who can just barely make up his mind to hear a man out in spite of his being a "Romish idolater," etc., etc., lays down a book the instant he suspects--what Protestantism is always peculiarly quick to suspect--propagandism. Such men might know that if proselyte-making were Mr. De Vere's aim, his obviously shrewder plan would have been, first to gain influence and popularity by neutral poems, and then, entrenched on the vantage-ground of public favor, to bombard the community with his explosive Catholic notions to some purpose. But this would be far too much thinking for a bigoted man to go to the trouble of, especially when it is so much cheaper, as well as more sweet to the deacons and elders, to be unjust and slurring. So we fear that many Protestant organs of opinion will reject the poetry for the religion, and so do Mr. De Vere's book harm as an American venture so far as the non-Catholics are concerned.

On the other hand we do believe that his Irish pieces would be his best hold on public favor; for he certainly is one of the best-informed men in Irish history of all the late writers; and if there is one thing an American admires more than another--in literature or anything else--it is a man that knows what he is talking about.

But this is all of the dead past now; the book is upon us. We go on to this question--since Mr. De Vere did not aim to please us all, what was his aim? He has not told us in the natural place--the preface--and we can only ask the reader to decide for himself whether it is, as we said, compromise or jumble. The selection of the Irish pieces is infinitely the worst of all. The best, because the most truly Irish, of these, are in Inisfail. {266} There are very many Irishmen indeed who would not appreciate the sonnet to Sarsfield and Clare, and who could make neither head nor tail of "The Building of the Cottage;" but take up Inisfail and read out "The Malison," or "The Bier that Conquered," or the "Dirge of Rory O'More," to any Irish audience, and see if they understand it or not!

There lay one main element of strength of a book like this; and yet we do not recall a single piece from "Inisfail" in the entire collection! It is inconceivable to us except upon the very well-known and extremely ill-understood principle that an author always differs with his readers, and generally with posterity, as to what is his best. In our own humble opinion, for instance, "The Bard Ethell" or "The Phantom Funeral," as historical pictures, or the "Parvuli Ejus" or "Semper Eadem" as pure poetry, is singly worth the whole fifty pages of Irish Odes, sonnets, and interludes that begin this new volume: and we doubt as little that Mr. De Vere would smile in benign derision at our notion. So we will not dispute about tastes, and simply say that we do not understand the classification of the main body of the Irish pieces. Especially is this hard to discover the reason for omitting Inisfail in the light of the following passage from the preface: "I cannot but wish that my poetry, much of which illustrates their history and religion, should reach those Irish 'of the dispersion,' in that land which has extended to them its hospitality. Whoever loves that people must follow it in its wanderings with an earnest desire that it may retain with vigilant fidelity, and be valued for retaining, those among its characteristics which most belong to the Ireland of history and religion."

The remainder of the selected poems are purely miscellaneous, and are chiefly remarkable to us as again showing how curiously authors estimate themselves. We do indeed meet with much of the best there is; but we miss, as we have said, very much more. And having, as we have, a personal intimacy with many of Mr. De Vere's poems, we feel really resentful to see our favorites slighted and supplanted by others which--as it seems to us, be it remembered--no one could ever like half so well.

After all, Mr. De Vere may be right and we wrong; but we feel so interested in his success, and so earnestly desirous of recognition for his high abilities, that--we do wish he had done it our way!

The first sixty pages of the present volume are composed mainly of a sort of rosary of ten odes, all strung on Ireland and the Irish. Now, odes we disbelieve in generally. We think they contain more commonplace which we imagine we admire, and which we don't and can't admire, than any other variety of composition in English literature. They are the supremely fit form of a few peculiar orders of thought. The cause of Ireland is not one of these, and Mr. De Vere has tried hard and failed, to prove the contrary. Irish griefs are too human, Irish sympathies too heartfelt, to be reached by this road in the clouds. One good ballad or slogan is worth practically a million odes. As Ode I. in this very series beautifully puts it,

"Like severed locks that keep their light, When all the stately frame is dust, A nation's songs preserve from blight A nation's name, their sacred trust. Temple and pyramid eterne May memorize her deeds of power; But only from her songs we learn How throbbed her life-blood hour by hour."

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But, waiving their final cause, three of the odes are good, the first two, and the seventh--the best of all--which, as also the ninth, is republished from the book of 1861. The close of this is singularly touching and true, and well worth recalling even to many who must have admired it before.

"I come, the breath of sighs to breathe, Yet add not unto sighing; To kneel on graves, yet drop no wreath On those in darkness lying. Sleep, chaste and true, a little while, The Saviour's flock and Mary's, And guard their reliques well, O Isle, _Thou chief of reliquaries!_

"Blessed are they that claim no part In this world's pomp and laughter: Blessèd the pure; the meek of heart Blest here; more blest hereafter. 'Blessed the mourners.' Earthly goods Are woes, the master preaches: Embrace thy sad beatitudes, And recognize thy riches!

"And if, of every land the guest, Thine exile back returning Finds still one land unlike the rest, Discrowned, disgraced, and mourning, Give thanks! Thy flowers, to yonder skies Transferred, pure airs are tasting; And, stone by stone, thy temples rise In regions everlasting."

"Sleep well, unsung by idle rhymes, Ye sufferers late and lowly; Ye saints and seers of earlier times, Sleep well in cloisters holy! Above your bed the bramble bends, The yew tree and the alder: Sleep well, O fathers and O friends! And in your silence moulder!"

Scattered about between these odes we find a miscellany of minor pieces whose function seems to be that of interludes or thin partitions. Of these _hors-d'oeuvres_ some are new, some old; the majority, for Mr. De Vere, commonplace. He cannot write a page without hitting on some happy phrase or just thought, but there is a little more than this to be said of almost all. The best is this sonnet which we do not remember having seen before:

"The Ecclesiastical Titles Act.

"The statesmen of this day I deem a tribe That dwarf-like strut, a pageant on a stage Theirs but in pomp and outward equipage. Ruled inly by the herd, or hireling scribe. They have this skill, the dreaded Power to bribe: This courage, war upon the weak to wage: To turn from self a Nation's ignorant rage: To unstaunch old wounds with edict or with jibe. Ireland! the unwise one saw thee in the dust, Crowned with eclipse, and garmented with night, And in his heart he said,'For her no day!' But thou long since hadst placed in God thy trust, And knew'st that in the under-world, all light, Thy sun moved eastward. Watch! that East grows gray!"

We have also a long series of selections from the entire body of our author's published works. Here we are glad to welcome to America many of his best poems. The sonnets especially are as a rule well chosen. We miss many a lovely one, but we should miss these that are before us just as much. Mr. De Vere has also with excellent judgment honored with a place in this book his three charming idylls, "Glaucè," "Ione" and "Lycius"--among his very finest pieces of word-painting, and which have more of the old classic mode of expression than any modern poems in our language save Landor's, and perhaps Tennyson's "OEnone." We wonder, by the way, why a man who could write these idylls has never given us any classical translations. We are sure they would be remarkably good. The long poem of "The Sisters" is also reprinted in full. It is good, and we will not say that it is not a good piece here; but on reading it over, the discussion and description which frame the picture seem to us better than the picture itself. Indeed, we have begun to suspect more and more that Mr. De Vere's strength lies in his descriptive powers. It might surprise many other readers of his, as much as it did us, to examine for themselves and discover how many of their most admired passages are portraits. In mere verbal landscape-painting he stands very high. His very earliest books abound in felicities of this sort, and the _May Carols_ are fairly replete with them, and in fact contain a whole little picture gallery in verse. {268} And from the "Autumnal Ode--one of the very latest in his latest book [Footnote 59] --we select one of many passages which amply prove that Mr. De Vere's hand has not forgotten her cunning:

No more from full-leaved woods that music swells Which in the summer filled the satiate ear: A fostering sweetness still from bosky dells Murmurs; but I can hear A harsher sound when down, at intervals, The dry leaf rattling falls. Dark as those spots which herald swift disease, The death-blot marks for death the leaf yet firm. Beside the leaf down-trodden trails the worm. In forest depths the haggard, whitening grass Repines at youth departed. Half-stripped trees Reveal, as one who says,'Thou too must pass,' Plainlier each day their quaint anatomies. Yon poplar grove is troubled! Bright and bold Babbled his cold leaves in the July breeze As though above our heads a runnel rolled. His mirth is o'er; subdued by old October, He counts his lessening wealth, and, sadly sober, Tinkles his minute tablets of wan gold."

[Footnote 59: Dated in October, 1867.]

This is very vivid, and the closing fancy extremely graceful and pleasing. Poplars, by the way, seem to be a favorite theme of our author. Every one familiar with his poems will recall another beautiful description in his idyll of "Glaucè," in which occur these lines:

"How indolently The tops of those pale poplars bend and sway Over the violet-braided river brim."

And there are other instances also.

But it is waste of argument to go on giving illustrations of Mr. De Vere's power to depict the external world; it is like proving Anacreon a love-poet. What we wish to call attention to is the nature, not the existence, of his talent for description. It seems to us that, throughout his works, the faculty of delineation is not the ordinary sensuous susceptibility of poets, but rather a clear, tender truthfulness in reproducing impressions alike of thought and sense. The somewhat unusual result from which we deduce this opinion is, that he describes quite as happily in the moral order as the physical. This has not been adequately noticed by his critics, His beautiful _genre_ pictures appear to have absorbed almost all of the public attention. We think this is more than their due. Indeed, whenever he sets out to paint traits, Mr. De Vere is quite as sure to make a hit as in his landscape sketches. This volume chances to afford us one striking set of examples of this. There are in it three several summaries of the characteristics of different nations. One--the remarkable epitome of England in the sonnets on colonization--has been published in this magazine before, (Vol. iv. No. 19, p. 77.) The next we take from the "Farewell to Naples," (p. 70.) We think it will bear quoting, though it has been in print since 1855, and was written as long ago as 1844.

'From her whom genius never yet inspired, Nor virtue raised, nor pulse heroic fired; From her who, in the grand historic page, Maintains one barren blank from age to age; From her, with insect life and insect buzz, Who, evermore unresting, nothing does; From her who, with the future and the past No commerce holds, no structure rears to last; From streets where spies and jesters, side by side, Range the rank markets, and their gains divide; Where faith in art, and art in sense is lost, And toys and gewgaws form a nation's boast; Where Passion, from Affection's bond cut loose, Revels in orgies of its own abuse; And Appetite, from Passion's portals thrust, Creeps on its belly to its grave in dust; Where Vice her mask disdains, where Fraud is loud, And naught but Wisdom dumb and Justice cowed; Lastly, from her who, planted here unawed, 'Mid heaven-topped hills, and waters bright and broad, From these but nerves more swift to err hath gained, And the dread stamp of sanctities profaned, And gilt not less with ruin, lives to show That worse than wasted weal is wasted woe-- We part, forth issuing through her closing gate With unreverting faces not ingrate."

Is this not stingingly true? If only the critics found it in Byron, would it not be inevitable in all the select readers and speakers, and rampant in the "Notes on France," "Letters from Italy," "Thoughts while Abroad," etc., which ministers are so sure to write, and which we hope congregations buy?

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The other is a still stronger, and, coming from Mr. De Vere, a very bold as well as trenchant portraiture--no less than the English idea of Ireland. True, Mr. De Vere does not even pretend to agree with it, but that, an Irishman himself, and a devoted patriot, he can see her so exactly as others see her, makes it wonderfully good, and raises what would otherwise have been a mere success of exact expression, to the rank of a high imaginative effort.

"How strange a race, more apt to fly than walk; Soaring yet slight; missing the good things round them, Yet ever out of ashes raking gems; In instincts loyal, yet respecting law Far less than usage: changeful yet unchanged: Timid yet enterprising: frank yet secret: Untruthful oft in speech, yet living truth, And truth in things divine to life preferring: Scarce men; yet possible angels!--'Isle of Saints!' Such doubtless was your land--again it might be-- Strong, prosperous, manly never! ye are Greeks In intellect, and Hebrews in the soul: The solid Roman heart, the corporate strength Is England's dower!"

We cannot devise an addition that could complete this picture of the Sassenach's view of the Gael. It is to the life--the "absolute exemplar of the time." Only we fear that Mr. De Vere has furnished those who do not particularly love his country with rather an ugly citation against her, and Irishmen may perhaps complain of him for giving to such a powerful delineation the sanction of an Irish name. If so, it will be the highest compliment in the world; yet it has ever been a dangerous gift to be able to see both sides of the shield.

We have only suggested our belief, not asserted it as a fact, that Mr. De Vere's fullest power is in description; but the idea grows on us every year, and we wish he would set the question finally at rest in some future work. Let him for once in his life make this great gift of his the essential, instead of the incident, and write something purely descriptive.

There is another thing--rather a curious thing, perhaps--that we note in the choice of the old poems. In a former review, some little time since, we took occasion to speak of the chameleon-like way in which Mr. De Vere's style--always in its essence his own--unconsciously reflects his reading of certain of our best authors. There are poems that recall Shakespeare, and Wordsworth, and Landor, and Tennyson, and Shelley. But there are also others--many of them among his best--which are all himself. Consciously or unconsciously, Mr. De Vere has come back to these at the last, and they constitute a notable majority of those he has picked out for this volume. The ode on the ascent of the Apennines, the "Wanderer's Musings at Rome," the "Lines written under Delphi," the beautiful "Year of Sorrow," "The Irish Gael (_alias_ Irish Celt) to the Irish Norman"--all these are of this class. Perhaps the poet has come to love the best those of his poems which hold the purest solution of his own nature, or perhaps it may be mere chance; only certain it is that the most characteristic of his pieces predominate very largely throughout.

We cannot, however, pass on to the new poems without expressing our profound disrespect for one selection in this volume. It is notorious that, as we hinted before, authors are poor judges of the relative excellence of their own works. To this rule there are, apparently, no exceptions. Let us take one rankling example. No lover of Tennyson but groans inwardly with disgust over that insane hoot called "The Owl," with its noble description of the very witching hour of night:

"_When cats run home_, and night is come,"

and the impotent beauty of the poet's ejaculation:

"I would mock thy chant (!) anew, But I cannot mimic it. Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, Thee to woo to thy tuwhit," etc., etc.

--human nature can stand no more of it.

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We had long loved to believe that this was a sceptred hermit of an example, wrapped in the solitude of its own unapproachable fatuity. It has gone blinking and tu-whooing through edition after edition, with the muffy solemnity characteristic of the eminent fowl, its subject. But Mr. De Vere has paralleled it at last with a certain "Song" which we find in this volume. On the 4th of September, 1843, in a preface to his first book of verses, [Footnote 60] he tells us that this poem was written considerably earlier than 1840.

[Footnote 60: _The Search after Proserpine_. Oxford and London. 1855.]

Three years ago, we remember observing and laughing at it, and thinking whether it would not be well to speak of it as the one blemish in all his works, on his elsewhere perfect grammar. Deeming it a mere Homeric dormitation, we passed it by. And now, after thirty years face to face with it, comes Mr. De Vere, at last, and drags from utter and most laudable oblivion this hapless

"SONG.

"He found me sitting among flowers, My mother's, and my own; Whiling away too happy hours With songs of doleful tone.

"My sister came, and laid her book Upon my lap: and he, He too into the page would look, And asked no leave of me.

"The little frightened creature laid Her face upon my knee-- '_You_ teach your sister, pretty maid; And I would fain teach _thee_.'

"He taught me joy more blest, more brief Than that mild vernal weather: He taught me love; he taught me grief: He taught me both together.

"Give me a sun-warmed nook to cry in! And a wall-flower's perfume-- A nook to cry in, and to die in, 'Mid the ruin's gloom."

If Mr. De Vere had only attended in 1840 to the very reasonable request of the young person in the last verse, we should have been spared one of the very silliest little things in the English language. And yet in thus haling it from the

"nook to sigh in and to die in 'Mid the ruin's gloom,"

where public opinion had long since left it in peace, he has done good. It is instructive to his admirers to see for themselves how very badly he could write before the year 1840. If intended as a public penance of this nature, it is perfect of its kind, and the humility of it will rejoice all Christian souls, excepting, perhaps, the indignant shade of Lindley Murray.

Not far behind this in inanity is the "Fall of Rora," all the good part of which was published years ago, and all the bad part of which is raked up and added for this edition. But from this to the end of the book are new poems of a very different order. To begin with, we have a number of miscellaneous sonnets. They are none of them poor, but the first that particularly arrests attention, by its fine harmony and happy illustration, is

"Kirkstall Abbey.

"Roll on by tower and arch, autumnal river; And ere about thy dusk yet gleaming tide The phantom of dead Day hath ceased to glide, Whisper it to the reeds that round thee quiver: Yea, whisper to those ivy bowers that shiver Hard by on gusty choir and cloister wide, My bubbles break: my weed-flowers seaward slide: My freshness and my mission last for ever!' Young moon from leaden tomb of cloud that soarest, And whitenest those hoar elm-trees, wrecks forlorn Of olden Airedale's hermit-haunted forest, Speak thus,'I died; and lo, I am reborn!' Blind, patient pile, sleep on in radiance! Truth Dies not: and faith, that died, shall rise in endless youth."

The arrangement of the double rhymes, which gives the peculiar, rich rhythm, is a very unusual one with these sonnets. In the whole two hundred and fifty before this, we only recall one or two other instances, notable among which is the famous one beginning,

"Flowers I would bring, if flowers could make thee fairer,"

and the effect is almost always excellent.

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On the heels of this treads another (of the same rhythm also) too good to pass by:

"Unspiritual Civilization.

"We have been piping, Lord; we have been singing! Five hundred years have passed o'er lawn and lea Marked by the blowing bud and falling tree, While all the ways with melody were ringing: In tented lists, high-stationed and flower-flinging Beauty looked down on conquering chivalry; Science made wise the nations; Laws made free; Art, like an angel ever onward winging, Brightened the world. But O great Lord and Father! Have these, thy bounties, drawn to thee man's race That stood so far aloof? Have they not rather His soul subjected? with a blind embrace Gulfed it in sense? Prime blessings changed to curse Twixt God and man can set God's universe."

Better, perhaps, than either of these, as combining the best qualities of both, is the one on

"Common Life.

"Onward between two mountain warders lies The field that man must till. Upon the right, Church-thronged, with summit hid by its own height, Swells the wide range of the theologies: Upon the left the hills of science rise Lustrous but cold: nor flower is there, nor blight: Between those ranges twain through shade and light Winds the low vale wherein the meek and wise Repose. The knowledge that excludes not doubt Is there; the arts that beautify man's life: There rings the choral psalm, the civic shout, The genial revel, and the manly strife: There by the bridal rose the cypress waves: And there the all-blest sunshine softest falls on graves."

This is, we think, one of the author's very best. It evolves a happy allegory very neatly with a happy description, to express a thought too large, it is true, for development in such brief space, but highly suggestive. The question, how far wisdom lies in action, may be raised in a sonnet, and remain unsettled by a thousand treatises.

Several versions from Petrarch's sonnets are admirable, and serve to confirm our already expressed opinion that Mr. De Vere could give us excellent translations.

Perhaps, however, readers of our author will be most interested by the following, which is in an altogether different vein from the general run of these sonnets, and indeed is perhaps rather a curious subject for a sonnet to be made about at all. Still there is no accounting for these poets. Here it is, with all its oddities upon its head:

"A Warning.

"Why, if he loves you, lady, doth he hide His love? So humble is he that his heart Exults not in some sense of new desert With all thy grace and goodness at his side? Ah! trust not thou the love that hath no pride, The pride wherein compunction claims no part, The callous calm no doubts confuse or thwart, The untrembling hope, and joy unsanctified! He of your beauty prates without remorse; You dropped last night a lily; on the sod He let it lie, and fade in nature's course; He looks not on the ground your feet have trod. He smiles but with the lips, your form in view; And he will kiss one day your lips--not you."

Where did our pious philosopher, of all men, learn to discourse thus sagely and plainly of the uncertainty of all things amorous? We think he makes a very good case, and only add our emphatic indorsement, if that can serve the young lady, and join in warning her to find a warmer lover, unless the untrembling and unsanctifled is very, very handsome, in which case we know better than to advise her at all.

The next particularly good piece is the opening one of a miscellany, and is called

"The World's Work.

"Where is the brightness now that long Brimmed saddest hearts with happy tears? It was not time that wrought the wrong: Thy three and twenty vanquished years Crouched reverent, round their spotless prize, _Like lions awed that spare a saint_; Forbore that face--a paradise No touch autumnal ere could taint.

"It was not sorrow. Prosperous love Her amplest streams for thee poured forth, _As when the spring in some rich grove With blue-bells spreads a sky on earth._ Subverted Virtue! They the most Lament, that seldom deign to sigh; O world! is this fair wreck thy boast? Is this thy triumph, vanity?

"What power is that which, being nought, Can unmake stateliest works of God? What brainless thing can vanquish thought? What heartless, leave the heart a clod?

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The radiance quench, yet add the glare? _Dry up the flood; make loud the shoal! And merciless in malice, spare That mask, a face without a soul?_

"Ah! Parian brows that overshone Eyes bluer than Egean seas! One time God's glory wrote thereon Good-will's two gospels, love and peace. Ah! smile. Around those lips of hers The lustre rippled and was still, As when a gold leaf falling stirs A moment's tremor on the rill!"

We wish to call attention here to the very curious image italicized in the second verse. Every one is struck by it at once; every one sees the great beauty of it at once: and yet the code of a narrow and merely rhetorical criticism would weed it out like a wildflower shyly intruding in "ordered gardens great." The simile is not at all a particularly happy one in relation to the preceding idea; it is well enough, but there have been apter similes, and there will be. And reducing it to fact, probably it is one of the most exaggerative images ever written. But yet it is beautiful--really beautiful, not a verbal juggle that entraps the imagination in fine words. The force lies in the bringing into juxtaposition in a new way those old emblems of beauty, flowers and sky, and the daring inaccuracy of it only adds a charm. It does a poetical thought sometimes no harm to be loose. Nature can do clear-cut work enough when she makes things for use; but all the visible loveliness of this world is in vague outlines, formless masses, incomplete curves. The law that softens the distant mountain-tops is the same that makes the beauty of these lines. Theirs is the rarer excellence that rises above rule. We notice it the more in Mr. De Vere that his strength lies generally in the other direction, of photographic exactness in reproduction. We like the very looseness of such expressions; they are like the flowing robes of beautiful women. The third verse also is excellent throughout, especially in the fine metaphor in the sixth line, and the intensity of "merciless in malice." This makes it so much the more provoking that the end is weak, insignificant, and abrupt, and in a vicious style that seems to be more and more the fashion of to-day. Still, there have been worse things; does not Horace end an ode with _"Mercuriusque"?_

The next short song, though nothing remarkable, perhaps, as pure poetry, we cite because it is so like the author--Aubrey De Vere all over, and the shortest epitome of his style we have yet seen in any of his works.

"A Song Of Age.

I.

"Who mourns? Flow on, delicious breeze! Who mourns, though youth and strength go by? Fresh leaves invest the vernal trees, Fresh airs will drown my latest sigh. What am I but a part outworn Of earth's great whole that lifts more high A tempest-freshened brow each morn To meet pure beams and azure sky?

II.

"Thou world-renewing breath, sweep on, And waft earth's sweetness o'er the wave! That earth will circle round the sun When God takes back the life he gave! To each his turn! Even now I feel The feet of children press my grave, And one deep whisper o'er it steal-- The soul is His who died to save.'"

We like the honesty and earnestness of this none the worse for knowing that Mr. De Vere is no longer a young man. And yet does it not seem hard to realize that so good a writer has been before the public nearly thirty years, and seen a generation of flimsy reputations hide him from the eyes of the herd? We can only with difficulty realize, beside, that any one with so romantic and novel-like a name can ever be old. And will he ever be? Is it not true in a deeper and other sense, that whom the gods love die young?

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The "Lines on Visiting a Haunt of Coleridge's" are not excelled by anything in all the volume, but hang so closely together, that, having to quote all or nothing, we are constrained by their length to pass on to an interpolated copy of verses by S. E. De Vere, which gives us a moment's pause. We do not know whether the unknown S. E. is a gentleman or lady; whether the mysterious initials stand for Saint Elmo or Selah Ebenezer, Sarolta Ermengarde or Sarah Elizabeth. But we do know that in this poem, "Charity," (p. 276,) is one passage of some beauty, as thus:

"O cruel mockery, to call that love Which the world's frown can wither! Hypocrite! False friend! Base selfish man! fearing to lift Thy soilèd fellow from the dust! _From thee The love of friends, the sympathy of kind Recoil like broken waves from a bare cliff, Waves that from far seas come with noiseless step Slow stealing to some lonely ocean isle; With what tumultuous joy and fearless trust They fling themselves upon its blackened breast And wind their arms of foam around its feet, Seeking a home; but finding none, return With slow, sad ripple, and reproachful murmur!"_

We find concluding the work a set of sonnets called "Urbs Roma," dedicated to the Count de Montalembert; all smooth, polished, elegant, and dim; with no salient beauties anywhere that distinguish one above another--golden means. The real climax of the volume is at the "Autumnal Ode." This is far the best of the new poems, and one of the best of any of its author's, new or old. In structure it bears a general resemblance to the rest of Mr. De Vere's longer odes; and the style is ripe, lofty, easy, and well-sustained. We have already given one citation from its rich stores, but there are two more especially worthy of attention. The first is a description like the one cited, and quite in Mr. De Vere's own vein.

"It is the autumnal epode of the year; The nymphs that urge the seasons on their round, _They to whose green lap flies the startled deer When bays the far-off hound, They that drag April by the rain-bright hair, (Though sun showers daze her and the rude winds scare) O'er March's frosty bound, They whose warm and furtive hand unwound The cestus falls from May's new-wedded breast--_ Silent they stand beside dead Summer's bier, With folded palms, and faces to the west, And their loose tresses sweep the dewy ground."

III.

"A sacred stillness hangs upon the air, A sacred clearness. Distant shapes draw nigh: Glistens yon elm-grove, to its heart laid bare, And all articulate in its symmetry, With here and there a branch that from on high Far flashes washed as in a watery gleam; _Beyond, the glossy lake lies calm--a beam Upheaved, as if in sleep, from its slow central stream._"

The images, and the way the allegory is sustained, are the beauty of the first stanza. The second is perhaps more artistic still. The adjective "sacred" is an artful and ingenious one. Without any apparent particular propriety in its places--a hundred other words might be effective as qualifications of "stillness" and "clearness"--yet, we find, on passing to the next thought, that it has had its result in preparing the mind for a more vivid and imaginative view of the whole scene. The remaining delineation is exact and cumulative, as our author's descriptions always are; and the closing lines are a singularly true and acute observation of an effect of light that very few would notice in the actual landscape, or will appreciate even now their attention is called to it. But people who are sensible enough to _bask_ now and then in the ripeness of an autumn day will feel an electric contact of recognition.

Perhaps we cannot do better than to close this rambling notice with the closing lines of this elegant and thoughtful poem:

"Man was not made for things that leave us, For that which goeth and returneth, For hopes that lift us yet deceive us, For love that wears a smile yet mournetlh; Not for fresh forests from the dead leaves springing, The cyclic re-creation which, at best, Yields us--betrayal still to promise clinging-- But tremulous shadows of the realm of rest; For things immortal man was made, God's image, latest from his hand, Co-heir with Him, who in man's flesh arrayd Holds o'er the worlds the heavenly-human wand: His portion this--sublime To stand where access none hath space or time, Above the starry host, the cherub band, To stand--to advance--and after all to stand!"

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These lines are the real end and culmination of a book which will, on the whole, do much to raise Mr. De Vere's reputation in this country to a level nearer his deserts. With its human share of faults, it is a truer, an abler, and a more scholarly book than often issues from an American press, and contains everywhere lofty and pure thought, with never a taint of evil, and never a morally doubtful passage. And we only wish for our country, that, of his readers, there may be many in whom these his poems may sow motives as unselfish and aims as noble as those which, we sincerely believe, inform the inner life of the true poet and Christian, Aubrey De Vere.

About Several Things.

And, to begin with, about the poverty and vice of London! Hood and and Adelaide Anne Procter, Dickens, James Greenwood, [Footnote 61] have made these more familiar to us than the streets of our own cities. We have talked with Nancy on London bridge and skulked with Noah Claypole beneath its arches--swept crossings with poor Joe and starved with the little ragamuffin in Frying Pan Alley.

[Footnote 61: _Author of a Night in a London Workhouse_, and of the _True History of a Little Ragamuffin_.]

The poor of London are representative beings to us all. As we walk through the streets, each ragged or threadbare wanderer tells us a story heard long ago and half forgotten. That miserable woman huddled up in a doorway is a brickmaker's wife, and the thin shawl drawn about her shoulders hides the only marks of attention she ever receives from her pitiful husband. Her baby is dead, thank God! safe beyond the reach of blows and hunger and cold. Her story will soon be ended, if we may judge by her thin face, and the eager look in her eyes, and the short, hacking cough. The shilling you slip into her hand will only prolong her misery, but it gives you a moment's consolation, and brings a flash of gratitude into her poor face. Good-by, Jenny! When we meet you at the judgment-seat of God, we wonder if it will occur to us we might have done more for you to-day than give you a shilling and a glance of recognition.

"Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun. Oh! it was pitiful! In a whole city-full Home she had none."

We wonder if Thomas Hood was much better than other people? If he found homes for the homeless and food for the hungry? We cannot get Jenny out of our head. Her wants would be so easily supplied. In all London is there no place where lodging and fire and food are provided for the decent poor?

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The portly policeman at the street corner says yes, there are several refuges, but the one in this district is kept by Sisters of Mercy, in Crispin street, No.30 or thereabouts. Asking poor Jenny to follow us, (she manifests a mild surprise at our sympathy,) we cross Finbury Circus, pass Bishopsgate street, without; and soon find ourselves in Crispin street, standing at the modest entrance of the House of Mercy. We are not the only applicants for admission this dreary November afternoon. Women with children and women without them are sitting on the steps or leaning against the wall, waiting for the hour of five to strike, blessed signal for the door to open. It is only half-past four now, says the sister portress. Jenny must join the throng lingering about the house; but we as visitors may come in and see the preparations made for their entertainment.

This then is the refuge described by Miss Procter, and her pretty garland of verses is still sold for its benefit. In 1860, there was no Catholic refuge in England, and excellent as were those supported by Protestants, they did not supply all demands. Rev. Dr. Gilbert of Moorfields Chapel found in a block of buildings, called by a pleasant coincidence, "Providence Row," a large empty stable separated by a yard from No. 14 Finsbury Square. The Sisters of Mercy were then seeking a house more suited to their needs than the one in Broad street. The two projects fitted each other like mosaic; No. 14 Finsbury Square should be the convent, the stable should be the refuge. Benches and beds were provided at first for fourteen persons only; but in February, 1861, additional provision was made for forty-six women and children. Before the month of April, 1862, 14,785 lodgings, with breakfast and supper, had been given.

But charity is as unsatiable in its desires as self-indulgence, and Dr. Gilbert's ideas soon outgrew the stable in Providence Row. The present refuge, giving accommodation to three hundred adults and children, was opened last autumn. It will be in operation from October to May of every year, on week-days from five P.M. to half-past seven A.M.; on Sundays, throughout the twenty-four hours. In this room on the ground floor, with its blazing fire, the women are received for inspection. If any one shows herself unworthy of assistance, either by intoxication or by the use of bad language, she is turned away. Without doubt many sinners are admitted to the refuge, and the sisters rejoice in being able to check their course of evil for twelve hours; but no one receives hospitality here unless she can conform outwardly to the habits of decent persons. This is the only refuge where admission depends on the good character of the applicant. It has proved an efficient preventive of the contamination so much to be dreaded whenever the poor and ignorant are brought together in large numbers.

The selection of guests being made, their dresses and shawls, wet with London fog and mud, are dried by the fire; and the fixture basins round the room are placed at their service with a bountiful supply of water.

From the inspection-room they pass to a large apartment, where they have supper, and sit together in warmth and comfort until bedtime. The supper consists of a bowl of excellent gruel and half a pound of bread for each person. It is to be observed that, though the accommodations are good of their kind, affording a decent asylum to the homeless, they are not calculated to attract those who can find comfortable shelter elsewhere.

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At an early hour night-prayers are said by a sister, and the women are shown to the dormitories. The beds are constructed in an ingenious manner, economizing space and making perfect cleanliness practicable. Two inclined planes, fastened together at the higher end, pass down the middle of the dormitory. Two more inclined planes pass down the sides of the room with the higher end next the wall. These platforms are partitioned off by planks into troughs about two feet wide and six feet long, (that is to say, the length of the slope of the platform,) looking much like cucumber frames without glass. These are the beds, and at the foot of each is a little gate, which can be opened to admit of drawing out a sliding plank in the bottom of the trough. This is done every morning by the sisters in charge of the dormitories, and the floor beneath is swept. But now the little gates are closed and the beds are ready for their forlorn occupants. Each is furnished with a thick mattress and pillow covered with brown enamel cloth and with a large coverlet of thick leather. As the women go to bed thoroughly warm and wear their clothing, they sleep comfortably under these odd-looking quilts; especially the mothers, who often hold one little child in their arms while another nestles at their feet. The bedding is wiped carefully every morning, and thus the dormitories are kept free from vermin. A cell partitioned off at each end of the dormitory, with two or three windows, provides the sisters in charge with a private room and at the same time with a post of observation. The arrangements for water throughout the house are excellent, including a hose fixed in the wall of every dormitory, ready to be used in case of fire.

At half-past six in the morning, the sleepers are roused; at seven they have breakfast, consisting, like the supper, of a basin of gruel and half a pound of bread. At half-past seven, they leave the refuge, some times to be seen no more, sometimes to return night after night for weeks together. On Sunday they can remain all day. But, as persons are admitted without distinction of creed, they are allowed to leave the refuge during the hours of morning service to go to church. A short lesson in the catechism is given every evening at the refuge; but only Catholics are allowed to attend the classes unless occasionally by especial permission. They have, for their Sunday dinner, as much strong beef soup as they can eat with bread.

The arrangements for men are similar to those for women, though less extensive. The entrances are separate, and there are watchmen in the male dormitory. The refuge provides thirty-two beds for men and one hundred and fifty for women. It is by packing in children with their parents that so many individuals are lodged.

The survey of the building ended, we pass out of the front door just as five o'clock strikes, and the tattered throng, Jenny among them, present themselves for admission. This institution could be copied with good effect in several American cities. Its system of management guards against two evils. Provision being made only for the bare necessities of life, no temptation is offered to impostors. Propriety of behavior being ensured by strict surveillance, the chance of contamination is materially lessened, perhaps wholly removed.

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It is no unusual thing, even in the United States, for men and boys, women and girls, to spend a night in the station-house because they have no other place to sleep. A refuge is less expensive than other charitable establishments. The first cost of a building is considerable; the annual outlay in provisions, fuel, and light, comparatively trifling. The money spent every year in indiscriminate almsgiving in a large city would serve to support a night refuge for several hundred persons. But while providing for the houseless poor of to-day, we should remember that their numbers are increasing with every successive generation. The children of our poorest class must be rescued from their present migratory life, divided between street, jail, and penitentiary.

Much has been done for girls, and we can only desire an extension of the work. With an increase of funds, the Sisters of Charity, of Mercy, of the Good Shepherd, and of Notre Dame could accomplish a mission of great importance to the future prosperity of our country. These ladies devote their lives to saving from misery and degradation the children of those who cannot or will not perform a parent's duty. They need money to accomplish this. We too often dole it out to them as if they had asked alms for themselves. Let us give them not only money but sympathy and encouragement. Many a good work has failed for want of friendly words to give the strength for one final vigorous effort.

But what is to be done for the boys? They may be divided into three classes. First, children guilty of no worse crime than friendlessness. Second, small boys obnoxious to the police for petty infringements of the laws; third, newsboys, bootblacks, and costermongers, more or less familiar with the vices of city life. The third class is developed from the other two, because neglected poverty naturally gravitates to vice and crime.

The development of a true ragamuffin is a process painfully interesting to watch. At an age when the children of the rich take sober walks attended by nursery-maid or governess, he knows the streets as well as any watchman. At seven years old, he is arrested by some energetic policeman for throwing stones, bathing, stealing a bunch of grapes, or some other first-class felony. Once in the hands of the law, there is no redress for him unless he is "bailed out." He must go to jail to wait for trial-day--perhaps three or four weeks. The turnkeys do their best for him; find him a decent companion if he is frightened, or, still better, give him a cell to himself, where he looks more like a squirrel in a cage than a criminal offender. I have seen in one day four mere babies in prison for "breaking and entering!"

But, with all the precautions used in a well-ordered jail to prevent mischief, our infant ragamuffin comes out older by many years than he went in. He has been in prison, and his tiny reputation is gone for ever. A few years later he comes back, arrested for some grave misdemeanor; a sly, old-fashioned little rogue by this time, gifted with an ingenuity fitting him admirably to be the tool of some professional thief. Then begins a course of sojourns in workhouses and juvenile penitentiaries. By and by he reappears in jail with a smart suit of clothes, the fruit of a successful burglary, and you are informed with an air of conscious superiority that this time it is a house of correction or State's prison offence. There is ambition in crime as well as in other careers, we may be sure. He grows up to be a drunkard, a libertine, a bad husband, and the father of children more degraded than himself. We know of an entire family having been in prison at one time, father, mother, and all the children.

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Who is to blame for this career of vice and crime? Not the officers of the jail, who bitterly regret the necessity of receiving children, but cannot set them free. Not the judges, who are sworn to administer the laws as they stand, not to improve upon them.

The police are to blame for exercising their enthusiasm for order upon babies, instead of making examples of grown men guilty of similar misdemeanors, but harder to catch.

The public is to blame for making insufficient provision for the reclamation of juvenile offenders. Above all, we Catholics are to blame, because these are usually the children of foreign parents, and Catholics, at least in name.

Let us build an asylum in the air for these poor little urchins. Aerial philanthropy requires no funds, and very little executive ability. Who knows but our plan may be carried out in earnest, one of these days, by some Dr. Gilbert, trustful of small beginnings, and content to let his project first see the light in a stable?

We would have _one division_ devoted to little orphans, and children whose parents are willing to resign them for a time or for ever.

A second division should be given to the infant criminals of whom we have just spoken. Their offences are always bailable. A trustworthy person should be employed to go bail for all children under ten years of age, and bring them to the asylum to await their trial. The judges gladly sentence children to serve out a term at a juvenile home instead of sending them to penitentiaries. Thus we should recover them after their trial, for a length of time proportioned to the importance of severing old associations. Their circumstances should be thoroughly investigated and reported to the judge--character of parents, place of residence, etc., etc.

These two divisions should be under the charge of female religious; with several male attendants to do menial work and enforce discipline in the few instances where strong measures might be necessary, but without possessing any authority except the reflected one of acting under the matron's orders. The necessity of vigilance can hardly be exaggerated. One child of vicious habits can corrupt many more. But since direct surveillance is irritating even to children, a routine of light and frequently-varied occupation would be found useful in giving vent to restless activity, which is at the root of many childish misdemeanors. The superintendents must learn to distinguish fun from mischief; energy from insubordination.

A third division should provide a refuge for newsboys and others of the same tribe. These older boys should be under the charge of the Christian Brothers. An evening school, a library of books such as boys enjoy, and a collection of innocent games would form an important element in the plan of management. They should be persuaded to put a portion of their earnings in the savings bank, and induced if possible to alter their roving life and learn a trade. Preference should be shown to lads of correct life over those who have been in prison, but encouragement and countenance given to every boy willing to conform to the rules of the refuge. We lay less stress upon separating the good from the bad among the lads for two reasons. A boy of fourteen or fifteen who has not been corrupted by street life must be temptation-proof. It is difficult to judge the respective merits of lads of that age or to learn their past histories. They must to a great extent be taken on trust.

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In the course of a few years a fourth division would become necessary to provide for the little boys grown too old for petticoat government. This division should also be under the charge of the Christian Brothers.

The institution would be very expensive, unless it were made partially self-supporting. There is a good deal of light work connected with trades that might be done by boys resident in the house. Perhaps in time city governments would wake up to the fact that it costs less to give boys a good plain education than to support rogues and paupers; but our dream of charity is rudely dispersed by a yawn from our companion and a suggestion that we should reach Piccadilly sooner by the underground railroad than on foot. The gaslights stare despondingly at me through the yellow fog. A London Arab solicits a penny for clearing the slimy crossing, and wonders at the glow of charity with which we press sixpence into his grimy palm. Where are we? In London? Yes, but there are orphans wandering homeless about the streets of American cities, too; bootblacks going to destruction by scores; tiny children falling victims to the misplaced zeal of policemen; and not even the corner-stone of our asylum is laid!

A Chinese Husband's Lament For His Wife. Translated From The French Of M. Stanislas Julien, Professor Of The Chinese Language, Paris.

I.

It was in the fifth watch of the first day of the year, when the winter's cold was most intense, that my tender wife died. Can there be on earth a man more unhappy than I? O my wife! if thou wert still here, I would give thee a new robe for the new year; but woe is me, thou art gone down to the sombre abode where flows the yellow fountain. Would that husband and wife could see one another again! Come to me in the night--come to me in the third watch--let me renew for a little while the sweetness of the past.

II.

In the second moon, when spring has come, and the sun stays each day longer in the sky, every family washes its robes and linen in pure water, and husbands who have still their wives love to adorn them with new garments. But I, who have lost mine, am wasting my life away in grief; I cannot even bear to see the little shoes that enclosed her pretty feet! Sometimes I think that I will take another companion; but where can I find another so beautiful, wise, and kind!

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III.

In the third moon, the peach-tree opens its rose-colored blossoms, and the willow is bedecked with green tresses. Husbands who have still their wives go with them to visit the tombs of their fathers and friends. But I who have lost mine go alone to visit _her_ grave, and to wet with my hot tears the spot where her ashes repose. I present funereal offerings to her shade; I burn images of gilded paper in her honor. "Tender wife," I cry with a tearful voice, "where art thou, where art thou?" But she, alas! hears me not. I see the solitary tomb, but I cannot see my wife!

IV.

In the fourth moon, the air is pure and serene, and the sun shines forth in all his splendor. How many ungrateful husbands then give themselves up to pleasure and forget the wife they have lost! Husband and wife are like two birds of the same forest; when the fatal hour arrives, each one flies off a different way. I am like a man, who, beguiled by the sweet fancies of an enchanting dream, seeks, when he awakes, the young beauty that charmed his imagination while he slept, but finds around him only silence and solitude. So much loveliness, so much sweetness vanished in one morning! Why, alas! could not two friends, so dearly united, live and grow gray together!

V.

In the fifth moon, the dragon-headed boats float gaily on the waters. Exquisite wines are heated, and baskets are filled up with delicious fruits. Each year at this season, I delighted to enjoy the pleasures of these simple feasts with my wife and children. But now I am weary and restless, a prey to the bitterest anguish. I weep all day and all night, and my heart seems ready to break. Ah! what do I see at this moment? Pretty children at merry play before my door. Yes, I can understand that they are happy; they have a mother to press them to her bosom. Go away, dear children, your joyous gambols tear my heart.

VI.

In the sixth moon, the burning heat of the day is almost unbearable. The rich and the poor then spread their clothes out to air. I will expose one of my wife's silken robes, and her embroidered shoes to the sun's warm beams. See! here is the dress she used to wear on festal days, here are the elegant little slippers that fitted her pretty feet so well. But where is my wife? Oh! where is the mother of my children? I feel as if a cold steel blade were cutting into my heart.

VII.

In the seventh moon, my eyes overflow with tears; for it is then that Nieaulan visits his wife Tchi-niu in heaven. Once I also had a beautiful wife, but she is lost to me for ever. That fair face, lovelier than the flowers, is constantly before me. Whether in movement or at rest, the remembrance of her that is gone from me never ceases to rack my bosom. What day have I forgotten to think of my tender wife--what night have I not wept till morning?

VIII.

On the fifteenth day of the eighth moon, her disk is seen in its greatest splendor, and men and women then offer to the gods melons and cakes, ball-like in form as the orb of night. Husbands and wives stroll together in the fields and groves, and enjoy the soft moonlight. {281} But the round disk of the moon can only remind _me_ of the wife I have lost. At times, to solace my grief I quaff a cup of generous wine; at times I take my guitar, but my trembling hand can draw forth no sound. Friends and relations invite me to their houses, but my sorrowful heart refuses to share in their pleasures.

IX.

In the ninth moon, the chrysanthemum opens its golden cup, and every garden exhales a balmy odor. I would gather a bunch of newly-blown flowers if I had still a wife whose hair they could adorn! My eyes are weary with weeping--my hands are withered with grief, and I beat a fleshless breast. I enter the tasteful room that was once my wife's; my two children follow me, and come to embrace my knees. They take my hands in theirs, and speak to me with choking voices; but by their tears and sobs I know they ask me for their mother.

X.

On the first day of the tenth moon, both rich and poor present their wives with winter clothing. But to whom shall I offer winter clothing? I, who have no wife! When I think of her who rested her head on my pillow, I weep and burn images of gilded paper. I send them as offerings to her who now dwells beside the yellow fountain. I know not if these funereal gifts will be of use to her shade; but at least her husband will have paid her a tribute of love and regret.

XI.

In the eleventh moon, I salute winter, and again deplore my beautiful wife. Half of the silken counterpane covers an empty place in the cold bed where I dare not stretch out my legs. I sigh and invoke heaven; I pray for pity. At the third watch I rise without having slept, and weep till dawn.

XII.

In the twelfth moon, in the midst of the winter's cold, I called on my sweet wife. "Where art thou," I cried; "I think of thee unceasingly, yet I cannot see thy face!" On the last night of the year she appeared to me in a dream. She pressed my hand in hers; she smiled on me with tearful eyes; she encircled me in her caressing arms, and filled my soul with happiness. "I pray thee," she whispered, "weep no more when thou rememberest me. Henceforth I will come thus each night to visit thee in thy dreams."

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A May Flower.

A look and a word, my sweet lady; A thought of your kind heart, I pray, For a flower that blooms by the roadside, This beautiful morning in May.

I know that engagements await you; I know you have many to meet; Yet, pray, linger here for a moment, And look at this flower of the street.

'Tis but May, my sweet lady, and hardly Has spring had the time to look bright; Yet this flower it called into being Already is smitten with blight.

Already upon its fair leaflets Lie heavy the grime and the dust; Its shrivelled and lack-lustre petals, Tell a story--stop, lady!--you must.

For a soul is in danger, my lady, The soul of this drooping street flower; And you by a look can recall it To life, or 'twill die in an hour.

Ah me! if you knew but the power Of one word of kindness from you; Could you see what a tempest of passion A glance of your eye would subdue!

What hope once again would awaken To arm this poor soul for the right! Thanks, my lady! Go happily onward, The tempted is strengthened with might.

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