PART II.

I entered the novitiate on the 22d. The _Veni sponsa Christi, accipe coronam quam tibi Dominus præparavit in æternum_ has been sounding in my heart ever since like a war-cry, animating me to the interior combat. For the cloister is that oasis in the great desert of the world where is carried on a vital combat between nature and grace, more furious than that between Christian and Paynim in the Diamond of the desert. I have been much happier since I entered upon my new life, and am glad I can go out no more. I love the solitude

and calmness of the cloister, which at last extends to the heart; I love the shrines "where their vigils pale-eyed virgins keep;" I love the companionship of those who seem unsullied by earthly passions; and I love this release from all earthly care, with no thought for what we shall eat, or what we shall drink, or wherewithal we shall be clothed. Is it not better than the bustle and vanity of the world, which almost efface the thought of God?

And then, you know, I have always believed that there are some who are called to perpetuate the glorious fellowship of Christ's sufferings; to share, as members of his body, the pains and sorrows of the great Head of the church; and to make reparation to heaven for the constant outrages against the Divine Majesty. As Faber says, "Nuns are the turtle-doves of the church, who have to mourn in a spirit of loving sorrow and sweet reparation over the wrongs of their heavenly Spouse."

The heart of St. Augustine was so full of the love of God and the sense of what is his due, that he is always represented holding it all aflame in his hands. Old legends tell us how an angel bore it away to a sanctuary, where it will still tremble in its crystal case if an unbeliever enters the church where it is exposed. So tremulously alive to the honor and glory of God should be the hearts that are gathered together in the cloister. How many souls fly thither to make up, as it were, to God what is wanting on the part of their sinful brethren! _Apropos_, I must tell you about one of our nuns, who is full of holy fervor. In the late retreat, the director asked her the subject of her particular examen. "Self-abnegation," was the reply. "Do you find many occasions for practising it?" inquired the _père_. "Not as many as I could wish." "What is the virtue which you particularly ask of our Lord in your devotions, and by the actions of each day?" "I ask for no virtue, _mon père_." "With what intention, then, do you offer them?" "For the conversion of sinners, and the greater glory of God."

Is not this admirable? I am sure many Protestants could hardly comprehend a piety so disinterested as to lose sight, in a measure, of one's own profit in zeal for God's cause.

The facilities are also great in the cloister for the frequent reception of the sacraments, which quicken the moral circulation. The pulsations of the soul are more healthful after the infusion of divine grace through them. I went to holy communion this morning. The Divine Host seemed to me a burning coal from off the altar of God, and the priest, the angel who placed it on my lips. "Our God is a consuming fire." I prayed that he might consume every affection in my heart that was not centred in him; and, as I felt the torrent of divine flame circulating in my veins, every earthly desire, every human passion, seemed to die away within me. For a moment, at least, I felt the signification of the words of the great apostle of the Gentiles, "It is no longer I who live, but Christ who liveth in me." Might such moments be perpetuated! But it is of faith that those who have partaken of Christ's body and blood remain in him, and he in them, as long as they are in a state of grace. It is this interior presence of the divinity which animated the saints to the sacrifice, and made even this world, amid all their privations and austerities, a very foretaste of heaven. What sweet solemnity and thoughtfulness reign in the heart sensible of this divine presence! In its light the soul,

"Like the stained web that whitens in the sun, Grows pure by being purely shone upon."

As you say, a great deal does depend upon the influences that surround us, especially with weak souls like me. I envy those men who are as gods, in spite of temperament, or clime, or any outward influence; who go on unchecked from one degree of glory to another, to the very heights of sanctity. I am always drifting along, awaiting the impulse of the sacraments, or the helping hand of some stronger friend, too glad if I do not recede. Ah! solitude brings us face to face with ourselves, and reveals to us our _moral littleness_! Nothing is more humbling than this revelation. Nothing makes us more distrustful of ourselves, and more willing to accept the appointed means of perfection. The life our director thinks the safest is a common life, lived in an _uncommon_ manner; that is, while we do the same things as those around us, it is with motives so holy that each action is rendered in a degree supernatural. This is the great secret of the hidden and interior life, which the saints of all ages have loved and of which St. Joseph is the type.

I have been reading _Fioretti; or, the Little Flowers of St. Francis d'Assisi_--a collection of the sayings of the first Franciscans, with a rare bloom on them. These mediæval flowers, so long shut up in a foreign tongue, have a delicious fragrance, and while I inhaled their odor I forgot that I belonged to an incredulous age. There is a simplicity truly poetical in this collection, which is admirable. One little remark of Friar Egide struck me: "_La voie la plus directe pour nous sauver, c'est de nous perdre._" This loss, this annihilation of self, on the ruins of which must be built up the great edifice of our perfection, is what I daily sigh after, and what I ask for you. The Père Milley, a Jesuit, speaks much of "_le pays des âmes perdues_"--a country to which all my desires tend. It is a promised land which I see afar off; another Canaan, which I hardly dare hope to enter, though I look wistfully on those who are lost in God--that ocean without limit, where our littleness is swallowed up in immensity, and we almost forget our fears and our frailties; we know not whether we suffer or are consoled; conscious only of the divine atmosphere--conscious only that we love!...

Our novitiate is a large apartment with five immense windows in it. (When you are taxed for windows, you may as well have large ones, and the French love the air and live in it.) No matter how cold it is, the windows are always open--and when I say _open_, I mean the _whole_ window; for, as I have already remarked, they swing open like folding doors. On cold days a few _mottes_ are burning in the fireplace, around which a folding screen is drawn. These mottes are mostly of tan, pressed into flat round cakes like a small cheese. They give out strong heat. Wood is very scarce here, and consequently dear, and I have never seen coal. As for lights, we burn linseed-oil, which gives a clear yellow light, and the odor is not offensive like whale-oil. Each sister has a little coil of yellow wax-taper to light when she wishes to go about the monastery in the evening.

The floor is paved with square red tiles, as in all the houses here, but we have little mats to protect our feet from the chill. Each novice has her table and writing-desk, at which she studies or sews. At one end of the room is an altar, and the walls are adorned with engravings of a religious character. Leading from the novitiate is the _chambrette_ of the mistress of novices, in which is the novices' library. It is always open to us, and we like an excuse for entering it.

Our manner of spending the day is nearly unvaried. We rise at half-past four, and, after completing our toilettes, (for even nuns have toilettes; one's garments must be put together somehow,) we descend to the chapel. The choir is impenetrably dark most of the year at this early hour. Only the little lamp is twinkling near the tabernacle! One by one the nuns come noiselessly in, like so many shadows. This hour of morning meditation is delicious. The perfect stillness, in which you can hear your own heart beat, disposes you to reflection. The soul becomes steeped in the spirit of the place and the hour passes too quickly away. Then we say the hours. The morning sacrifice follows with its awful mysteries, which are ever fresh and wonderful.

When we issue from the chapel, after our exercises of more than two hours, we go one by one, when we choose, to the refectory, for there is no breakfast, properly speaking. The nuns take a piece of dry bread, with perchance some fruit, and eat it, as the children of Israel ate the passover, standing and ready girded for the labors of the day, for which we are all ready at eight. That would be called a fast in America. But when a sister is delicate, she can have some coffee or chocolate. The world used to cry out against the good living of monastic orders; now it says their austerities are fatal to the health. It is always the way with the world--now, as in the days when John the Baptist came "neither eating nor drinking."

The French know nothing of the cup that cheers but does not inebriate. They only take tea medicinally, and seem to have no idea of how it should be prepared. It is a prevalent belief here that every Englishman in his travels carries his tea-kettle with him, and they suppose the whole race partial to the beverage. So, by way of a _fête_, they proposed regaling me with some the other day. I accepted what was no luxury to me. A good sister brought me what she styled _soupe au thé_, consisting of an abundance of milk and water, with a dash of tea. (I rely on the veracity of the _cuisinière_ for this last item.) Into this, bread was sliced, and the whole served up in a soup-plate! Confucius himself would have laughed. I am sure I did till I cried, to the great scandal of all the nuns, who were gravely listening to some holy legend as they ate. Shall I tell you what I did with my _soupe au thé_? I hope I am not vain of the heroic act, but I--ate it!

Fifteen minutes before dinner we have examination of conscience. We go to the table saying, "_De profundis clamavi_" and leave it reciting, "_Miserere Domine!_" We eat in silence, listening to the gospel of the day, the lives of the saints, or some other religious book, read by one of the sisters from a high pulpit. After dinner is a reunion, when we come together with our sewing or other handiwork, and have the privilege of talking, and sometimes we make _la cour du roi Pétaud_, I assure you. At one o'clock the lay sisters come in, while we read aloud for half an hour, if no chapter has been convoked. They too bring their work. One old sister always brings her spindle and distaff, and twirls away, sitting bolt upright, and looking so grim that she always seems to me one of the Fates lengthening out the thread of life. At three we have vespers, and then make half an hour's meditation. From compline we go to supper at six, after which we walk in the garden or assemble together within doors. At eight o'clock is read the subject for the next morning's meditation, and we go to the choir to say the office, and for night prayers. Thus closes the day with prayer, as it began. We all light our little tapers and go silently to our cells for the night. Such is the outline of our life, which is so well filled up that we have few leisure moments. We hear of lazy monks and nuns, but there are no drones in our busy hive, with our boarding-school, day and free schools, with their hundreds of pupils, and this vast building to keep in order. Night comes before we know it, and another day is gone. There is one day less in which to struggle with self, and, alas! one day less in which to sacrifice something for God! You ask for the shadow in the picture of my life. There is ever one dark spot in our existence, the shadow of ourselves, which follows us wherever we go.

But we have one grievance just now. _Finisterre_ is the name of the portal that separates us from the world, but it cannot wholly exclude its sounds. I will explain. The city rises so abruptly behind our monastery that the garden of the Count de T----, on the opposite side of the street, is on a level with our second story. And the street that separates us is one of those dim, narrow streets found only in old cities of the south, where it is desirable to exclude the heat. For several nights past when we have come from our dear quiet chapel, with our hearts all subdued and thoughtful, and pondering on the subject for the next morning's meditation, a "_toot, tooting_," is heard from the garden opposite that is enough to distract a saint. It is a French horn, or some other wind instrument, surely meant for some vast campagna. But, essayed in a small garden, with a hill in the rear to aid the reverberation, the whole volume of sound comes pouring across the corridor into our cells, the very embodiment of worldly discord and tumult. "_Pazienza!_" we say to ourselves, and try to turn a deaf ear. I dare say the performer has some idea of enlivening the poor recluses, who have no other wish but to be left to their own reveries, save that the time of the vintage may soon come when he can awaken the echoes of the vineyard.

* * * * *

It is the festival of the Assumption. While I write, all the bells of the city are ringing, statues and banners of Mary are borne through the streets by the clergy, followed by a long procession of people. The deep-toned "_ora pro nobis_" breaks in upon the stilly air. Each invocation seems like a cry of agony, which goes heavenward from hearts weary of the world and the things of the world. These processions are made throughout France in memory of the celebrated vow of Louis XIII., who consecrated France to the Virgin. It is also a national holiday in honor of Napoleon I., being his birthday. "St. Napoleon's Day," say the people with a smile!

I saw a pretty picture last evening--Sister Rose standing on a stool near the fountain of the court, surrounded by a group of gay young ladies, to whom she was preaching. She looked like a statue of St. Angèle. Sister Rose is a lay sister, wholly uneducated, but with a certain piety of a mystical nature which has given her quite a reputation for sanctity. She has an oval face of pale olive hue, jet black eyes with an indrawn look as if conscious of some interior Presence, and regular features, with a delicacy and refinement quite remarkable considering her laborious life. She never meets you without a smile and a "word for Jesus," as she says. The young ladies of the boarding-school love and revere her so much that they often lay violent hands upon her and force her to preach to them, which she does with a smile and the same inward look, and with a grace of gesture peculiar to her country. As her discourse was in _patois_, (one of the _langues d'Oc_, and the tongue of Jasmin, who lives at Agen,) which all understand here, I was not benefited thereby; but her appearance and her saintly face, with its gentle, serious smile, were impressive. The exuberance of her audience was soon subdued.

There are a good many Spaniards in this city who are exiled on account of their political opinions, being Carlists. They had a solemn mass of requiem chanted in our chapel, the other day, for the repose of the soul of Don Carlos. Nearly thirty Spanish gentlemen and some ladies were present. A bier was placed in the centre of the chapel and surrounded by lights, as if the body were there, and on the pall was placed a wreath of laurel. The officiating priest, too, was a Spaniard. I looked with interest on these exiles from their native land, and my heart grew warm toward them; they were extremely devout during mass, and I saw many of them wipe away their fast-falling tears. I could not repress my own; for separation from the fatherland seemed a bond of sympathy I could not resist. Thus, when I am gone, and my remains lie in a foreign land, may some kind souls gather together in the sanctuary of God to chant the _Requiem æternam_ for my tried soul!

Once a month we meditate particularly on death, and offer all our devotions as a preparation for our last end. When mass is over, and the thanksgiving for our communion is ended--no, not ended, for it can never end; but while it is still ascending from our hearts, our dear mère, who is as pale as the wife of Seneca, goes forward and kneels before the grate that separates the choir from the chancel, and says in earnest tones the litany for a happy death. Her voice trembles as she repeats the awful petition: "When my eyes, obscured at the approach of death, cast their dying looks toward thee, O merciful Jesus! and when my lips, cold and trembling, pronounce for the last time on earth thy adorable name--" "Merciful Jesus, have pity on me!" sighs every heart in response. The impression of these prayers pursues the mind all day. "Lord, in that strait, the Judge! remember me!"

* * * * *

On St. Andrew's day we buried one of the nuns, who was about ninety years of age and quite superannuated. This death did not affect me so much as that of Sister Sophie. The transition from old age to the grave seems so natural that it excites less horror than when one dies in the full vigor of life. Mère Ste. Ursule was of a noble family of La Vendée. At the age of sixteen she entered a community of Poor Clares, one of the most rigid orders of the church; but, during her novitiate, the great French Revolution swept away nearly every vestige of religion, and the nuns of St. Clare were driven out from their quiet cells into the world. When the _gendarmes_ forced them to leave the convent, these emissaries desecrated every thing and broke and threw out the sacred emblems. As Sister Ursule, who had a most tender devotion to her whom Châteaubriand styles "the divinity of the frail and the desolate," was leaving the cloister she had loved so much, she turned to give it a last look, and saw a small statue of Notre Dame de Grâce standing on the convent wall. She said to one of her sister nuns, "It seems as if the Blessed Virgin reproaches me for leaving," and she turned back to save the statue from insult. The _gendarmes_ did not oppose the design of the young novice, and this _bonne Vierge_ was for more than sixty years the ornament and tutelary genius of the cell of Mère Ste. Ursule, after her re-entrance into religion. With all the fervor of southern devotion toward Mary, she used to prostrate herself daily before this statuette, and when fallen into second childhood she would pour out her heart in effusions of child-like simplicity at once charming and poetic. She often said to her novices: "When I am dying, place my _bonne Vierge_ on my bed beside me."

After the Revolution, the more rigid orders were not restored, and Mère Ste. Ursule, despairing of the re-establishment of the Poor Clares, joined the Ursulines, and was for a long time mistress of novices at the priory. In her last days she did nothing but pray and adorn the altar in her cell. She knew the office by heart, and always recited it at the canonical hours. Her beads were told many times a day, and she never failed to use the discipline with severity. I often went to see her and her _bonne Vierge_. She died suddenly of old age. Being somewhat more feeble than usual, one of the sisters remained with her during the night. Mère Ste. Ursule said her office and rosary, but did not sleep. Toward day the sister perceived the approach of death; she took down the statue of Notre Dame de Grâce and laid it in the arms of the aged nun, whose spirit instantly fled to the presence of Mary in heaven. It was at the hour of dawn. The first beam of the dayspring from on high carried her soul away from earth.

Again those solemn funeral services! I cannot tell you the effect they have on me.

* * * * *

A friend sent me a curious pear to-day, said to be peculiar to this city. It is called the _Bon Chrétien_, but very different from the one we called so at home. It is a large, coarse-grained pear, but juicy and toothsome, and has no seeds; that is, as every one says, those that grow within the limits of the city have none, while those that are found in the country are seedy enough. Old legends connect this peculiarity with St. Oren's miraculous powers.

* * * * *

_December 8._--This is the festival of the Immaculate Conception, the patronal feast of the chapel of the priory. For nine days past the convent bell has rung out a joyful peal at the hour of the novena to Maria Immaculata, when her litany was chanted to a beautiful Spanish air which completely melts the heart. Unusual pomp has been given to this _fête_ on account of the expected decision respecting the dogma of the Immaculate Conception at Rome. This morning we had more than a dozen masses, for the clergy love to come to this antique chapel on the feasts of Mary. At ten o'clock, about twenty priests came to sing high mass, and again this afternoon for vespers. The chapel was crowded with people from the city. Thus for centuries have the faithful congregated on this same day. The Blessed Sacrament was exposed all day. I passed hours in its presence, bearing in my heart all my innumerable wants, and those of my friends afar off. How like heaven is our dear chapel when the Lamb of God is thus exposed to our adoration! In a niche over the altar gleams the holy image of Mary. The Divinity is enshrined in light beneath her maternal eye, the air filled with incense, as if fanned by adoring angels. The arches are full of harmony. Every power of body and mind is captivated, and one abandons one's self to the impressions of the moment. It gives one a peculiar emotion to hear men chant the praises of Mary. What a reverence they must have for womanhood! Their _Miserere nobis_ in the litany was the very cry of a contrite heart. I should have thought myself in paradise had not the supplicatory tones of the clergy announced a felicity still imperfect.

All this is infinitely beautiful and poetic, apart from every sentiment of religion. Every day of my life would seem to you a chapter full of poetry; but I have become so accustomed to what I once thought belonged to a bygone age of mystery and romance, that it all seems the natural order of events. And one soon learns to rise above the mere ceremonials of religion, which are so full of enjoyment to some natures, to that which they typify. Such is the design of Holy Church--to lead the heart up to God, its true centre. Perhaps, too, she wishes that every power of our being should be enlisted in his service; the imagination as well as reason.

After vespers we had a fine sermon from the Abbé Lassale upon the invocation: _Regina sine labe concepta, ora pro nobis!_ It is the custom here now, as, from the sermons of Bossuet, we see it was in the time of Louis XIV., for the preacher, after invoking the Holy Spirit, to present a plan of his discourse, make some introductory remarks, and then stop. Both preacher and audience kneel in silence for the space of an Ave Maria, then all rise and the sermon is continued. The custom is quite impressive.

* * * * *

_December 15._--Owing to the antiquity of our chapel, long since dedicated to the mystery of the Immaculate Conception, the archbishop permitted us, as a particular favor, to celebrate the octave of this great festival of Mary with a sermon and benediction every evening. The whole chapel was daily illuminated, and the effect was magical when it was lighted up. Imagine arches of light, pillars wreathed in flame, altar covered with flowers and brilliant with immense wax candles; while in the midst gleamed the Virgin in a perfect bower of pure white lilies. And, just as the imagination is fired with so much brilliancy and taste, _Kyrie eleison!_ floats up with the incense in the most plaintive, heart-rending tones--a very tear of the heart dropped at the feet of Mary! It is the commencement of the litany of Maria Immaculata, chanted by the nuns in choir, and responded to by the crowds that fill the chapel without. Light and music are the two ideas of which Dante's Paradise is composed; and I felt with what true poetic instinct, when kneeling before that shrine of light, my ears listened to harmonies approaching those that swell for ever before the throne of God! This struck me from the first; and I have since found my thoughts expressed by another far better than I could express them. Leigh Hunt says: "It is impossible to see this profusion of lights, especially when one knows their symbolical meaning, without being struck with the source from which Dante took his idea of the beatified spirits. His heaven, filled with lights, and lights, too, arranged in figures, which glow with lustre in proportion to the beatitude of the souls within them, is the sublimation of a Catholic church. And so far it is heavenly indeed; for nothing escapes the look of materiality like fire. It is so airy, joyous, and divine a thing, when separated from the idea of pain and an ill purpose, that the language of happiness naturally adopts its terms, and can tell of nothing more rapturous than burning bosoms and sparkling eyes. The seraph of the Hebrew theology was a fire."

* * * * *

_Christmas._--Yesterday was spent in retreat, by way of preparing our hearts for the solemnities of the nativity; and I have kept a real old-fashioned vigil--a vigil of the middle ages. I wish you could have heard the joyful ring of all the bells of the city as midnight approached. At the cathedral, the clear tones of the smaller bells, like the voices of nuns in choir, and the great Bourdon among them, "like the chanting of a friar," as Longfellow says; the _carillon_, too, from St. Pierre; and then all the convent bells sounding from Carmel, the Oratory, the Filles de Marie, and La Miséricorde, and those of the Hospital, Le Grand Séminaire, etc., etc., are infinitely impressive in the stillness of the night--the prelude of a great joy, breaking in upon our meditation on the birth of Christ. When the bells were all hushed, the priest stood at the foot of the blazing altar; all the rest of the chapel was in darkness--not a taper in the choir. There was not a sound but the night wind. The saints on the walls, half revealed in their dim recesses, looked like the spirits of the old monks come forth at this mystic hour to guard the chapel their hands once raised.

It was the second time I ever communicated at midnight mass, and I imagined my heart the manger in which the Infant Jesus came to repose. I thought, as I returned from the holy table to my _prie-dieu_, of the first tears of the Divine Babe, and that he bewailed my continued imperfections. "Ah! why should not thy tears," I exclaimed, "wash away my sins, that thou be not forced to shed also thy most precious blood! I, too, weep. I, who deserve to weep, join my tears to thine. O Virgin Mother! take back thy child! His presence makes me an object of horror to myself. His tears scald my very heart. His caresses are like arrows that pierce my soul. Thou alone canst console him; only clean hands and a pure heart should embrace spotless innocence. My spiritual vision is too weak to bear the Orient from on high. Yes, Mary, thou alone canst console him; for thou art immaculate. Embrace him for me--those hands and feet which will be pierced for me; and wipe away the tears that have commenced to flow but too soon."

"Oh! blissful and calm was the wondrous rest That thou gavest thy God in thy virginal breast. For the heaven he left he found heaven in thee; And he shone in thy shining, sweet Star of the sea!"

After hearing three masses, we went to visit the manger. A kind of tent had been erected in the upper choir. In it was a statue of St. Joseph, the Blessed Virgin, an ox, an ass, and in the centre on the straw lay the new-born Infant with its little arms outstretched. Above hovered the angels. Though rudely cast, their effect was good in the dim light. We knelt around, and the novices sang out joyfully a Christmas carol, the chorus of which was "_Jésus est né!_"--Christ is born! All this gave a certain vividness to the festival which it never had before; and I enjoyed it much. True, our manger is too homely to bear the criticisms of the scoffer. St. Joseph, for a carpenter, is rather gaudily dressed out in a scarlet robe, purple mantle, ruffle-bosomed shirt, with a breast-pin; and the Virgin hardly does credit to her reputation for beauty and grace; but the eye of faith looks beyond and reads only the lesson of child-like simplicity and humility--nowhere so well learned as at Bethlehem.

"I adore thee, O Infant Jesus! naked, weeping, and lying in the manger. Thy childhood and poverty are become my delight. Oh! that I could be thus poor, thus a child like thee. O eternal wisdom! reduced to the condition of a little babe, take from me the vanity and presumptuousness of human wisdom! Make me a child with thee. Be silent, ye teachers and sages of the earth! I wish to know nothing but to be resigned, to be willing to suffer, to lose and forsake all, to be all faith! The Word made Flesh! now _is_ silent, now has an imperfect utterance, now weeps as a child! And shall I set up for being wise? Shall I take a complacency in my own schemes and systems? Shall I be afraid lest the world should not have an opinion high enough of my capacity? No, no; all my pleasure shall be to _decrease_--to become little and obscure, to live in silence, to bear the reproach of Jesus crucified, and to add thereto the helplessness and imperfect utterance of Jesus, a child."[22]

The manger remains till Epiphany. It is gotten up by the scholars, who delight in it, especially the younger ones, who go to present the Infant Jesus with fruit, nuts, _bonbons_, money, and whatever their childish hearts suggest. These things are for the Holy Infant in the person of poor children among whom they are distributed, that they too may have some pleasure at Christmas-tide. I find it a pretty custom, as well as beneficial; for piety should not all evaporate in sentiment, but, even in children, ought to be embodied in some good deed, or prompt to some act of self-denial. The children of France take much pleasure in making little sacrifices of pocket-money (not in the spirit of Mrs. Pardiggle's unfortunate children!) for the association of the _Sainte Enfance_, the funds of which are destined to rescue hundreds of little children, who are exposed to death in China by their parents, and even to buy those who are exposed for sale, that they may be reared as Christians. Last year, four hundred thousand children were thus baptized--an angelic work, worthy of young and pure hearts. Our scholars embroider collars and do a variety of fancy work for a fair among themselves, by which they amass quite a sum in the course of the year. The French children are exceedingly volatile, but there is a great deal of piety among them. During Passion-time a little girl of nine or ten, belonging to the poor scholars, undertook to meditate fifteen minutes a day, for a certain number of days, on the sufferings of Christ. One of the nuns asked her how she employed the time, so long for a child. She replied, _naïvement_, "I thought each thorn that pierced the head of Christ was one of my sins!"

After our nocturnal devotions, we novices returned to the novitiate, where the Yule log was blazing. By way of a rarity, we all had coffee to refresh us after our vigil, and we sat around the fire chatting in a home-like manner, and repeating Christmas carols.

"He neither shall be born In housen nor in hall, Nor in the place of Paradise, But in an ox's stall; He neither shall be rocked In silver nor in gold, But in a wooden cradle That rocks upon the mould."

In the country, on Christmas eve, the young peasants go about from house to house, singing Christmas carols, expecting some treat in return.

I saw to-day a little picture of the Child Jesus making crosses in the work-shop of his foster-father. Perhaps it was one of these that the poets tell us the little St. John contended for:

"Give me the cross, I pray you, dearest Jesus! Oh! if you knew how much I wish to have it, You would not hold it in your hand so tightly. Something has told me, something in my breast here, Which I am sure is true, that if you keep it, If you will let no other take it from you, Terrible things I cannot bear to think of Must fall upon you. Show me that you love me; Am I not here to be your little servant, Follow your steps and wait upon your wishes?"

At four o'clock in the morning we returned to the choir. I stationed myself before the manger to make my meditation on the mystery of the day. Of course Christmas is not very merry after such a vigil, but who can tell the holy joy of such a night--worth all the gayeties of the world!

FOOTNOTE:

[22] Fénélon.

* * * * *

I read in the refectory for the first time to-day. When I returned to the novitiate after my dinner the good mother said, "You have read so well, you merit a recompense." I glanced at the mantel and saw the American stamps with the benign faces of Washington and Franklin, so welcome in this far-off land....

I hope you will never speak of burdening me with an account of your infirmities, whether bodily or spiritual. I love that loving command of the apostle, to bear one another's burdens; for we are never more Christ-like than when we forget our own trials to bind up the wounds of a fellow-sufferer. Be assured I pray for you without ceasing. I never enter the presence of the Blessed Sacrament without invoking a blessing on you and on my dear country. I never communicate or perform an act of penance without desiring that you may participate in the grace I receive. Oh! that by my fidelity to God I might draw down the blessings I daily implore for you and for all who are dear to me! O my God! spare me not. Let _me_ suffer mental and bodily trials, let _me_ be the victim of thy justice; but spare my loved ones! If I cannot labor _directly_ for thee, I can at least suffer for thee, for them, and for the whole world. Thy victim, O God! thy victim. The name befits me better than that of thy spouse.

* * * * *

I have read somewhere that the ropes in the English navy are so twisted that a red thread runs through them all, in such a way that the smallest pieces may be recognized as belonging to the crown. So through our lives should run a thread, coloring its whole woof--a love for God interwoven with the very thread of existence, and inspiring every act of our lives. St. Francis de Sales said if he knew that the least fibre of his heart did not beat with love for God he would pluck it out. O love that transcends all others! how did we once exist without thee? O days without a sun! O nights rayless and dark! how happy are we who have escaped from your gloom! How different is the divine friend from our earthly one. When once we have studied a person and penetrated his individuality, the charm of his presence is gone. We have squeezed him dry. But the friend that sticketh closer than a brother, he is unfathomable and ever new. The heart is never weary of divine companionship. On the contrary, the more completely we give ourselves up to it, to the exclusion of every other, the more we feel that _God alone_ can satisfy the cravings of our hearts.

_Dieu seul_ was the device a holy American bishop gave me on the day of my confirmation. The signification of these words has been growing upon me ever since. They have expanded till they have filled the whole heavens, and lit up my life with wondrous splendor. There is no spot on my horizon where they do not shine out. Every object unmarked by them seems to fade out of view. All knowledge, all science grows pale before their significance, and every wound of the heart finds a balm in their healing ray. "_Paix! paix!_ DIEU SEUL _est la paix_!" says Fénélon.

* * * * *

_February._--The day on which Pius IX. added the crowning star of immaculate purity to the coronet of Mary was the cause of great rejoicing throughout France. All the principal cities have been illuminated. At Toulouse, the sides and roof of St. Saturnin's cathedral were covered with lights, and another church had fifteen thousand lamps upon it. Ours was not least among the cities in her joy, and it did the soul good to witness such a display of Catholic piety and enthusiasm, worthy of the ages of faith. As soon as the bull of promulgation arrived from Rome, Monseigneur ordered the _Te Deum_ to be chanted with the utmost pomp in all the churches of the diocese. The same evening the whole city was illuminated. Nothing had been seen like it since the visit of Napoleon I. to this city. At the grand portal of the priory were several hundred lamps, forming a monogram of Mary, over a beautiful transparency of the _Vierge Immaculée_. The belfry, tower, and all the windows of this immense establishment were lighted up, and many windows were like chapels of the Virgin all aflame. The top of the convent walls was one long line of light, so closely were the lamps placed upon it. Pennons with the colors of the Virgin were placed at uniform distances among these lights, and one floated from the stone cross on the chapel. The whole scene was magical. From the tower we could see much of the city, which was so universally illuminated and adorned that it looked like that city of jewels

"In fairy land whose streets and towers Are made of gems, and lights, and flowers."

All was so still that no one would have suspected the intense enthusiasm that reigned in every heart. Only from before a little statue of the Madonna, in the convent garden, rose a sweet song to the Virgin, Ave Sanctissima! which floated up through the damp night air from the lips of the spouses of Christ with a sound as plaintive as the voice of past times.

Even the poorest people in the city--and you know not how poor are the poorest in this old country--had their candles and a picture of the Virgin at the window. One poor woman begged enough to buy a wax candle, which she cut in three pieces to light up her wretched abode. The towers of the cathedral looked like the jewelled turrets of Irim. All the public buildings were also lighted up. I wonder when the civil authorities of the United States will order a general illumination in honor of the Virgin Mary! On the top of the hospital was a _Vierge en feu_. Even one window of the prison tower, which looms up behind the cathedral--a huge quadrangular monument, dark and forbidding as a donjon keep of ages past--was brilliant with lights, while far up in the very highest window gleamed one bright solitary lamp, like the last ray of hope in the heart of the captive. That light pierced me to the heart.

And all this in honor of a once obscure virgin of Judea. One can well sing "_Exaltavit humiles_." In the streets were arches of triumph, and at most of the windows were Madonnas, crosses, monograms, flags, etc., etc. The streets were crowded with people as on Holy Thursday, for every body went to visit the different churches and monasteries, and thousands came in from the country. But all were so quiet and thoughtful that one felt it was a religious festival. The _Rue du Prieuré_ was crammed, but so subdued were the voices that we should hardly have been aware of it, had we not seen the people from the grated windows above. Such thoughtfulness was truly edifying.

* * * * *

Holy Week has just passed again with its touching ceremonies, which recall so many overwhelming mysteries of faith. What a feast for the soul on Maunday Thursday, when the Divine Host remained all day and night on the altar amid a blaze of lights, and the perfume of flowers and incense, exposed to the eyes of his adorers! Who could tear himself away from that altar? Who could hunger after earthly aliment when that Living Bread was replenishing the hungry soul? Ah! what are the pleasures of the world compared with those found in thy presence, O Incarnate Word! I read the fourteenth chapter of St. John's Gospel, those tender words of our Saviour before his crucifixion, and meditated on them for hours.

Many of the nuns remained all night before the Blessed Sacrament. We novices made the holy hour together--that midnight hour of union with the Saviour's agony in the garden. "Couldst thou not watch one hour with me," he seemed to say. Such an hour is an eternity for the heart that loves.

"O God!" I say constantly, "the Catholic Church alone knows how to honor thee with due worship." I wish I could define all the emotions of the past few days, when the sufferings of Christ were renewed in our hearts. I thought my very heart would break on Holy Thursday during the _Stabat Mater_. The words and the music are the very embodiment of sorrow, and I felt myself with Mary at the foot of the cross, sharing the pain from that sword of grief.

The ceremonies of this holy time are, of course, far more simple in our chapel than at the cathedral, but perhaps not less touching. Nothing could be more so than, at the veneration of the cross on Good Friday, to see the long train of nuns reverently lay off their shoes, and, all enveloped in their long black veils, and bowed down by sorrow of heart, approach the crucifix, prostrating themselves to kiss the sacred wounds; and then the three hours agony, when the heart is full of anguish on Calvary.... Several of us remained a part of Good Friday night to grieve with _Marie désolée_ over the traces of her crucified Son. There is a whole existence in such days and nights, and when we come back to ordinary life we are oppressed by the heaviness of the atmosphere.

"How shall we breathe in other air Less pure, accustomed to immortal fruits?"

Our whole Lent was uncommonly solemn. I never entered so fully into the spirit of the church, never meditated so much on the sufferings of Christ. They so occupied my mind during the hours of meditation, the _via crucis_, which we make so often, and even during the ordinary duties of our life, that I felt bowed down by a weight of inexpressible sorrow, which the alleluias of Easter and the joyful "_Regina Coeli lætare_" have hardly dissipated. Oh! why are you not sharing all these impressions? But then you have what perhaps is better--the cross, which is our portion everywhere. "_Souffrir et mourir, c'est toute la vie._"

I was struck with a little picture I saw to-day: the picture of a cross with cords extending from one of the arms to the foot, like a harp. A person stands leaning on it, his hands touching the strings; and our Saviour was near him; his holy hands uplifted to bless. Every cross would thus be to us a divine lyre with a capability of wonderful harmony, had we the courage to learn to draw it forth. May my hand yet acquire the skill of producing this heavenly music, my ears quick to catch the vibrations of this wonderful instrument, and my soul attuned to its harmony! O wonderful science of the cross! how varied are the lessons the loving heart may learn therefrom. When St. Thomas of Aquin was asked whence he drew the inspiration that fed his wonderful genius, he pointed to his crucifix as its only source. Ah! could we only learn to know "Jesus Christ and him crucified!" May you have the grace to bear your cross with patience, and learn therefrom its wonderful lore. The cross imposed by Almighty God is far more meritorious, far more beneficial to our souls, than any of our own choice; for he alone knows how to crucify. I constantly feel this more and more, that _he alone_ knows how to crucify.

* * * * *

_May 11._--This is one of the Rogation days. Curé and flock go in procession around the country chanting the Litany of the Saints to implore the blessing of God on the fruits of the earth. At these times the _propriétaires_ erect huge crosses on their land by the highway, adorn them with garlands, and place at the foot an offering for the curé, perhaps of provisions. The procession passes from one cross to another. All kneel around the emblem of our salvation to beg the divine blessing on the basket and store of him who erected it. It is a beautiful ceremony, at which the peasantry assist with great faith and devotion. It is an expression of dependence on the Giver of all good for every blessing.

Thursday will be the feast of the Ascension. The paschal candle, in whose sacred light we have loved to linger since Easter, is again to be extinguished, and the ten succeeding days we are to pass in retreat and prayer, like the disciples in the upper chamber awaiting the feast of Pentecost.

* * * * *

_June._--Yesterday I had been writing for some time in my cell, when I heard an unusual bustle of nuns going to and fro in the long corridors, as if something had happened. Going to the window, I saw the river had risen to an alarming height. An inundation was expected, owing to the sudden melting of snow in the Pyrenees. We all went to clear the chapel. A priest came to transport the blessed sacrament to the upper choir. The _quais_ were crowded with spectators, and the _gendarmes_ were among them keeping order. Masseube is said to be under water. Several of the nuns watched all night. This morning less danger is apprehended, though the river is very high, and the water is coming into the chapel. "_Le bon Dieu est irrité contre nous_," say the nuns, as they tell their beads to deprecate the wrath of Heaven. Every thing is depressing to-day. Dark clouds hang over us heavy with rain. The cathedral bell is tolling for some funeral. The trees seem to shiver in the winds that come cold from the snowy Pyrenees. And the dying-away tones of some chant afar off is the very voice of sorrow, and only adds to the impressive gloom.

* * * * *

On Trinity Sunday, the whole country was inundated in the valleys of the Garonne, the Adour, and the Gers, causing an immense loss of property. Such a flood has not been known for a hundred years. Some villages are nearly destroyed, many lives lost, the produce of the farms all washed away, and the meadows nearly ruined. The whole country was in consternation. As we are on the banks of the river, we are sufferers of course. It was fortunate we had the precaution to have the blessed sacrament transported to the upper choir, as the next morning there were six or eight feet of water in the chapel, lower choir, and sacristy. It was pitiful to look down from the upper choir on the sanctuary. Notre Dame de Bon Secours was washed down from her niche into the middle of the church, and lay floating on the water flat on her back. The garden was overflowed and nearly ruined; the kitchen, refectory, etc., were invaded. Most of the nuns were up all night carrying things into the second story. All was confusion for some days. We ate what we could and where we could in primitive style--a complete subversion of monastic regularity. The weather had been gloomy for days, but Sunday was one of the brightest, clearest days of June. I went to the tower to see the whole valley covered with water. The effect was fine. The vast expanse of water was sparkling in the sun. The trees and groves were like islets in the midst of a glittering lake. The rapid current swept oceanward, carrying down houses, furniture, bridges--every thing that offered resistance. Crowds of people were out, giving animation to the scene. All this brilliancy was in striking contrast with the wretchedness produced by such a flood! The air was so clear that the Pyrenees seemed very near us, and they gleamed in their snow-clad summits above the verdure and desolation and activity of the world, like the Bride of Heaven in her veil of purity; but they looked cold and cheerless even in the morning sun--and so near heaven!

At Condom, (a village not far off, and remarkable for nothing but that Bossuet was its bishop before he was transferred to Meaux, though he never saw the place,) at Condom more than thirty houses were destroyed--a great number, considering that all the houses here are of stone and very solidly built. Had not our monastery been on a strong foundation, we should now be uncloistered. The chapel is not yet dry, so we have mass still in the upper choir. We are thus brought close to the feet of our Lord. During the office I stand or kneel not two steps from the altar on which is the tabernacle. What bliss! We seem more closely united to Him who is our life, our consolation, our _all_, and for whom we have left all!

Having mass in the choir obliges the priest to enter the cloister every morning, which seems strange, as ordinarily he never enters except to administer the consolations of religion to the sick. The cloister is very strict here. Our parlors have the blackest of grates, beyond which no visitor comes, and through which we talk to our friends. I love this barricade against the world, which says, "Thus far shalt thou come, and no farther." There is also a grating in the sacristy through which the _sacristaine_ can attend to the wants of the chaplain. Even the choir is separated from the chapel by a grate; the body of the church being for the world.

* * * * *

Having a private opportunity of sending a package to America, I shall despatch my note-book to you, all full of odds and ends as it is. Caught up in my few spare moments, it only contains fragments of what was in my heart. The young missionary who is to take it is only twenty-five years old, and has just been ordained. He is full of enthusiasm for the missionary life. He belongs to a noble family in Auvergne, and is a relative of our dear Sr. St. A----'s. He is the youngest of a patriarchal family of eighteen, six of whom are in heaven. Of the remaining twelve, nine are consecrated to God--two are Jesuits, two Visitandines, one a lady of the Sacred Heart, two devote themselves to the care of the insane, and the ninth is in some other order of charity. This young _père_ has been thirteen years with the Jesuits, six as a pupil, and since as a member of the order. His first mass was at Christmas, and was served by one of the children of La Salette, to whom the Blessed Virgin Mary appeared. The next day his mission to America was assigned him. He seems full of zeal and piety.[23]

I must close my long journal. It is a piece of my heart which I send across the waters, while I remain here. Good-night, my friend. I extend my arms across the wide ocean to embrace you. I never retire to rest without throwing open my casement to look at "the cloistered stars that walk the holy aisles of heaven." They alone are familiar to me in this strange land. I have loved them from my infancy, and I fancy they look down tenderly and tearfully upon me. The thought brings tears to my eyes. Oh! shine as gently on those I love. Let each bright beam be a holy inspiration in their hearts--each tearful ray carry consolation to the soul troubled and in sorrow. A passage from the German says, "I know but two beautiful things in the universe--the starry sky above our heads and the sense of duty within our hearts." I leave the one and return to the other.

FOOTNOTE:

[23] This priest has since died in a Southern diocese.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.

APPEAL TO YOUNG CHRISTIAN WOMEN.

BY MARIE DE GENTELLES.

BRIEF OF HIS HOLINESS PIUS IX.

PIUS IX. POPE, TO HIS BELOVED DAUGHTER IN CHRIST, MARIE DE GENTELLES:

Beloved daughter in Christ, grace and apostolic benediction.

In these days when the peril of souls is continually growing greater, we have always directed our efforts particularly to the extirpation of the roots of evil, among which not the least pernicious is female extravagance. Hence, last October, when we spoke of the respect due to the holiness of our churches and of certain disorders which had begun to appear among the people of Rome, we took occasion to speak likewise of this destructive pestilence which is spreading in every direction, and of its remedies.

We were much pleased, therefore, to see, beloved daughter in Christ,

that you have not only followed our advice yourself; but, being deeply impressed with its force and importance, have written a book in which you depict the sad consequences of extravagance, and call upon the women of the present day, and particularly those who belong to the societies of the Christian Mothers and the Daughters of Mary, to unite against this pernicious evil, which is so destructive to morals and to the welfare of the family.

Female extravagance wastes, in superfluous adornment of the body, and in frequent attention to the toilette, time which should be given to works of piety and mercy, and to the care of the household; it calls its votaries from home to brilliant assemblages, to public places, and to theatres; it causes them, under pretext of complying with the requirements of society, to pay numerous visits, and thus to waste hours in news-seeking and in scandalous conversation; it attracts sinful desire; it wastes the patrimony of children and deprives poverty of needful assistance; frequently it separates those who are married; more frequently, it prevents marriages, for there are but few men who are willing to incur such heavy expenses. As Tertullian wrote, "In a little casket of jewels women display an immense fortune; they place on a single string of pearls ten millions of sesterces; a slender neck upbears forests and islands; beautiful ears expend the income of a month; and every finger of the left hand plays with the contents of a bag of gold. Such is the strength of vanity; for it is vanity that enables the delicate body of woman thus to walk beneath the weight of enormous wealth." Experience shows that this aversion to marriage fosters and increases immorality. In the family, it is almost impossible in the midst of so many distracting vanities to cultivate domestic love by means of domestic intercourse, or to give to religion even what ordinary custom requires.

The education of children is neglected, household affairs do not receive proper attention and fall into disorder, and the words of the apostle become applicable, "If any one have not care of his own, and especially of those of his household, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel."

As a city is composed of families, and a province of cities, and a country of provinces, the family thus vitiated disorders the whole of society, and step by step brings upon us those calamities which to-day we behold on every side.

We trust, therefore, that many will unite with you to remove from themselves, their families, and their fatherland the cause of so many evils. We trust, also, that their example will induce others to lay aside whatever goes beyond the just limits of neatness. Oh! that women would believe that the esteem and love of their husbands is to be won, not by magnificent dress or costly adornments, but by cultivation of the mind and of the heart and of every virtue. For the glory of woman is from within, and she that is holy and modest is grace added unto grace, and she alone shall receive praise who feareth the Lord.

We trust and believe, therefore, that your undertaking will meet with the happiest success. As a presage of which, and a pledge of our paternal good will, with the tenderest affection, we impart to you our apostolic benediction.

Given in Rome, at St. Peter's, on the eighth day of July, 1868, in the twenty-third year of our pontificate.

PIUS IX. _Pope_.

On occasions rendered doubly solemn by their infrequency, the common father of the faithful raises his voice to warn the entire world either against abuses which threaten society, or against those perverse doctrines which would attempt the annihilation of the kingdom of truth. These sacred words, coming from the lips of him to whom Jesus Christ has entrusted the care of his church, are always received by the whole of the immense Catholic family with that respect and submission which are due to a father.

A few months ago, Pius IX. suggested the establishment of a society of ladies who by their example and influence might succeed in moderating that extravagance which is the ruin of families, and one of the principal causes of immorality. "In order to accomplish this most difficult undertaking," adds his Holiness, "we must remind women that if in every place it is unbecoming modesty to endeavor to attract attention by extravagance and strangeness of dress, in the sacred church where God dwells and sits upon a throne of mercy to receive the prayers and adorations of the faithful, it is a true insult to him in whose eyes pride, pomp, and the desire of pleasing men are hateful."

These words of the Holy See, we may rest assured, are more applicable to us women of France than to the ladies of the Roman nobility, who are more grave, more pious, and more reserved, whatever may be said to the contrary, than the women of our land.

When travelling through England, Germany, or Russia, have we not sometimes felt a foolish pride on seeing that everywhere the most elegant robes and head-dresses were styled "modes de Paris." It is true that whatever in dress is new or elegant is imported from the capital of France, or is made after our Paris fashions. But we have no reason to be proud of this frivolous and dangerous supremacy; for if it is universally said that the French woman is truly elegant in matters of dress, we should, for that reason, feel under obligation to undertake the reform of an abuse which we aid if we do not originate.

Already, for several years, not only has the Catholic pulpit spoken with serious severity against the extravagance of our sex, but even the government has been aroused by these abuses which are every day producing the most evil results; and we have not forgotten the severe words of President Dupin to the Senate in June, 1865. To-day, things have assumed a still graver aspect, for the Holy Father has called our attention to this deplorable abuse.

The time, then, has come to undertake a crusade, as it were, against an enemy whom we shall not have to cross the seas to seek, because he has cunningly penetrated to our firesides, there to sit beside us and to disturb and destroy the peace of the family.

This necessary reform must be inaugurated by the young women of France; those of a mature age will encourage and aid our efforts; but it will be for us who cannot be accused of envy or of jealousy to raise aloft the standard of the holy league, to put limits to extravagance, and to say, "Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther."

Extravagance in dress, and the point it has at present attained, is simply ridiculous folly, and at the same time, what is more to be lamented, it is in direct opposition to the spirit of Christianity.

We are thinking creatures, rational and intelligent. It is evident, and there are those of our sex who have proved that we are capable of feeling the noble joy which is found in the study of literature and the sciences, and in the cultivation of the arts. How comes it, then, that we are content with those frivolous occupations in which most of us squander our time?

To rise as late as possible, to make some calls, to drive to the Bois de Boulogne, to visit some fashion emporiums, to consult for whole hours on the arrangement of a lace flounce or the trimming of a gauze dress; to return home, dress for dinner; dress again for a soirée, a concert, or a ball; to pass a number of hours in exhibiting our own toilettes and in finding fault with those of others, and, finally, to retire to rest when the sun is on the point of rising--frankly, is not this the history of day after day? When do we take a book into our hands, unless perhaps it be some new romance, of which the style is as frivolous as the matter is pernicious. But a book, a true book, can one be seen on the table of our boudoirs? Some journals of fashion may be there; a review perhaps, cut only where some romantic story is found. What care we for the rest? As to standard literary works, and historical studies, how can we think of them?

We never have a moment to ourselves, and we often say with an affected sigh, "Alas! the world is a cruel tyrant; it takes up all my time, my days, my nights." And we might add, "My life and my intelligence;" for are not many among us what Tertullian would style "gilded nullities"?

While I was still a child, I happened to meet with a charming young woman, twenty-two years of age, who, on recovering from an illness which had nearly proved fatal, was seized with a singular mania. She used to play with dolls.... Isabel had remained very gentle. Her friends at first endeavored to drive away this unaccountable mania; but as soon as they took her dolls from her, she seated herself in a corner of the apartment, wept, refused all nourishment, and would not speak.

In accordance with the advice of physicians, her family had then yielded to her childish tastes, and she passed her whole time in dressing and undressing her daughters, as she called the dolls. Nothing could be more pitiful than to see this tall, beautiful girl, surrounded by her toys, and amusing herself like a child of six years.

Well! do we not resemble poor Isabel somewhat, and, like her, would we not be capable of weeping and giving ourselves up to despair if our playthings were taken from us?

Oh! yes, insanity, real insanity, is that foolish extravagance which consists in a constant changing of the shape, material, and pattern of our clothing. And is not insanity a stranger to wisdom?

To be wise is to give to each object in life that place which reasonably belongs to it. It is to have for all our actions a special and determined end. If we see a man devoting his whole time, his fortune, his researches, to the formation of some strange and perhaps eccentric collection--of shoes, for instance, from every country--we smile and say to one another, "He is out of his senses!" Out of his senses! and why? Is it because he has but one thought, but one ambition--to augment, to increase his collection at any price? We are more foolish than this collector of old shoes, for many of us have but one fixed thought, one only desire, dare I acknowledge it, one sole aim in life--to adorn ourselves! And no collection will remain after us.

We might attempt to acquire an honorable position in society by our virtues, or by the superiority of our minds; but we merely desire to attract attention by the extravagance of our dress, to cause ourselves to be remarked and admired, and if possible, to humble our rivals. Do not think I exaggerate, because such is really the case, with an infinite variety of shades; for in every woman whose exclusive occupation is the toilette, there inevitably exist a desire to please and jealousy. You enter a parlor in the evening wearing a new robe, (and when you go into company your toilettes are always new, since you never appear twice in the same dress;) well! you are not satisfied until you observe some admiring glances directed toward you, until you perceive some expressions of annoyance and envy on the countenances of the young women who surround you. Having returned to your homes, what occupation precedes your sleep? What interrupts, what destroys it? You think over in your mind all the ladies you met at the ball; and if one of them had a dress more beautiful than yours, flowers more gracefully arranged, or diamonds more sparkling, you are discontented. You are _jealous_. Then what plans you make not to be eclipsed another time, but to be the most beautiful. It is not enough that we are admired; our happiness is in reigning alone.

We often shelter ourselves behind this singular excuse, "I do not wish that my husband should be ashamed of me. I endeavor to present a fine appearance, but it is entirely for his sake."

If we would occasionally condescend to ask the advice of our _masters_, if we would do so particularly with our dry-goods or millinery bills in our hands, I think they would be more likely to advise simplicity in our toilettes than to express themselves satisfied with their extravagant elegance. Now frankly, do you believe these gentlemen so simple as to desire that every glance may be directed to the dress of their young wife, or to the garland of flowers which adorns her hair?

I was present one day, in the house of a friend, at an amusing contradiction given to assertions of this sort.

Madame de G----, assisted by her maid, was trying on a rose-colored satin dress which had just been sent home from the dressmaker's, and which she was to wear at a grand official ball the same evening. She turned round and round before the mirror of the room, and her immense trail appeared to her much too short. What distressed her particularly was that the corsage was not _low enough_. I asked in astonishment how low she wanted it.

"Mariette," said she to her maid, "this must be cut several inches lower all round."

And turning to me, "My husband does not like such high-necked dresses," she said.

While the lady was occupied with some other detail of her charming toilette, the door opened and the husband to whom she so generously sacrificed the requirements of modesty entered. He examined his wife's toilette. He had the right to do so, since he would have to pay for it. He thought the rose color a little too lively, the trail a little too long, and, above all, the corsage much, very much too low.

"My dear child," said he, "your dressmaker is incorrigible; she has not the least judgment; you must procure another. You cannot appear in company so uncovered. Arrange matters as best you can, but this dress must be altered."

"Why! every one dresses this way. Is it my fault if you do not understand these things, Adrian? However, I shall not contradict you. I will have a puff of tulle put around the corsage. It is going to make the dress horribly high, and all its style will be lost."

Such is the opinion of a husband, heard by chance; it is what is sometimes said and what is always thought.

Let us then appeal to the husbands!

Undoubtedly, to clothe one's self is a necessity; to make her garments becoming is, I might almost say, woman's marriage portion; and I would not dare to assert that our ancestors, the Gauls, did not seek and discover the means of wearing in a graceful manner the skins of wild animals which protected them from the inclemencies of the seasons, just as the women of the present day have learned to clothe themselves with elegance in the rich fabrics of India or in clouds of exquisite lace.

But between the former and the latter what a distance! What a broad gulf!

There is something peculiar to the toilettes of the present century; a desire for unceasing change which exceeds the bounds of eccentricity and even of extravagance. The Greek wife or Roman matron desired but one thing--garments which would enhance their beauty. Undoubtedly they admired rich and costly goods; but I do not believe that the day after they had imported, at a great expense, robes of the finest linen or silken tunics of brilliant colors, they would declare that fashion would not permit a garment so cut or a head dress arranged in such a manner.

And without going back so far, what would our ancestors of two centuries ago say, if they saw the decided repugnance we feel to appearing twice in society with the same toilette?

Their dresses, so rich, so graceful, so sparingly adorned, were handed down almost from generation to generation; and surely those celebrated women of the eighteenth century were not less beautiful than we, as their admirable portraits which adorn our parlors clearly show. I lately saw three pictures of the same marchioness, taken at different periods of life--as a very young woman, at thirty-five or forty years of age, and at a more advanced period of life; and I found her in the three portraits wearing the same robe of brocade, only the rose-colored ribbon which adorned her hair and her corsage in the first two pictures had been replaced in the third by a bow of a more sombre color.

How astonished would those ladies of the court of Louis XIV. have been, if it had been predicted that their great-grand-daughters would change the style of their apparel or the dimensions of their head-dresses every year, and that a hundred different publications would carry every week from one end of France to the other the inventions, more or less happy, more or less singular, of some fashion-maker of the capital. For let us remark, and it is a sufficiently striking fact, that in the continual changes of fashion we who at times find it so difficult to yield our wishes to those of a husband whom we have sworn before the altar to obey, are always ready to yield obedience to a milliner or a mantua-maker, whose only desire is to sell their goods. And in truth they succeed in doing this very well. Have you never remarked a very curious circumstance, and one which deserves to be related in the history of the costumes of the nineteenth century? To-day, fashion passes from one extreme to another, so that what was worn last year is not permitted this year. And now do you understand this apparently strange custom? A robe is graceful in style and trimming; it is very becoming to you; the color harmonizes well with your complexion and your hair; your mirror has told you so. The fashion changes; your face, your style of beauty, if beauty you possess, remain the same; yet you do not hesitate to discard your becoming attire for something so ridiculous, so extravagant, so frightful perhaps, as to make you appear ungraceful or even ugly; but you have obeyed the mandates of fashion. Certainly the extravagances and caprices of the present day amply prove the truth of what I have said.

Even if past forty, we will wear short dresses, round hats, curls, and high-heeled boots. Even if tall and slender, no one will wear narrower skirts. Even if possessed of a full rounded form which we vainly deplore, we will pick out white corsages, light dresses, and the smallest of hats, because our greatest, or rather our only, fear is lest people should say that we wear things which are out of fashion.

Fashion! Let us throw off its shameful yoke. Instead of accepting, let us make its laws. This is reasonable ambition. Why not form a committee, and every year, or at the beginning of every season, pass judgment on the important question of the transformation of our toilettes? Why not submit the laws made by this female assembly to a committee composed of our husbands; and finally, promulgate and introduce them to the notice of all whom they concern by a special and duly authorized publication?

I commend this project to the serious consideration of our young women. All will admit that it would be less humiliating for us to submit to the dictates of fashion under such, than under present circumstances.

Clothing has a twofold end: to cover us and protect us from the inclemencies of the seasons, to supply the place of the beautiful fur or the brilliant plumage which forms the natural covering of beasts and birds. I will return later to the question of woman's clothing considered in a religious and moral point of view. At present, I shall treat of it only as it regards health. Do our dresses cover us? By a strange reversion of common _sense_, it is during the severity of winter we most willingly expose our arms and necks. You smile? The parlors are warm. But are our carriages, are the streets of our large cities? You would shudder if I should present to you the frightful statistics of the young women who have fallen victims to such imprudences. Every religion has its martyrs. Do you wish to be martyrs to fashion?

The second end of our apparel is to indicate the respective positions of persons in society. Thus, the Roman senators had the privilege of wearing the white tunic ornamented with purple. So also, in our own time, the uniform of the army reveals at a glance the rank of the wearer. Alas! in this respect, of how much use is it to us at the present day? The sumptuary laws, the edicts of Louis XIII. and Louis XIV., are entirely forgotten.

There was a time when each class of society had its special dress. Furs, silk, gold, and silver could be worn only by persons of a certain rank in society. What a frightful revolution would break forth among the women of France if to-day the ruling sovereign should attempt to regulate the width of our laces or the number of our jewels! In the present age extravagance tends, on the contrary, to confound all ranks of society. From the servant girl to the fine lady there is but one desire, one ambition--to appear what one is not. Yes, to appear what one is not; let us acknowledge it to our shame. Is not the fashion of our garments imitated, often invented by women to whom we would not speak? And around the lake of the Bois de Boulogne have we not sometimes mistaken the Marchioness de ---- for Mlle. X----, or Mlle. Z---- for the Countess de ----?

I feel rather ashamed to mention such things; but addressing my own sex, it is allowable; the truth is often severe; but it is always useful. I saw a lovely young woman in a saloon one evening covered with confusion at these few words addressed to her by the Ambassador de ----.

"I admired exceedingly, madame, that elegant yellow dress you wore this afternoon in the park."

"I!" she exclaimed in astonishment. "My dear count, you are mistaken. I was in blue, and the yellow dress was worn by ----."

"You are right. But pardon my mistake; both ladies wore the same kind of head-dress."

See to what our round hats, little bonnets, and red locks lead.

What folly to keep ourselves continually in a false position by our extravagant outlays; to be reduced to have recourse to a thousand petty means of freeing ourselves from the embarrassments in which our love of dress has involved us.

To-day it is a lie.

"How much did this dress cost you?" asks a husband, a little uneasy at the prodigality of his young wife.

"Two hundred francs," she replies without hesitation, while she is fully aware that double or triple that amount would scarcely suffice to pay for it.

And when the time arrives for paying these formidable bills, how difficult to procure the thousands of francs represented by a few yards of lace or faded silk. How we stoop from the rightful dignity of our position when we condescend to beg for time and favor of a tradesman, or dressmaker, or milliner, after confessing that we have not the necessary sum at our disposal.

In a certain city that I could name a linen-draper had sold goods on credit to a young woman to the amount of forty thousand francs. Fearing that she would never pay him, he sacrificed the interest and accepted this singular promissory note: "To receive from my estate forty thousand francs." The lady's heirs will find her elegant dresses and fine laces rather costly.

O folly, folly! Our lives pass away amidst such trifles. We are seeking happiness; it is here at our hands. We could not only be happy in the bosom of our families by fulfilling our duties, but we could, moreover, render those around us happy. We foolishly prefer to cast aside these true enjoyments and fill up our lives with empty appearances of pleasure.

We forget how swiftly time flies. To-day we are young, and the world welcomes us; but our bloom, our beauty, which to us is every thing, will soon fade; it will vanish, and what is more melancholy than old age for many women? To know how to grow old,... it is knowledge which the wise alone possess.

The Holy Scripture, in addressing the daughters of Sion, pictures with striking truth the kind of punishment which God reserves for them. The Holy Spirit adopts, in some measure, the language of the worldly woman herself, and it seems to me that these words might be addressed to each one of us:

"Because the daughters of Sion are haughty, and have walked with stretched-out necks, and wanton glances of their eyes, and made a noise as they walked with their feet, and moved in a set pace:

"The Lord will make bald the crown of the head of the daughters of Sion, and the Lord will discover their hair.

"In that day the Lord will take away the ornaments of shoes, and little moons,

"And chains and necklaces, and bracelets, and bonnets,

"And bodkins, and ornaments of the legs, and tablets, and sweet-balls, and ear-rings,

"And rings, and jewels hanging on the forehead.

"And changes of apparel, and short cloaks, and fine linen, and crisping-pins.

"And looking-glasses, and lawns, and head-bands, and fine veils.

"And instead of a sweet smell there shall be stench, and instead of a girdle a cord, and instead of curled hair baldness, and instead of a stomacher hair-cloth."[24]

In these words we are threatened with old age; with that old age which is daily drawing nearer; which awaits but the moment to seize upon its prey; which makes the woman who leads a life of gayety that which you well know.

Oh! those women who remain beautiful in spite of old age, with their white hair, their wrinkles undisguised, their cultivated minds, and their winning kindness. These are not the women who in earlier life placed all their happiness in following, even to the most minute details, the frivolities of fashion. I am, moreover, convinced that if the woman of the world of twenty or thirty years ago was fond of dress, she was far from devoting her whole time to it. Fashion was not then so variable. The outlay for clothing was evidently a much smaller item in the family expenses. In a word, if this folly was sometimes seen, it was an isolated case.

In these latter days only has the contagion spread in an alarming manner.

So much for the human side of the question. Permit me now to enter into a more elevated circle of ideas, and to remark that hitherto I have appealed neither to conscience nor to religion. I have addressed myself to women of the world; I now turn to young Christian women; to those whose tender years were watched over by pious mothers, whose youth was formed by a truly religious education; to those whose lives have not been blighted by any of those errors which banish a woman from her position in society, but who, on the contrary, have remained unsullied in the eyes of the world and have no cause to blush beneath its gaze. Here I feel at my ease, since it is permitted me to make use of the language of faith. This faith we still possess, but it slumbers in the depths of our souls; undoubtedly it will awaken in the hour of trial; the death of a darling child, a sudden change of fortune; less than that even--a single deception may suffice, and we shall feel that God is our father; and we shall see things in their true light; that poisonous cloud which surrounds the woman of the world will be instantly dispelled, and the mysteries of life and death will be unfolded to our astonished gaze. But until that time shall come, our life is consumed in a strange and dangerous illusion. A few religious practices of which we have retained the habit, perhaps because they were fashionable, make us believe, and therefore cause others to believe, that we are still real Christians. Meanwhile, carried away by the round of pleasure which we call legitimate enjoyment, we live on, without troubling ourselves to inquire whither we are hastening. Days follow days, years succeed years; from time to time one among us is missing. God has called her away; but we did not hear her last words; we did not see the despair of that poor young woman when she found herself in the presence of her Judge with her hands empty. And hence we continue in our mode of life. Hours and days of weariness, of sadness occasionally steal in upon our worldly lives. Some new pleasure claims us, and in its presence past bitterness is soon forgotten. Thus are spent the best years of our lives, lost--religiously speaking--lost for ever. Our actions are useless, our thoughts frivolous, our existence devoid of all merit. And yet ought not our constant aim be to secure the happiness of our husband, and the salvation of his soul as well as of our own? to bring up our children in a Christian manner, and to edify the world by our example?

This point presents a fit subject for religious moralizing, which, however, comes neither within my aim nor my ability. It is for voices possessing greater authority than mine to treat of such grave matters in a becoming manner. The ministers of the church, both by preaching and the pen, have shown us our duties with a clearness and a correctness before which we humbly bow. But as to a question of detail, especially when, as at present, it concerns extravagance of dress, I believe I am right in thinking that one of yourselves can, better than any one else, treat a subject so distinctively pertaining to woman.

Let me remark in the beginning that I wish to condemn in our toilette nothing save what is contrary to propriety or modesty. I am not opposed to crinoline, to trails, to diamonds, nor to rubies. Rose color, blue, white, and black are alike to me. Whether linen, silk, or wool serve by turn to cover us, is a matter of indifference. Moreover, it is evident that woman, whatever her age or condition, should endeavor to render her attire suitable and becoming. St. Francis of Sales desires that a wife should adorn herself to please her husband; and a maiden, with a view to a holy marriage.

The woman who betrays an absolute negligence in her toilette, who would willingly appear in a torn dress or a faded bonnet, when her position in society requires something better, is almost as much to blame as those who spend their whole time in dressing and undressing.

That which we ought to possess, that which should regulate our dress, as well as all our actions, is a clear comprehension of our duties. We should appeal to our conscience, scrutinize our intentions and our desires, and then regulate and reform wherever there is need.

We do not deny that this world is a place of pilgrimage, and life a season of trials; that they are foolish indeed who think only of culling flowers from the road-side while time flies and eternity approaches. We often experience within ourselves a certain opposition between our convictions and our conduct. Our life is not regulated as it ought to be. It is not tending to its end, which is our eternal salvation. We have acknowledged these truths when, on leaving the church where we had listened to some celebrated preacher, we confessed to ourselves that our mode of life was not sufficiently serious, and that it ought to be reformed.

Strange to say, I feel, I see, many women in like manner feel and see, that the love of dress, the importance we attach to every thing connected with fashion, is the principal cause of the frivolity and inutility of our lives. But there we stop. What! you will say, has a ribbon, a flower, a piece of velvet or satin so great an influence with us? Try, then, to maintain the contrary with your hand upon your conscience, and you will see that I have not gone too far.

Much is said about woman's mission! It is constantly repeated that the future of society depends on us. If we occasionally forget this, we should certainly not suffer others to doubt it. We wish--and we are right in doing so--we wish to occupy an important position in the family and in society; we struggle vigorously against those who would assign to us a secondary position; we boast that we exercise a great influence over men. This idea flatters our self-love.

But let us not forget that this circumstance becomes for us a source of strict obligations. Man is nurtured in our arms, and grows up at our side. He is, we may say, whatever we make him. That primary instruction which it is our duty to impart to him, exercises the greatest influence on his after life. His mother! He will always remember her, and her example, good or evil, will leave an indelible impression on his soul. And our husbands, our fathers and brothers! We know our power over them, and we sometimes use it in matters which are not really worth all the diplomacy we employ. That mission of mother, of wife! Have we forgotten that it is the end of our life, the reason of our creation? God, who has established laws for the material world, laws from which even a slight derogation would produce a great catastrophe, has likewise marked out for each one of us her place here below. He has not placed us in this world without a definite end in view. Woman has serious duties to perform, of which she must one day render a strict account to her Creator.

Have these duties, these obligations which our Lord has imposed upon us, been hitherto our principal concern? Has our worldly life, with its numerous preoccupations, left us time to be true wives and true mothers? Alas! the world and its requirements take up all our time. And yet the duties to which we are bound by this twofold title, although differing with our different positions in the world, oblige equally the wife of the mechanic, the merchant, the officer, and the prince, before both God and society. Here, then, is the pith of this question; it may be summed up in a single word: are we wives and mothers, or are we merely women of the world?

Those children whom God has confided to our care, and of whom we shall have to render an account, do we suppose that we have done our duty toward them when we have procured tutors for them, or when we have placed them in an academy?

How many among us, alas! find it difficult to see our children for even a few minutes during the course of the day. We have not the time to attend to them, we say. We have not the _time_! To whom does our time belong, if not to these little ones who call upon us by the sweet name of mother? Let us not plead our position. I know women who mingle a great deal in society, who have a great number of servants to be looked after, who yet manage their time so well that they are enabled to spend the greater part of the day with their children. They have hours set apart for conversing with them, for informing themselves of their progress--in a word, for attending to their education. These mothers are happy. The gratitude of their young families, the affection which surrounds them, the sense of duty performed--shall we dare compare these true and noble enjoyments with the empty pleasures which the exhibition of a new dress or even an eulogium passed on our beauty procures us? And, candidly, is it not more worthy, more sensible, to say, "I have not time to go to the park," than to allege that we have not time to love and to care for our children?

And our husbands--do we devote our time to them any more than to our children?

Ah! you will perhaps reply, my husband has very little need of my society; he lives for himself; I live for myself. If I have my toilettes, my drives, and my friends, he has his horses, his friends, and his club.

There is the misfortune; and the question is, are we not, to a considerable extent, responsible for this deplorable habit of, so to speak, separate existences? Do you not think, then, that the majority of husbands would prefer a different kind of life? That it would be more agreeable to them to enjoy oftener the pleasures of home, in your company, surrounded by their children?

You do not believe it? Be it so; but have you ever tried the experiment? Have you not yourselves created a necessity for this life of continual agitation and excitement? Have you ever reserved time to be devoted to your husband? And is it not your desire that things should remain just as they are--you with your liberty and your husband with his? Do you not prefer to squander (for that is the word) your hours and your days, rather than face the _ennui_ that your own worldly tastes would cause you to experience in the retirement of a serious, and, in comparison, solitary home?

But it is not our time alone that we thus waste. We waste likewise a fortune which in reality is not ours.

We are born rich, while all around us the poor--children of the same God--are without bread to eat, and ready to die of hunger, perhaps under the same roof.

We forget that, according to the designs of Providence, we have a duty to discharge toward the suffering and the needy! It is not for ourselves alone that God has given us riches. He wishes us to be his almoners, and the practice of charity is a strict duty.

The bestowing of alms is not only an evangelical counsel; it is often a precept. If the divine Ruler employs the most tender images in describing the merit of charity and the clearest and strongest promises when speaking of its reward, he has for the one who refuses to assist a brother, and leaves him in want, the severest of condemnations. Consider the parable of Lazarus and the rich sinner, but especially those terrible words: "I was hungry, and you gave me not to eat.... Depart into everlasting fire."[25]

Will a few gold pieces ostentatiously dropped each year into the collection boxes, a few contributions to other charities, which we are ashamed to refuse, suffice to save us from a similar sentence? What has become of that pious custom of tithes for the poor formerly found in rich families?

If, before entering the establishment of the fashionable jeweller, we would ascend to the garret of the indigent--we should often purchase fewer bracelets. It is not heart that is wanting in us, but reflection.

A young woman of whom some one was asking assistance for a family which had fallen into misery, and whose sufferings they were picturing to her, exclaimed with a simplicity which was her only excuse:

"Why, are there people who are poor? I did not know it!"

We know that there are poor people, but we too often forget it. Love of dress and the voice of vanity smother in us the love of the suffering members of Jesus Christ and render us deaf to the appeal of our unhappy brethren.

If we would only consider that by sacrificing a few yards of lace, or by consenting to appear twice during a season in the same dress, we might with the money thus saved assist several families each winter, we would more frequently be kind and charitable.

And that we may not forget the necessities of our brethren, let us assist them directly. Does not history tell us of more than one queen fashioning with her own hands garments for the poor, and laying aside the grandeur of her position to distribute them herself?

Ball-rooms, theatres, and the public drives are, unfortunately, not the only places in which we make a display. Fashionable dressing has become such a habit, such a necessity with us, that, as the Sovereign Pontiff remarked with sorrow, our holy temples often present the sad spectacle of women who call themselves Christians, and believe themselves such, coming to these holy places rather to rival one another in extravagance of attire than to excite to piety. Alas! what influence will our supplications have, if humility, that essential condition of prayer, be wanting. Ah! let us rather remain at home than go to the foot of the altar with the guilty desire of being admired.

I have yet another part of this important subject to treat: the impropriety, the indecency, why not say the word, of certain fashions?

I turn in shame from the thought of them. Let each one of us descend to the very depths of our conscience, let us scrutinize our hearts, bearing in mind this terrible utterance: "He that shall scandalize one of these little ones that believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea."[26]

How, then, are we to remedy so great an evil? How oppose a barrier to this ever-increasing tide of luxury and of prodigality? The Holy Father points out the way in a few plain and simple words. To form among ourselves an association--a holy league, if I may thus express myself--to have our laws and regulations, and, with the zeal and determination which characterize us when we wish to attain any end, to pursue this one without truce or mercy.

But what promises could and should be made by the members of this sacred league? They will have to be determined by the brave champion who shall bear the standard in this war against extravagance. I do not think, however, any difficulty will be found in their determination. We should begin by promising to examine seriously before God what are the motives which actuate us in the adornment and embellishment of our persons; to purify our intentions, and to entertain none that would cause a blush if revealed.

To please our husbands, to support our position in society, to remain within the bounds of a just elegance, these are motives which we can without shame avow. But to seek in the toilette a means of being remarked, or admired, or loved, outside of our home circle; a means of humiliating other women, of surpassing them, of reigning without a rival; in a word, of eclipsing all others--all this would be entirely contrary to the spirit of the association.

As to the engagements, in some sort material, to be entered into by the members, I think they might be limited to three.

We should first determine in advance, and in the most positive manner, the amount to be expended each year on our toilette; which amount we should never exceed. From this sum we should deduct a portion for the poor, and increase the amount as much as possible by accustoming ourselves to sacrifice from time to time our wish for some novelty, in order that we may relieve our unfortunate brethren, upon whom we should bestow our charities in person.

Finally, and here is a very essential point, we should never purchase any thing without paying for it immediately; or if, in some circumstances, this is impossible, we should lay aside the price of the dress, the bonnet, or the cashmere we have selected.

Oh! if we could well understand how much there is of order and of good sense in those two words so little known to most women--_cash payments_! Try this plan, if only for a year, or even six months, and you will see the truth of my assertion.

I have finished; pardon me for having dared to raise my voice, not to give you advice, I have neither the right nor the intention to do so, but only to communicate to you ideas which have been suggested to my mind by the admonitions of the highest of authorities, and by the resolutions which I have taken, and which I trust I shall have the courage to keep.

My object is, to ask of you in this matter that union in which is found strength, and to remind you that God is in the midst of those who fight for a holy cause. May my voice be heard! May the young women of our beloved France arouse themselves at the thought of a danger which threatens the dignity of our sex! May this new and holy war be soon inaugurated in which we shall be both combatants and conquerors!

FOOTNOTES:

[24] Isaias, iii. 16, and following.

[25] St. Matt. xxv. 42.

[26] St. Matt. xviii. 6.

LOST AND FOUND. A WAYSIDE REMINISCENCE.

What woman, travelling alone, has not encountered the embarrassment of entering a car already nearly filled with passengers? Perhaps the awkwardness of the situation may not be as keenly felt by those who frequently meet it, and who are accustomed to the manifold jostlings of this busy world, as by a recluse like myself. However this may be, I can testify from experience that the ordeal is a painful one to a sensitive and shrinking nature. So it chanced that, upon discovering this condition of affairs as I entered a car at Prescott, on a fine morning in June, 1867, I dropped into the first vacant place my eye detected, by the side of an elderly lady dressed in deep mourning. The first glimpse of her face and manner satisfied me that she also was from the "States," and I felt quite at home with her at once.

We soon fell into conversation, and I found my companion most agreeable, quiet, and intelligent. We beguiled the monotony of a railway journey by pleasant chat upon the scenery through which we were passing, and such other topics as came uppermost. I noticed, as we stopped a few minutes at Brockville, that she seemed to scan all that could be seen from the car with deep interest; and again, as we pursued our course up the river in sight of the Thousand Islands, she was quite absorbed in her observation of the scenery.

"Beautiful islands," I remarked; "I would like nothing better than to occupy some days in exploring their fairy haunts."

"You would find many of them beautiful indeed!" she replied. "They are very dear to me; for my early life was passed in their neighborhood, and I retain for them much of the affection that clings to the memory of dear friends, though I have not seen them before for many years. What frequent merry-makings and picnic festivals did the young people from the American shore and those of Brockville enjoy together among the windings of their picturesque labyrinth, long ago!" she added with a sigh.

She then informed me that she was now on her way to Illinois, to visit her children there, and had chosen this route, that she might catch a passing glimpse of scenes most interesting to her, from their connection with memories of the past.

Time and space passed almost imperceptibly to us, as we were engaged in discussing one subject after another of general interest, until some time in the afternoon, when, clatter! clatter! thump! thump! a jolt and a bounce, brought every man in the car to his feet, and caused every woman instinctively to settle herself more firmly in her place, while a volley of exclamations, "What can it be?" "There's something wrong!" "Cars off the track!" "We shall be down the embankment!" burst from every quarter, the swaying, irregular movement preventing the possibility of reaching the door, to discover the cause of all this disturbance. The time seemed long, but in reality occupied only a few seconds, before the motion ceased suddenly, with a hitch, a backward jerk, and a concussion, which had well-nigh thrown us all upon our faces; and the conductor appeared for a moment in the door, uttering with hasty tremor, "Don't be alarmed, ladies and gentlemen--no danger! axle broke--cars off the track. We shall be detained here some time." And away he went.

This announcement was met, I am sorry to say, with more murmurs at the detention than thanks for our providential escape from imminent peril. "How unfortunate!" cried one. "And in this lonely, disagreeable place too!" added another. A third wondered where we were, when one of the company familiar with the route volunteered the information that we were not many miles from Toronto.

Now, from the moment I sat down by my new acquaintance, I had divined--by that sort of mysterious sympathy, impossible to define, but which will be understood by all converts to the Catholic faith--that she was, like myself, of this class; and she had formed the same conjecture in relation to me; which was, perhaps, the cause of our having formed a sudden intimacy not quite in keeping with the native reserve, not to say shyness, of both. Our first and simultaneous act, upon the occurrence of the incident recorded--in fortifying ourselves with the blessed sign of benediction and protection so precious to all Catholics--had confirmed the mutual conjecture, and established a strong bond of sympathy between us.

As we left the cars together, I observed that she still scanned the surrounding localities with an earnestness that did not seem warranted by any claims they possessed to notice; for a more tame and uninteresting region can scarcely be imagined than that in which we so reluctantly lingered.

"What wonderful changes forty years will make in the face of a new country!" she at length exclaimed. "I passed this way, going and returning, in 1827, at an age when the deepest impressions are received, and upon an errand so peculiar in its nature as to make those impressions indelible. I have always carried the picture of the route, slowly traversed at that time, in my memory; but the transformation is so complete that I look in vain for one familiar feature."

After walking for some time in silence, she resumed: "It is strange how vividly the most minute details of that journey and the incidents connected with it return to me, now that we are so singularly detained in the vicinity of the scenes I then sought, though there is nothing in the aspect of the country to bring them back!"

By this time we had loitered into a shady nook, at no great distance from the disabled car; and its coolness inviting us to remain after we had seated ourselves upon a rock overgrown with moss, I begged that she would while away the time of our detention by giving me a history of those incidents.

"The narrative may not prove very interesting to you," she replied. "The recollection of events that took place around us in youth has more power to move ourselves than others. But of this you shall judge for yourself.

"In 1826, I was visiting a dear friend who lived on St. Paul street, in Montreal. It was a pleasant evening in June, the close of one of those very warm days so common in the early part of a Canadian summer, where the interval between the snows and frost of winter and the fervid heat, the verdure and bloom, of summer, is often so marvellously short as to astonish a stranger.

"I was sitting in my room, at an open window that looked out on a narrow back-court, the opposite side of which was bounded by a row of low-roofed tenant-houses parallel with the bank of the river, and over these, upon a magnificent view of the St. Lawrence rolling grandly down past the city, at which I was never tired of gazing. I had been contemplating the mighty flood for some time, my thoughts wandering sorrowfully far up its waters and the stream of time to tranquil scenes now closed to me for ever, when the words, 'Ah, Donald! that I should live to see this day! Do not ask me to sing the hymn we love this night, when my heart is sae sair that it is like to break! I canna, canna sing the sangs o' Zion i' this strange place, and in our sharp, sharp griefs!' came floating to my ear on the evening breeze, from an open balcony along the rear of the tenements mentioned.

"There was a depth of anguish in the tones that touched the tenderest chord of sympathy in my heart, which was then writhing under the pangs of a recent sore bereavement.

"My childhood had been passed near settlements of the Lowland Scotch in St. Lawrence County, New York, and I was therefore familiar with their dialect, the use of which added to my interest in the speaker, and I listened eagerly for further sounds. For some time I heard only a suppressed sobbing, and the low tones of a manly voice that seemed to be soothing an outburst of grief which was overwhelming his companion. At length I heard him say, with an accent that betokened a tongue accustomed to the use of the Gaelic dialect,

"'It would drown the sorrows of my gentle Maggie, if she would only strive to sing. Let us not forget the dolors of our Blessed Mother in the agonies of our ain grief. I will sing, and mayhap she will join me.'

"Presently a singularly wild and plaintive air was borne to my ear upon the flowing cadences of a man's voice, as soft and musical as any to which I had ever listened. The words were in Gaelic, but the refrain at the close of each verse '_Ora, Mater, ora_'--revealed their religion, and that it was a hymn of the Blessed Virgin to which I was listening. Before the close of the first verse, he was joined by a voice, low and clear as the tones of a flute, bearing upon every strain the fervent outpourings of tender piety, though tremulous with emotion.

"Soon after it ceased, they retired within the open door of their room, and I heard them reciting alternately, in a low voice, that treasured devotion of the Catholic heart--of which I was then entirely ignorant, but which has since (thank God!) become inestimably precious to me--the beads of the Holy Rosary.

"Their evening prayers being over, they walked for some time on the balcony in silence, when she said in a trembling voice,

"'It is a month to-morrow, Donald, a month to-morrow, sin' God took awa' our darlings; and och! wha wad hae thought I could bide sae lang i' this cauld warld without a sight o' their bonnie faces! I dinna ken why I live, when my sweet bairnies are buried far awa' i' their watery grave!'

"'Ah Maggie! why wad ye not live for your poor Donald? He mourns for the bonnie bairnies too; but he does not wish to leave his Maggie because God has ta'en them from her. Cast awa' these repining thoughts, my own love, and let us go to the church thegither to-morrow morning, and lay all our griefs before the altar of our God.'

"I heard no more; but resolving to accompany them to church, I arose very early the next morning, and preparing myself, watched an opportunity to join them, as they passed from the street where they were stopping into St. Paul street.

"We walked on in silence after I joined them, and I saw that he was a tall, athletic young Highlander, of dark complexion, and with soft black eyes; whose remarkably fine face glowed with intelligence and mildness. Her beauty was more conformed to the Lowland type; her eyes being of a deep clear blue, her hair 'flaxen,' and her complexion exceedingly fair, while her teeth of snowy whiteness had a little prominence that caused them to be slightly revealed between her rose-bud lips, even when her countenance was in repose. Her form was very slender, and her beautiful face so youthful as to seem child-like. I never saw such a perfect expression of soul-absorbing yet patient and subdued sorrow as lingered upon every line of those youthful features.

"We entered the old Recollet church, and I remained near them during the service. It was my first visit to a Catholic church, and I had never before been present at the offering of the holy sacrifice.

"Soon after our entry, I noticed that first one of them and then the other passed for a brief space of time into a little curtained box at the side of the aisle; but being ignorant of Catholic usages, I did not know for what purpose, though I was deeply impressed by their solemn, reverent manner, and the peaceful expression of their faces. During the progress of the service, which commenced soon after, I saw them approach the rail before the altar, and knew it was to receive holy communion. The sweetly serene and pensive light that rested upon their features after that solemn act is still vividly before me, notwithstanding the lapse of years.

"When they left the church, I followed closely, determined to learn something, if possible, of their history. At the church door the man parted from her, and went away in an opposite direction from that by which we had come, leaving her to walk back alone. As I walked by her side, I addressed some casual remark to her, and then, confessing the interest I felt in them on account of what I had accidentally overheard the evening before, begged her to tell me, as her sister in affliction, of the griefs which were oppressing her.

"We sauntered slowly down the narrow streets from the Recollet church to our places of abode, and our young hearts being drawn together by the bonds of sorrow, I mingled my tears in sympathy with hers while she related her artless story.

"She was the only child of a minister of the Scottish Kirk, whose name was Lauder, and who died when she was quite young. Her mother, being left in feeble health, and destitute of any means of support, gladly accepted the home offered by her sister, who was married some years before to a Highland gentleman by the name of Kenneth McGregor, and who became a Catholic soon after her marriage.

"They were welcomed to the home of her aunt with true Scottish hospitality; and the most devoted and delicate attentions which affection could devise were lavished upon her heart-broken mother, to soothe and comfort her, while the little Maggie became at once the pet of a large household of cousins older than herself, who regarded her ever after as a dear sister. So kind were the whole family to her, that she was not permitted to feel the loss of her father in the sense most chilling and painful to the heart of the orphan, that of being an object of indifference and neglect. They went frequently to visit their Lowland friends, and kept up an intercourse with them during the life of her mother.

"When she had reached her twelfth year, the minister of the kirk which they had attended since their removal to the Highlands, with several of his small congregation, among whom were her mother and herself, made their profession of the Catholic faith; soon after which event her mother died.

"When Maggie was in her fourteenth year, she became acquainted with Donald Macpherson, whose father was a warm friend of her uncle Kenneth. A strong attachment soon grew up between the young people, and when she was sixteen she was married to Donald. When they had been married about six years, and had three children--the oldest of them a daughter five years old and named for herself, and the others boys--Donald thought best to join a colony (among whom were two of her cousins and their families) who were preparing to depart for one of the new and remote districts of Upper Canada. Donald, as the one best fitted by education for that purpose, was appointed surveyor of the wild lands, and to lay out roads in the wilderness.

"They suffered much in parting with home and friends, but alas! subsequent floods of affliction obliterated all traces of those lighter griefs.

"Their voyage was long and stormy, and when they were at length in sight of Newfoundland, and hoped they were about to reach the end of it in safety, a storm in the Gulf of St. Lawrence drove their vessel upon the rocks in the darkness of evening, and it was wrecked. The poor young parents lashed their little Maggie firmly to a plank, and committed her to the waves; then taking each a child, and imploring the aid of heaven for themselves and their little ones, they plunged into the water. The mother was soon exhausted with the buffeting of the waves; her child was borne from her arms, just before she was thrown within the reach of friendly hands, and taken up unconscious. Donald was dashed against the rocks, and caught from the receding waters of an immense wave, shortly after, by those who were on the shore watching to render aid to the sufferers, insensible and apparently lifeless. The child he had was also lost.

"They were taken to a fisherman's hut, and by the persevering efforts of those in attendance animation was restored, though it was some days before they recovered their consciousness, only to find that their children and their relations had perished. But a small number of their companions on the voyage survived. Their goods and clothing, with the exception of what they wore, were all lost; but this was too trifling to be thought of in comparison with their other misfortunes.

"As soon as they were able, they proceeded to Montreal, in company with the survivors of the wreck, and Donald showed the certificate of his appointment as surveyor--which he fortunately carried in his vest-pocket--to the mayor of the city, who provided comfortable quarters for them, and advised him to remain there until he should receive remittances from Scotland, for which they sent immediately after their arrival in Montreal.

"They had not yet decided whether they would return when these funds should arrive, or go on to the place for which they had started, as their companions were anxious to have them do.

"She expressed entire indifference as to going on or returning; her children being gone, she did not care where she was. The terrified, imploring look of her darling Maggie, as she was dashed from them on her frail support, amid the merciless buffetings and boiling surges of the furious waves--her eyes straining to catch a glimpse of them, and her dear little arms extended so pitifully to them for protection--haunted the imagination of the broken-hearted mother, and, she assured me, had not been absent from her thoughts one moment since, sleeping or waking.

"My sincere and fervent sympathy seemed to afford her some comfort, and it was freely and heartily offered; for I was myself, as I have hinted, at that time a mourner over the recent loss of the kindest and best of fathers, whose only daughter and cherished pet I had ever been. His death, when I was yet but a child in years, was followed by severe pecuniary reverses, which had driven us from our home and involved our hitherto affluent and most happy family in difficulties and poverty. In my ignorance of sorrow and of the religion which alone can sustain the afflicted, I had thought there could be none so unhappy and unfortunate as ourselves. I could not then believe the truth of the assurance, which was the solace of my invalid mother, that 'The Lord loveth whom he chasteneth.' I could not see the tender mercy and love that had inflicted this cruel bereavement and surrounded our helpless family with such calamities, in the clear light with which his grace afterward made it manifest to me.

"But here was an instance far more inscrutable and heart-rending. Strangers in a strange land; the broad Atlantic rolling between them and every heart upon which they had any special claim for sympathy; their children relentlessly torn from them; and all their worldly substance buried in the consuming deep! Why had they thus been singled out as marks for such a shower of fatal arrows? I pondered much upon it, and my eyes were opened to see the mercies that had been mingled with the chastisements of a loving Father in our own case. We had numerous and kind friends, whose sympathy had poured balm upon our wounded spirits, and whose generous hands had been opened to aid us in our necessities. Of these, the dear friends with whom I was then staying had been among the first, and their assistance and advice at that dark period of my life have ever been remembered with gratitude.

"While my new acquaintances remained in Montreal, I passed much time with poor Maggie, to the entire satisfaction of my friends, to whom I communicated the sorrowful story on the day I heard it, and whose active sympathy contributed much toward the relief and comfort of the youthful mourners.

"When they at length received the expected funds from Scotland, they decided to comply with the wishes of their surviving fellow-sufferers in exile and affliction, by accompanying them, according to their original intention, to Upper Canada. Our parting was very affecting. They had learned to look upon my friends as kind benefactors, while they regarded me as a sister. I felt very lonely after they were gone; but the lesson I had learned from my intercourse with them was never forgotten. Their united and unquestioning acquiescence with the will of God, and the persistent patience with which every action of their daily lives expressed, 'Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him,' made a permanent impression on my mind.

"At the invitation and by the advice of my friends, I remained much longer in Montreal than I at first intended, in order to learn the French language, and to acquire the knowledge of some other branches, for which superior facilities were presented by the Sisters of the Congregation of Notre Dame, and which were necessary to advance my education sufficiently to fit me for teaching, the object I then had in view.

"Nearly a year had passed since our parting with the Macphersons, when some friends from Vermont arrived on a visit to those with whom I was staying. I was requested, in consequence of the indisposition of the lady of the house, to accompany them to several places of interest in the city, which they wished to see. Among these was the house of the 'Gray Nuns,' a sisterhood devoted to the care of a great number of foundlings. In passing through the rooms appropriated to the children, I was particularly attracted by the face and attitude of a delicate-looking little girl of surprising beauty, who was sitting on the floor and devoting herself to the care and amusement of a little boy about two years old, whose beauty equalled her own, though entirely different in character. She was fair as a lily; her large blue eyes were shaded by drooping lids and long silken lashes, which imparted a touching pensiveness to their expression, while her golden hair floated in shining curls to her shoulders. The little boy's complexion was dark and clear, his black eyes soft and brilliant. The startled timidity combined with searching earnestness in their expression as he raised them to mine and encountered my admiring gaze, (for I was always passionately fond of children,) thrilled my very soul, and, turning to the good sister who was conducting us, I exclaimed with enthusiasm, pointing to them,

"'What beautiful children!'

"'Yes,' she said with fond pride, and evidently flattered by our notice of her pets, 'they are indeed beautiful; and alas! their misfortunes are as striking as their beauty. They belonged to a Scotch family on board a vessel that was wrecked off Newfoundland, and their parents perished. Mr. Ferguson, a Scotch gentleman in very infirm health, from our city, was visiting some friends in that vicinity, and happened to be passing in a carriage with one of them on the evening of the storm and the shipwreck, when, noticing the torches and bustle on the shore, they stopped to inquire the cause and to render assistance, if possible, to those who were washed ashore. This little girl had been lashed to a plank, and, by a wonderful providence, when the baby was borne away from his mother, the same wave carried him within reach of his little sister, who seized and clung to him as with a dying grasp, until she was snatched insensible by Mr. Ferguson from the top of a wave which rolled far up on the shore, and would have hurried them back in its receding surf but for a powerful effort on his part, which had nearly cost him his life; for he received injuries in the attempt, by severe sprains and otherwise, that rendered him almost helpless for some weeks. His friend took the children and himself in the carriage to his residence, over two miles distant--it being the nearest house on that unfrequented part of the coast, with the exception of some fishermen's huts at some distance in the opposite direction. Mr. Ferguson was unable to leave his bed for some weeks. Unfortunately, the physician of that neighborhood was absent on a visit to a distant city.

"'It was long before they succeeded in restoring any sign of life to either of the children, and when their efforts were at length rewarded by faint evidences of returning animation, they had to exert themselves to the utmost for many days to keep alive the vital spark, which had been so nearly extinguished. When they began to revive and recover strength, another difficulty met the devoted friends of the little unfortunates. The nerves of the little girl had sustained so severe a shock that she could not be aroused to a sense of any thing around her. She was constantly struggling fearfully with imaginary billows, or settled in a kind of idiotic vacancy. When the physician returned, he gave but little hopes of her recovery, as he feared her brain was so far affected as to unsettle reason permanently.

"'As soon as the gentleman who had taken them to his house dared to leave them and Mr. Ferguson so long, he went to inquire after the survivors of the wreck, and found they had departed in a vessel bound for Montreal. Mr. Ferguson was confined, as I have said, for many weeks at the house of this friend, and before he could return to Montreal he had become so much attached to the little treasures he had snatched from a watery grave, that he could not be persuaded to leave them, (although he was a bachelor,) but brought them to us, that they might be where he could sometimes see them.

"'The little girl recovered but slowly. After some time she began to have lucid intervals, from which she would sink into mental apathy. Her sleep was for a long time broken by dreams of agonizing struggles, from which she would awake screaming, and so terrified that it required our most anxious and tender efforts to soothe and quiet her. She has, however, recovered almost entirely from these, and her mind is quite clear, though physically she is still a very delicate child, and we fear her constitution has encountered a shock from which it will never recover. During the first of her lucid intervals, she told us her name, and what she could of her parents.'

"While the good sister was reciting this little history, I stood like one in a maze, half unconscious of the bewildering conviction which was stealing over me that these were two of the children whose loss my poor friends, the Macphersons, were bemoaning; and when at length she closed the narrative, by saying that the child had revealed her name, I seized her arm with such a sudden and convulsive grasp as called attention for the first time to the fact that I had become pale as death, and whispered huskily,

"'What did she say was her name?'

"'Maggie Lauder Macpherson,' replied the sister, as I tottered to the nearest seat, almost fainting under the intense excitement. She hastened to bring me some cold water and other restoratives; after taking which I explained to her, and to my astonished companions, the cause of my agitation in few words, and that the parents still lived. When I sank into the chair, little Maggie had risen, and, approaching timidly, stood watching me with great anxiety. As soon as the momentary faintness passed, I drew her closely to my heart, and--still trembling with agitation--whispered fondly and gently,

"'My dear little lassie, I knew and loved your mother!' Looking up most wistfully in my face, she asked,

"'Where?'

"'Here in Montreal,' I replied.

"'That canna be!' she murmured with plaintive softness, and as if half-musing, while the very expression of her mother's own serene resignation, mingled with a shade of disappointment, passed over her lovely features.

"'That canna be, gentle leddy, for my mither (and she shuddered as she uttered it) was buried in the cauld waves!'

"'No! my child,' I said softly; 'your father and mother both escaped, and are living, though a great ways from here.'

"It would be useless for me to attempt a description of what followed, as the truth of my assurance took possession of her mind; but the excitement of the sudden and joyful surprise--which we feared might injure her--seemed to restore the elasticity of her youthful spirit; a result that all other appliances had failed to secure. It was then discovered that the depressing consciousness of their orphan and destitute condition had so weighed upon her sensitive young heart, as to affect her delicate frame and prevent her restoration to health.

"I immediately sought my friends, and told them of the discovery; after which we went together to see Mr. Ferguson. It was agreed between them, at once, that I should accompany the children to Upper Canada and deliver them to their parents, as a privilege to which I was especially entitled on account of the interest I had taken in the family. They furnished all necessary means for defraying the expenses of the journey.

"I set out with my little treasures the next morning, under charge of an old gentleman who was going to that vicinity on business. Our course lay up the St. Lawrence, and through a considerable portion of Lake Ontario. When we landed and left its shores, our journey continued through a rugged wilderness country of great extent, to regions, then wilder still, in the interior of Upper Canada, where settlements of Scotch had been located. We stopped at a rude log cabin that aspired to the dignity of an inn, at the settlement where the route of our stage-wagon terminated, and which was only a few miles distant from the place we were in search of.

"While the gentleman who had the care of us was out looking for a carriage to take us on, I thought I heard a familiar voice outside, and, stepping to the window, looked from it just in time to see Donald Macpherson himself, in the very act of driving away from the door, at which he had stopped a moment to speak to a man there. I tapped loudly on the window, he turned his head, and, throwing the reins to the hostler, in another moment rushed into the room, just as I had succeeded in hiding the children in an adjoining bedroom, and closing the door.

"'Is it possible, then,' said he, 'that it is indeed yoursel' I saw! What in the name of gudeness could hae brought you (the last one I should have thought of seeing) to this awfu' wild region! But I am that glad, any how, to see your dear face that I could cry, as Maggie will, I'm sure; but they will be right joyful tears she'll shed, for you will go with me this very hour to our home in the woods. But what could have brought you to face the fatigue of this rough journey?'

"'I came,' I replied as calmly as I could, 'on business that nearly concerns you and Maggie, and I am so glad to meet you here! I am sure Providence must have sent you; for I have been trying all the way to think how I could manage the business on which I came, without being able to settle upon any plan. Breathe a prayer to Heaven, Donald Macpherson, as fervently for strength to bear your joy, as I have heard you utter under the pressure of crushing griefs, while I tell you,' I said slowly, and fixing my eyes upon his face, 'that Almighty God has sent two of your lost children back to you by my hands--your little Maggie and your baby boy!'

"Never can I forget the expression that stole over his features--now white as the sculptured marble--when I succeeded in finishing what I had to say! He lifted his hands and eyes reverently to heaven, and murmured a prayer in his native dialect. Then looking at me as if awe-struck, he exclaimed,

"'Can it be that heaven has again employed you, the former messenger of its mercies to us, to bring this crowning one to our stricken hearts and desolated hearth? It is not possible! It must be some wild dream!' and he passed his hand over his head as if bewildered. As he said it, I drew him gently to the door of the bedroom, opened it, and rushed out of the room. I could not stay to witness that meeting, and I knew that the father would wish to be alone with his recovered treasures.

"After some time I went back to the happy group, but it was long before we could speak. Such joy seemed too sacred for the interruption of words.

"When we had sufficiently recovered from the blissful agitation of the scene, we set about concerting measures for breaking the joyful news to Maggie.

"He decided that he would go home and bring her with him in a double wagon--the one he had being single--to accompany me to their home; pleading my fatigue after my journey as the reason why I did not go with him at once. On the way he was to prepare her for the glad meeting, as well as he could.

"I will not dwell upon the raptures of the young mother when she received her children who had 'been dead, but were alive again--had been _lost_, but were _found_!'--only to remark that she who had borne grief so calmly and patiently met the elevation also of this sudden transport in the same edifying spirit, and with many soft and tender ejaculations of the gratitude with which her heart was overflowing.

"The possibility of their children's escape had never for one moment occurred to the minds of the parents, and in the confusion and darkness of the shipwreck scene on the coast their recovery was unnoticed. Their condition, and that of Mr. Ferguson, their being consequently hurried away so suddenly from the vicinity, and remaining so long unconscious, together with the absence of the physician, had prevented any communications of a kind which might have led to the disclosure of their escape.

"The glad tidings soon spread through all the settlements, and the house was thronged early and late, with people of high and low degree. Rich and poor, Canadians, emigrants, and 'Americans,' came from all parts of the country to offer their congratulations--where their sympathies had before been freely bestowed--over the _Lost and Found_.

"I formed many agreeable acquaintances during the few weeks to which I was persuaded to prolong my visit in that part of the country.

"The vicissitudes of a changeful life--the lapse of forty years, during which I have stood by many graves of my nearest and dearest--have not been able to obliterate my fond recollections of the Macphersons, and have served only to engrave more and more deeply in my heart the lessons I learned from them, and my conviction that those upon whom God designs to bestow his richest spiritual gifts must go up, as did Moses of old, to 'meet him in the cloud!'"

We sat for some time in silence after she closed, and I then asked,

"Did you ever see or hear from them after your departure?"

"Cars ready! Hurry up, ladies and gentlemen! Hurry up!"

And groups of loungers, starting from every direction, hastened gladly to take their places and resume their broken journey.

When we were again seated in the car, I repeated my question, "Did you ever see or hear from them again?"

"I never saw them again," she replied, "but we kept up a correspondence for a long time. The example of their lovely and pious lives exerted a wide-spread influence in Canada. Some years after the events I have related, a large estate in Scotland was left to them, from a distant relative, and they returned to that country. Their departure was deeply deplored by all their neighbors in the land of their adoption, and I have heard that since their increased means they have been active in advancing every good work, both in their Canadian home and in that to which they have returned."

I parted with sincere regret from my new friend at Toronto, which was the limit of my excursion.

Her wayside story had so impressed my memory that I indulged my pen in transcribing it. If it yields half the interest to others, at second hand, with which I received it from the actual participant, my labor will be amply rewarded.

THE CHURCH IN PARIS AND FRANCE.

Though France is a Catholic country, the humiliating fact that a considerable portion of its male population manifests a certain religious apathy, cannot well be disguised. This estrangement from the church is due to various causes, but mainly to the training received by the youth educated at those public institutions which monopolize the government patronage. The University of Paris largely influences all the public schools, and its authority extended at one time even over the establishments for bringing up infants. The female schools have, for various reasons, formed, to a limited extent, an exception, chiefly for the want of lay instructresses, which rendered it absolutely necessary to grant to the numerous orders of nuns more extensive privileges. The university, originally half Christian and half deistic, has lately sunk into the lowest materialism. Even among the teachers of the elementary schools there are many who have discarded, more or less openly, the Christian faith, and thereby set the pupils a most pernicious example. The secret and avowed foes of religion preponderate in the educational domain, and it is only with the utmost difficulty that Christians, or even deists, can be found for the different scientific faculties. In other respects, a marked improvement has, however, taken place since 1850, when the church was first allowed to exercise a more direct influence over the public schools, and some of the most obnoxious opponents of Christianity were removed from their educational trusts. Still more beneficial has been the concession of greater school facilities. The public institutions superintended by religious have doubled in numbers and extent, being at present attended by over 1,200,000 girls and 250,000 boys. In 1854, there were in France 825 private institutions, with 42,462 pupils, presided over by laymen; and 256 institutions, with 21,195 pupils, under the charge of religious. In 1865, the number of lay institutions amounted to only 657, with 43,007 pupils, while the religious had increased to 278, with 34,897 pupils. While the former gained, therefore, within eleven years only 545 pupils, the latter gained 13,702. Nor is this all. The schools conducted by laymen have advanced equally in a religious and a scientific point of view, and are now no longer so inferior as formerly to those conducted by religious. The decided progress which the church has made in France during the last ten or twelve years is principally owing to the growth of religious instruction Unfortunately, the university still remains unchanged, and many a pious youth is lost when he enters one of the faculties. It is otherwise with reference to the lyceums and colleges, where the religious have secured a greater influence over the pupils, though rationalists and sceptics still continue to fill some of the chairs. Three years ago, 29,852 pupils attended the lyceums, and 32,495 the colleges--a total of 62,347, which shows a gain of 19,228 pupils since 1854. This increase is accounted for by the support which these institutions receive from the state. In 1854, the number of lyceums was 53; in 1865, it was 86.

In about the same period of time, the Brothers of the Christian Schools (_Frères de la Doctrine Chretiènne_) had founded 864 educational establishments in France, 16 in the States of the Church, 13 in Italy, 42 in Belgium, 2 in Switzerland, 2 in Austria, 3 in Prussia, 2 in England, 2 in Egypt, 4 in Turkey, 19 in Canada, 29 in the United States, 8 in India, and 2 in Ecuador--making a total of 1043 establishments with 8822 brothers. This number has multiplied since. In France alone, there are now over 900 establishments and 6000 brothers. In more recent days, many similar orders have been organized, like that founded by Lammenais, the brother of the apostate priest, which is exclusively intended for the agricultural education of boys, and counts already thirty-odd schools in Brittany. France has 18,000 male ecclesiastics, and of these the greater half are engaged in training the rising generation. Of the 90,000 female members belonging to the various religious orders, one third are employed in the same way. Out of the whole number of religious, no less than 72,000 are computed to devote themselves to education, to the care of the orphans, the sick, and the aged. The pupils, the orphans, the invalids, the incurables, the helpless, the poor under the charge of the different religious societies and orders number over two millions. These are startling figures for a land where the church had been blotted out of existence eighty years ago, and where religion has ever since had to contend against special legislation, unfriendly government, and a whole host of powerful foes, never very scrupulous in the choice of their weapons.

Another cause of the religious apathy is to be found in the desecration of Sunday, which has become very general in France, especially in the larger cities. The revolution suppressed Sunday by brute force, and the law has ever since afforded the greatest possible latitude to all who were inclined to disregard its obligations. Sunday labor came thus to be gradually sanctioned by custom and countenanced by law. Under Louis Philippe, the _bourgeoisie_ managed to turn this laxity to account, and even to this day the work on the public improvements proceeds without reference to the festivals of Holy Church or Sundays. At first the laborer, tempted by the offer of higher wages, consented to work on Sundays for the sake of gain. Now stern necessity compels the majority of laborers to do this, and yet they barely manage to support life. Once men desecrated the Sunday out of avarice; now they desecrate it to satisfy their hunger. Such is the condition to which irreligion has reduced the French working-man. The capitalist who introduced this desecration can, however, afford better than ever to rest each day of the week.

The amount of evil which the desecration of Sunday has sown can hardly be conceived. Hundreds and thousands of those honest laborers who flock to Paris and to the great manufacturing centres from the provinces have been morally and physically destroyed by it. Not only has the discharge of all religious obligations become impracticable, but there being no longer a day on which the family finds itself united, every thing like the love of home has been destroyed. The tenderest and most holy ties have been broken, the unity of family interests has ceased, and each member of the household has been left to pursue his own course. But as the human body requires some rest, the mind some relaxation, so men by way of compensation drink and dissipate, which speedily destroys their love for the fireside. On Sunday afternoons and evenings, the working-men exchange the shop only for the tavern, and they soon learn to find their relaxation and amusement there even on week-days. The consequence is, that the working-men have become demoralized; they think of nothing but work, or rather of the means by which they may procure that which will enable them to minister to their depraved appetites.

In this manner the wants of these men multiply in an inordinate degree, their minds and tastes are debased, and all their earnings soon cease to suffice for even the most indispensable articles of food and raiment. Those who break the Lord's day, though they seem to earn better wages, look wretched, and have rarely a decent coat to their backs. If the weather, or some other unforeseen cause, prevents them from working, they resort to the tavern and spend there their Sunday gains. It is notorious that exactly in those work-shops where the Sunday is habitually ignored, the hands are the most dissipated and shiftless. Even from a purely material stand-point the non-observance of Sunday is therefore a fearful social evil which has unhappily made serious progress, even in the rural districts, and especially in those immediately surrounding Paris.

This pagan system of civil legislation interferes very materially with the religious life. The French code robs the father of nearly all authority over his grown children; for instance, a son eighteen years of age may legally mortgage half the property which he is to inherit, even though it may have been earned by the parent's personal industry. Husband and wife hold their property separately, neither being liable for the debts of the other. In this way the members of the same family are invested with such widely diverging rights that they can have no interests in common. The effect of this arrangement upon the domestic relations, upon the harmony, unity, and morals of the family will be readily conceived. It is therefore to be regarded at once as a wonder and a proof of the power of the Catholic Church that there should still exist so many exemplary households in France.

Wretchedness in all its forms naturally goes hand in hand with these false principles of legislation. Thanks to the boasted progress of modern days, there is more suffering and misery in Paris than in any other city on the continent of Europe. Those who speak from personal observation of the social condition in Berlin, Vienna, and Paris, acknowledge that pauperism is most gigantic in the latter capital. In the year 1866, Paris contained 1,791,980 inhabitants, of whom 105,119 were paupers, or 40,644 families who received aid from the municipal authorities. This gives one pauper to every seventeen inhabitants; but the number of destitute who stand in need of help is at least as large again. The Conferences of St. Vincent de Paul, the many other charitable societies, and the pastors, support and succor quite as many more families, the greater portion of whom are also dependent on the public. And with all this, most societies are compelled to turn away nearly as many destitute as they can relieve. It is therefore not too much to assume that one tenth of the Parisians are reduced to the verge of absolute poverty. And how inadequate, at the best, is the relief doled out by the municipality to the poor! A couple of pounds of bread each week, a few cast-off garments, occasionally some bedding, is about all which a family can usually expect to receive from this source. In 1866, the city disbursed, by way of relief, four millions of francs among 40,644 families, which gives forty-eight francs and sixty-five centimes per year for each family, or eighteen francs and sixty-five centimes per head. But it should be borne in mind that bread sells at one fourth of a franc per pound, which shows how insignificant the relief is which the otherwise so extravagant Paris municipality bestows on its destitute. And it should be further remembered that a family has to pay an average annual rental of one hundred and forty-one francs and twenty-five centimes--which average was only one hundred and thirteen francs and forty-five centimes prior to the year 1860. These statistics sufficiently demonstrate the grave importance which the solution of the social problem threatens to assume in France.

But there is at least an equally large number of families who, though they may not be regular applicants for municipal and other charity, are yet unable to get on without undergoing greater or less privations and self-denials. It can hardly be believed how much this wide-spread distress tends to the demoralization of the poor. Without education, without intellectual incentive, without religious consolation, and even without a day of rest; constantly fighting for bare existence; weighed down by bodily suffering, the better feelings of these unfortunates have become so blunted that they think only of gratifying their unceasing, never quite satisfied material wants. The disuse of the Sunday solemnities has weaned them even from bestowing a proper care on their persons. They rarely possess any other dress than the one worn in the work-shop. Still worse, if possible, is the state of the quarters, or holes, in which they are domiciled. Besides a wretched couch, an old table, some broken chairs and crockery, one meets there nothing but filth and offensive odors. Parents and children sleep in one close room; the children run wild in the streets, and thus deteriorate morally and mentally before they perish physically.

Such an element of the population can only be redeemed morally and religiously by relief of their material misery. No amelioration of their condition is otherwise possible. Wherever the church desires to interfere, she must be prepared with material aid--must send the Sister of Mercy as well as the priest. A sort of brutishness has been engrafted on this pauperism, and until it is eliminated no improvement can be seriously attempted. When modern science, therefore, represents man as a purely animal organism, the conclusion is perhaps not so very illogical after all. By systematically degrading the disinherited working classes into a race of human beings inferior in many essential features to the savage, modern political economy has to a certain extent furnished this theory with an illustration. The savage still experiences the necessity of prayer, a want which the modern proletarian has long ceased to feel; the religious necessity is either dulled or destroyed in him, because the religious sentiment has been torn from his heart. For this reason also the reconciliation of the proletarian with Christianity is frequently surrounded by far greater difficulties than the conversion of the downright heathen. The Christian, corrupted by our so-called progress, stands perhaps lowest in the scale of humanity.

On the other hand, the craving for sensual indulgences seems to have become so general among the higher class of working-men that there are few who lead a well-regulated, frugal, quiet life. It is, no doubt, difficult to resist the manifold temptations which Paris presents, and which are intensified by the frequent financial and industrial revulsions. All the more remunerative trades are subject to periods of stagnation, during which numbers of operatives are thrown out of employment, or work only half-time. The self-denial which they have then to practise leads them afterward to make up for it by dissipation, and they thus contract habits which end in ruin. Here we see again, and most distinctly in Paris, what immense influence a nation's political economy exerts on its religious and moral character. Nowhere are the fruits of the mischief committed by the politico-economical theories now ascendant in France to be observed more plainly than in the metropolis, a city in which at least one half of the population, if not permanently in want, are certainly always in danger of it.

Under these circumstances, it is all the more cheering that so large a number of working-men's families should have preserved their Christian faith and still attend to their religious duties. A more than ordinary amount of virtue and self-denial is required for it, and those who practise them amidst the vicissitudes of life are truly noble souls. Yet there exist many such even among the poorest and lowliest. Another guarantee of a brighter future is that nearly all working-men appear fully convinced of the necessity of an education, and that they therefore rarely object to having their children instructed. Even the most irreligious among them manifest an implicit confidence in the clergy, and prefer to have their children attend the schools controlled by the religious. Though pretending to care nothing for the church themselves, they deem religion an excellent thing for their families. With the steady improvement in the system of popular education, and with the diffusion of schools superintended by the church, a corresponding advance in the religious and moral condition of the masses may be expected, and is indeed already apparent. There are in Paris 53 schools for boys attended by 17,360 pupils, which are managed by the different religious orders, and 63 schools for boys attended by 16,750 pupils, conducted by laymen. Of the schools for girls 68, with 19,720 pupils, are controlled by the sisters, and 57, with 12,630, by lay instructresses. The elementary Protestant establishments are included in the above figures. A similar ratio exists between the intermediate and the higher schools.

To form an adequate idea of the superior advantages which the different religious orders possess as educators, it should be known that, while the city of Paris pays its elementary lay teachers yearly from 2000 fr. to 3000 fr. salary, besides giving them lodgings and a retiring pension, the brothers have only 950 fr., lodgings, but no pension. The female lay teachers, mostly single, receive from 1800 fr. to 2400 fr. per annum, while the sisters have only 800 fr. In this comparison we made no mention of the difference in the expense of the lodgings, which is much larger in the case of laymen, most of whom have families. The city of Paris could therefore well afford, without incurring the reproach of any especial extravagance, to present the church with a large piece of ground and a sum of money for a building where the superannuated brothers could pass the rest of their days. The evening classes for adults, which have been opened under the auspices of the church, are quite a success.

The chair rent exacted in the French churches is no doubt a disadvantage to religion; for it always thins the audience more or less. Though the sum collected is a trifle, and especially when we consider the recklessness with which the Parisians spend their money, many good and thoughtful men object to the practice on principle. Indeed, the tide of popular opinion seems set against the tax, and it certainly suggests to the sceptic an unpleasant parallel between the theatre and the sanctuary. Those who cannot afford the expense of hiring a chair during the service must stand up, or kneel, or occupy one of the benches fastened to the walls. The poor man goes, however, to church to forget the outside world. And yet it is there, in the very place where all should be equal, where rich and poor, high and low, should be esteemed alike, that his poverty is thrust into his face, that he is again reminded of the difference between him and his more fortunate fellows. There are many so extremely poor in Paris that even a few sous are an object to them. This explains why the few mission churches, in which no charge is made for chairs, attract such large crowds, principally composed of working-men, who are otherwise rarely, if ever, seen at worship. On this account, several of the parish churches in Paris have lately been so arranged that no rent is exacted. To do away with the system entirely is, however, not feasible at once. Some provision will first have to be made to replace the considerable revenue which accrues from this source not only to the parishes, but also to the dioceses. If the obstacles in the way to the acquisition of property by the church, the acceptance of legacies, and the accumulation of means from similar sources, were less formidable, this reform might perhaps be introduced in a comparatively brief period. But owing to legislative restrictions, bequests and other love-gifts can only be accepted by the church after long-protracted and expensive proceedings ingeniously invented for the benefit of the bureaucratic hierarchy. Had Napoleon III., instead of spending many hundreds of millions on the metamorphosis of his capital, devoted only one hundred millions to the erection of a dozen large parish churches and the endowment of the rest, he might have obtained a more substantial guarantee for the preservation of his throne and dynasty than the strategic streets which now traverse Paris. At any rate, this much is certain: with the abolition of chair-rent in the churches the attendance at divine service, and consequently the religious sentiment, might be greatly stimulated. It is also to be hoped that juster views in relation to the restoration of the sanctity of Sunday may obtain the ascendency in due time. As regards the latter subject, the example set by the government in suspending hereafter all public works on holidays and Sundays would of itself have a very happy influence on the national morality.

Inasmuch as the church chairs are rented to families and paid for yearly or half-yearly, this evil is less glaring in the provinces. The wealthier parishioners there usually try to secure places in front, often at high rents, which renders it possible to let the remainder more cheaply, sometimes at mere nominal prices, to the poorer classes.

What we have stated above applies, in many respects, equally to the larger provincial cities, among which Lyons, Marseilles, Nantes, and Toulouse deserve special mention for their religious zeal. Nor are Rouen, Strasbourg, Bordeaux, Lille, and Metz indifferent to the success of the church. The other large and small cities may be judged according to the state of their respective provinces. One thing may, however, be safely depended upon, namely, that every city contains a circle of laymen which sets a praiseworthy example in religious conduct and social Christian deportment. The women cling, nearly everywhere, with deeper devotion to the church than the men, and in the provinces even more than in Paris. The most devout of spirit are the German provinces, Alsace, Lothringen, and Flanders, as well as Brittany, Auvergne, Limouisin, Dauphiné, and the provinces south and west, where most if not all the adults fulfil the precept of Easter communion. Least devout are perhaps the provinces in the vicinity of Paris, Normandy, Champagne, Picardie, Orleans, down into the very heart of France, as far as Tours and Bourges. Within a radius of about sixty miles from Paris, the condition of the villages is truly deplorable, and in the towns, the religious sentiment is only very slowly awakened. There are localities where Sunday is even more habitually disregarded than at the capital; and if the men go occasionally to church, they rarely partake of the Holy Sacrament. This state of things is, however, an exceptional one, and especially in the villages near Paris which send their vegetables, flowers, fruits, and other produce to market. The daily contact of the peasantry with metropolitan life has had a bad effect on their morals. At these points the church is chiefly attended by Parisians who spend a portion of the year at their villas.

But while we feel constrained to admit that there is a great deal of religious indifference among the male population, it is pleasant to feel justified in saying that France is able to boast of a large body of ecclesiastics whose zeal and piety must command the genuine admiration of the Catholic world. In the year 1865, there were only 837 vacancies in the 31,388 parishes into which France is divided. The budget for 1869 appropriates salaries for the incumbents of 106 new parishes, and 50 new vicarages. The ecclesiastics in France number 45,000--a very high percentage in a population of thirty-eight millions, of whom about a million are non-Catholics. At the same time, the pay is very small. Not half the parish priests have an income exceeding 1500 francs per annum, while several thousands have no more than 1200, (two hundred and forty dollars in gold.) Only the incumbents of the comparatively few parishes of the first and second classes--numbering little above 3000 all told--have an addition of from 1200 to 1500 francs yearly from the state. The income of the canons varies from 1600 to 1800 francs, rarely reaching 2400, and this leaves them partly dependent on mass stipends and casuals. Many bishops are obliged to make extra allowances out of their own pockets to the canons of their cathedrals. The archbishops, who are also senators and cardinals with extra pay attached to these dignities, enjoy large revenues, ranging from 120,000 to 150,000 francs, all of which they sorely need. Mons. Morlot, the late Cardinal Archbishop of Paris, imperial land almonier and peer of France, had an annual income of 230,000 francs. Of this sum he had, however, set aside from the beginning 30,000 francs for distribution among the Paris poor. Although this estimable prince of the church enjoyed his income for several years, he left not enough at his death to bury him, and the expenses of his funeral had to be paid by the emperor. The demands on the purses of these high ecclesiastics are so heavy that they are constrained to practise the most rigid economy, unless they possess independent fortunes. The household of a French bishop or archbishop usually consists of a private secretary, a coachman, a man-servant, and a cook, who is generally the wife of the coachman or servant. His house, furniture, carriage, are all of the plainest description. A bishop does not entertain what is called company. On special occasions he may invite some clergymen to his table, but nothing more. If business calls him to Paris, or some other place outside of his diocese, he takes his secretary with him, and puts up at one of those quiet hotels patronized by religious. When away from home, he always appears in public either on foot or in some hired conveyance. Now and then he accepts an invitation from some Christian family, and calls on Catholic laymen who have attested their zeal by word or deed. The most distinguished prelates often love to surprise the offices of the Parisian journals, such as the _Monde_ and the _Univers_, by a visit, when they request the different writers to be presented to them, throw out valuable suggestions, and converse with the greatest freedom and _bonhomie_. This cordial intercourse between bishops, priests, and laymen has contributed no little toward the glory of the church and the efficiency of the Catholic press. Except in the sanctuary itself, the Catholic Church in France is utterly devoid of pomp and splendor, and by far the largest part of her resources is set aside for the maintenance of numerous educational, charitable, and other benevolent establishments, at which it may be interesting in this connection to cast here a brief glance.

First in importance and influence are the Conferences of St. Vincent de Paul, founded at Paris in the beginning of the third decade of the present century. In the metropolis alone are eighty odd conferences, one for each parish, besides some national and special ones connected with various other religious institutions and associations. Among the national conferences may be instanced a Polish, a Flemish, an Italian, an English, and two German. The most prominent of the special conferences are the Cercle du Luxembourg, formed by the Catholic students, and the Cercle de la Jeunesse, formed by the youth of the higher schools. The total number of members is probably over 4000. In addition to this, many other religious associations have been directly and indirectly promoted by the Conferences of St. Vincent de Paul: for instance, the patronages for promoting the physical and spiritual welfare of apprentices; the work-shops for young girls belonging to the working classes, who are not only furnished with employment, but instructed in their religious duties; the society for the relief of the Faubourgs, managed by women whose object is the education of the children of laboring people who reside in the wretched hovels of the remoter suburbs. The Société Maternelle, established in 1788, which has in every quarter of the city its female agent to relieve working-women who cannot afford to remain at home to nurse their infants. This society expends over 60,000 francs a year, and relieves nearly a thousand mothers. A similar society is that of the Crèches, where infants under three years of age are taken care of while their mothers earn their daily bread. One of the greatest evils of our modern system of economy is the compulsory labor of females. There are in Paris 106,300 working-women who earn on an average only 1 franc and 10 centimes per day, (twenty-two cents in gold,) and have to support a family on this pittance. Very excellent institutions are the Salles d'Asiles, play-schools for children aged from two to six years, which already number over 4000 in France, and are attended by hundreds and thousands of children. The Child's Friend Society is designed to save those children who are in danger of being demoralized by the evil example of their parents. The Société de St. François Regis aims to counteract the illicit relations but too frequently entered into between the opposite sexes. It labors to supply the poor who flock to the capital from every part of the provinces with the documents which the law requires for the solemnization of a legal marriage. The advocates of the civil marriage contract may learn from this the beauties of the system which they praise so highly. Nothing can be more expensive, troublesome, or attended with greater loss of time, than the legalization of the different papers required to be produced before a marriage can be ratified by the civil authorities. On the other hand, the church exacts only a few and simple formalities to unite a pair in the bonds of holy wedlock. This society was founded in 1826, and in 1866 it brought about the marriages of no less than 43,256 couples, who had previously lived together without being married.

Paris contains fifty-eight nunneries, the greater part of which make the education of the young and the care of the infirm and the aged their main occupation. The nuns also tend the sick in twenty-four out of the thirty-six public hospitals in Paris. An order of more modern origin, but one that has already accomplished much good, is that of the Sisters of St. Paul, for the blind of their own sex. Most of its members are blind themselves; but their proficiency in all domestic employments is such that their pupils are taught to excel in them. The founder of this order, a Parisian widow, has done for this class of the afflicted what the famous Abbé de l'Grée has done for the deaf and dumb. The sisters are principally taken from the ranks of the pupils who cannot be otherwise provided for. This institution is already self-supporting. The Little Sisters of the Poor, founded in 1840, at St. Servan, near St. Malo, in Brittany, have in Paris alone five large establishments with 1700 sisters, where they support in comfort 11,006 aged poor. Its members solicit broken victuals in the kitchens of the rich, and unsold vegetables from the market-hucksters, which they take home in small carts drawn by donkeys. They also take up collections on stated days at the doors of the churches. Not content with constituting themselves the guardians of the helpless, they also relieve them of the trouble and humiliation of soliciting alms. Is not this conduct worthy of the best days of Christianity? Though not yet quite thirty years old, the Little Sisters of the Poor are already widely known and honored. Recruited at first from the lowest classes of society, many women of the higher have latterly joined the order, though the majority of the sisters are still working-women and servant-girls. We would here incidentally remark that the French servant-girls rank far above those of the other continental countries in a moral and religious point of view. This is mainly due to the strictness with which good behavior and chastity are enforced in all French households, where no promiscuous intercourse between the sexes is countenanced. However indifferent master and mistress may themselves be to religion, they nevertheless invariably insist that their servants should be regular communicants and church-goers. The status of the female domestics is therefore higher than that of the average working-woman, whose independence of control but too often proves her ruin. This also explains why servant-girls should be so much more eagerly sought in marriage than working-girls. In France, the domestic, and especially the female one, is treated almost as a member of the family. The difference between master and servant is not so marked, and the result is that the latter has more self-respect and pride. Indeed, the manner in which servants are treated by their employers in France is a highly creditable feature in the national character.

But to return to the religious and other societies. A very useful association is a woman's society founded by a dozen ladies, "Invalid Working-Woman's Aid Society," which numbers in 27 parishes 600 members, and cordially co-operates with the sisters of St. Vincent de Paul in visiting and tending the sick in their own habitations. In 1865, its members had paid 158,368 sick calls to 52,748 sufferers. Another female society attends the sick poor in the public hospitals, and seeks to assist feeble convalescent girls and boys in procuring employment. "The Church Aid Society" furnishes churches destitute of means with vestments worked by the hands of its members. Still another society of women keeps on hand stocks of clothing for the needy, its members sewing for this purpose several hours each day. One society has set itself the laudable task of returning to their relatives and friends the destitute and forsaken orphans who have come with their families to the city from the provinces. Several orphan schools have been opened for the same purpose by laymen and the rural clergy in different parts of France. Many of the orders labor to a similar end, especially that of the Trappists, who own now twenty-two extensive agricultural settlements, mostly in France, some of them with a hundred brothers. Some of the most barren and unhealthy districts were taken in hand by the Trappists, and the results which they there achieved are really marvellous. At the abbey of Staoueli, in Algeria, they fed during the last famine 600 Arabs a day for several months, without materially lessening the provisions sent for sale to the markets. Though the brothers work from ten to twelve hours daily, besides devoting several hours at night to their religious duties, they eat nothing but bread, (1-1/2 lbs. per diem,) vegetables seasoned with salt, and drink only water. The Bernhardines also follow agriculture; but their rules are less severe, for they are permitted to use milk, fish, and a little wine. Four flourishing settlements have been established by this order in the most sterile districts of Southern France. The Brothers of the Holy Ghost (Frères du Saint Esprit) make foreign missionary enterprises and the amelioration of the condition of the convicts their specialty. The Brothers of St. Joseph educate the deaf and dumb, and the Brothers of St. Gabriel vagrant boys. The Oeuvre des Campagnes is a society which strives to provide for the spiritual and material wants of the poorer rural parishes. Its main object is to awaken the dormant religious feelings by popular missions, devotional works, etc. Several societies have been organized in Paris and the provinces for the better observance of Sunday. The societies called "Reunion of the Holy Family" consist of the poor who meet on Sundays in chapels and halls for mutual instruction and prayers. A special society under the patronage of St. Michael has charged itself with the distribution of pious publications, tracts, etc. The colossal missionary enterprise of France is well known. No nation furnishes so many missionaries, gives such large contributions as the French, a people among whom a century ago the Catholic religion was, during several years, formally abolished. Of the 8000 missionaries distributed over the globe more than one third are Frenchmen. The Lyons-Paris Society for the Propagation of the Faith extends all over the earth, and possessed in 1867 an income of 5,149,918 fr., of which sum 3,582,659 fr. had been collected in French dioceses. During the preceding year the Society of the Holy Infancy could afford to disburse 1,603,200 fr. for 59 missions supported by it alone. It has baptized 383,206 children, and educated 41,226 more.

A separate mission exists for the Holy Land and the Orient, (_Oeuvre des Ecoles d'Orient_.) The society mainly applies itself to supplying the missions established in these regions by the Franciscans and Lazarists with money and other aid. The return of the Nestorians, Armenians, and other eastern schismatics to the bosom of the mother church is one of its principal objects, and has already made considerable progress.

It must seem almost incredible that the greater number of these benevolent and religious societies should enjoy no fixed or only very inadequate revenues. Yet such is actually the fact. Except their buildings, many of which are heavily mortgaged, very few of the societies have any property or capital. Under these circumstances it naturally requires the most untiring exertions and the closest economy to sustain themselves. Aside from the regular collections in the churches, these organizations are mainly dependent on the charity sermons, by which funds are raised, as well as on the lotteries and bazaars gotten up for religious and charitable purposes. We see therefore that they have had a severe struggle for existence. The church is the only institution in France which can never be centralized, and the future belongs for this reason all the more surely to her.

These results show the great and many-sided activity of the French Catholics. There is no known ailing or misery, no human evil, caused by our short-sighted legislation or social policy, which is not met and alleviated by the church and her servants. These efforts may not be crowned with the desired success in all instances; but when we consider the opposition which every religious project encounters in France, it must be confessed that the church has accomplished more in that country than in any other. Nor should it be forgotten that this is largely owing to a fact which neither the sophistries of modern scepticism nor the equality of all denominations under the constitution of the empire can do away with, namely, that the Catholic Church still remains the national one. For the same reason we venture to predict that the occurrence of any extraordinary events, of any great public calamity, would rather tend to promote than retard the growth of the religious sentiment among the masses. It is a remarkable circumstance that in times of national distress and suffering, the attachment to the church is strengthened. Never were the sanctuaries so crowded as during the disturbances of 1848 and 1849. How many of those who had until then worked for the overthrow of church and state were not converted when they saw whither their principles led them? Will this not again be the case at the next revolution? It often requires such violent shocks to check the baneful passions and to open the eyes of the people.

THE TOTAL ECLIPSE OF AUGUST SEVENTH.

The recent solar discoveries, of which mention has been made in past numbers of this magazine, have on the whole increased the interest attached to the observation of eclipses, though in some respects the importance of these phenomena as opportunities of extending our knowledge of the constitution of the sun has been diminished. It will be remembered that immediately after the total eclipse of last year in India, it was found that the great prominences on the rim of the sun which are never seen with any ordinary appliances, except on these occasions, could be observed at any time with the spectroscope, and that by means of this admirable instrument their shape as well as the spectral lines indicating their chemical composition could be determined; and since that time many observations of them have been made, and interesting conclusions arrived at on both these points, as stated in the article translated in the last number. The principal ones as yet established with certainty are, that they are gaseous, and mainly composed of hydrogen, and that they change their shape with astonishing rapidity, some of their particles perhaps moving with the inconceivable velocity of one hundred miles a second. At any rate, immensely energetic forces and rapid movements must be required to change essentially the shape and position of these masses--which often have ten times the diameter, or a thousand times the volume of the earth--in a quarter of an hour.

So we are not now obliged to wait a year or more and travel several thousand miles to observe for a few minutes these peculiar and still somewhat mysterious bodies; still, it does not follow that they cannot be better examined at the time of an eclipse, or that new appearances may not be noticed on such occasions, now that we are accustomed to these, from which the other more startling phenomena for a long time diverted attention. Success has excited hope of yet greater successes; and eclipses, though affording but a short time for actual observation, are undoubtedly the best occasions for the observer to learn in what direction his labors should be turned. There are also other things, such as the corona, Baily's beads, possible new planets inside of the orbit of Mercury, etc., which can only be seen at these times.

The eclipse of this year, therefore, was by no means neglected by the scientific men of the United States; in fact, it was felt that the reputation of the country depended upon the skill shown in preparing for and in observing it, and a large number of parties were formed, to be stationed at various points of the path of the moon's shadow or line of totality, so that if clouds should prevent success at one place, it might be obtained at another.

The first point touched by the shadow proper, and at which consequently a total eclipse occurred, was in longitude 165° west from Washington, latitude 53° north, being in Siberia; the last, in longitude 10° east, latitude 31° north, being off the coast of North Carolina. At the former the sun rose totally obscured at half-past four, at the latter it set in that condition, at a quarter to seven; and at the intermediate points the eclipse took place at all the intermediate hours of the day. It is rather singular that, owing to the necessary skip of a day in going round the world, it was _Sunday_ morning in Siberia, but _Saturday_ afternoon in the United States; so that the eclipse may be said to have been one of the longest on record. Its actual duration was, however quite short, half-past four A.M. in Siberia, and a quarter to seven P.M. at the ending point, being about four and half-past six P.M. respectively in New York; giving an interval of two and a half hours in which the shadow passed over the long line connecting these points, which it will be perceived are nearly opposite in longitude.

If it had travelled by the shortest route, it would have passed within three degrees of the north pole, and the eclipse would have been invisible in this country; but, fortunately, it lengthened its course, reaching its highest latitude near Behring's Straits, which it crossed, and then swept to the south-east, crossing the territories of Montana and Dakota, and the States of Minnesota, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, Virginia, and North Carolina. It could hardly have taken a better route for us.

The length of the line was over seven thousand miles, and the consequent average velocity in passing over it about fifty miles a minute, though in the United States it exceeded that amount considerably. The breadth of the belt traversed was somewhat variable; in this country it was about one hundred and fifty miles. Of course, the sun was partially hidden by the moon over a very large portion of the globe; but the region from which its light was at any time completely excluded was comparatively quite small.

Observers stationed themselves at numerous points, even as far west as Alaska and Siberia; but of course most chose positions within the United States. The writer was connected with a party which was established at Shelbyville, Kentucky.

The general diffusion of intelligence, both subjective and objective, as we may say, had of course excited great interest in the eclipse among the people, especially in that part of the country actually within or bordering upon the limits of totality; and though, of course, the nature of the expected event was fully understood by all the educated portion of the community, and by many of the uneducated, still there were some, especially in the rural districts, who vaguely apprehended some great event, to be probably of a disastrous nature, (a hailstorm was the most popular;) and perhaps were as much terrified in anticipation as any entirely ignorant people have ever been at the actual occurrence of this most impressive and sublime spectacle.

Of course, excursions were planned by railroad companies and others to points on the line of the shadow, the usual directions for observing were extensively circulated, and the eclipse was made the catch-word for many advertisements whose substance had no connection with it. We are afraid that many persons may have lost the most beautiful features of the scene by a too persistent use of smoked glass, which of course was not necessary during or even near the time of the total obscuration.

The weather for some days previous was not very promising--not on account of too much rain, but owing to the absence of it; and every evening the sun set in a bank of haze, which each day seemed to increase, and no storm occurred to clear the air of the burden accumulated by the drought. This was particularly unpromising for the photographers, who needed really clear air for good work; the times of beginning and ending, to which, formerly, great importance was attached, could probably have been observed nearly or quite as well through haze, or even thin cloud.

We have just implied that less consequence is now attached to the time observations than was formerly the case; this is due to the great perfection which the lunar and solar theories have now attained, which is such that the prediction of the positions of the sun and moon, and even of the beginning and ending of an eclipse, can be made with greater accuracy, perhaps, than almost any one observer could note them. Still, by combination of all the results, some slight corrections to the tables now used may perhaps be deduced, and on the present occasion this portion of the work was not disregarded, but provided for with all the appliances of modern science.

The recording of time is now usually made by the electric method, which may be here described briefly, though many are probably familiar with it. The principle is the following, subject to various modifications in the particular form of apparatus: A line is described by a pen made to move uniformly over the paper by means of clock-work. That this line may be indefinitely prolonged without retracing, it is usual to make it a spiral round a horizontal cylinder, which revolves, say, once a minute, while the marking-pen (otherwise stationary) moves slowly from one end of the cylinder to the other, perhaps requiring several hours for the complete passage.

The pen making this line is held in its place by the action of an electro-magnet pulling against a spring; the circuit through this magnet is broken every second by the escapement of a clock or chronometer; the magnet then for an instant ceases to act, and the spring pulls the pen aside, making a break in the line at regular intervals corresponding to every second of time. The same interruption of the circuit can also be made by an observer provided with a key like those used by telegraph operators, and the time of his observation thus registered on the chronograph, as the instrument is called. For identification of the clock-mark preceding his observation, mechanical arrangements can easily be devised, by which the first second in each minute shall be omitted, the circuit not being broken; so that it will be known what second of every minute each mark corresponds to; and the fraction of the second elapsed from this clock-mark to his own can easily be estimated by the eye, or measured more carefully. The reading of the record is, of course, facilitated by having the cylinder revolve once a minute, so that all the clock-marks answering to any particular second (as the twenty-third, for example, of each minute) will come in the same horizontal row; and the marks are not made on the cylinder itself, but on a sheet of paper fastened round it, which can be detached when filled.

Instruments of this character were used at Shelbyville, and also at the border stations near the edge of the path of the shadow, but inside of it, one of which was at Falmouth, about thirty miles south of Cincinnati, the other at Oakland, near the Mammoth Cave. The observations of time were especially important at these places, since, as will readily be seen, the length of time required for a circular or elliptical shadow to pass a point near its edge will vary very rapidly for a slight change in the size of the shadow, or a slight shifting of its path toward or from the point selected. Even rough observations, merely of the duration of the eclipse, made at two such stations on opposite sides of the central line, suffice to determine with great accuracy the dimensions and precise track of the shadow, and thus give the elements of the moon's motion.

We have just spoken of the shadow as being elliptical; this was of course the case, the sun being quite low at the time, so that the round cone of darkness, technically known as the umbra, was cut very obliquely at the earth's surface. To realize the amount of this ellipticity or distortion, one would only need to hold some spherical body so as to cast a shadow on the ground about an hour and a half before sunset. The elongation was also continually increasing as the sun sunk toward the horizon, and its direction changed as the sun at the same time changed its direction or bearing, the longer axis of the ellipse always pointing toward the sun. This axis was, in Kentucky, about three hundred miles long; the shorter ninety; and this elliptical patch of darkness was moving in a course some thirty degrees south of east, or about twenty-three degrees south of its own longer diameter; its speed was about seventy-five miles a minute, or more than the average on the whole track, as before stated, and it required rather less than three minutes to pass any given point on the central line; this was consequently the duration of the totality; and short enough it certainly was, for the amount of work which was to be done by the observers.

For the stations on or near the central line, it was important to obtain the absolute times of the contacts, and for this purpose transits were observed, to get the error and rate of the chronometer, for some time before and after the eclipse. The border observations locate the path on which the shadow travels, and determine its breadth; but to obtain the position of the shadow on this path at any fixed time, the true times of its arrival and departure at fixed points must be observed. But on the border no such preparations were necessary, only the interval being required; and a simple pendulum, without clock-work, was set up for this purpose, which broke the circuit at each second, and thus left its record, serving to count the number of seconds and the fraction between the beginning and end of the totality, which were observed and similarly recorded by means of a break-circuit key. This pendulum was so arranged as to break the circuit on the main telegraph line, and thus to be heard, and record its beats at a number of stations in different towns; but the main circuit did not itself mark upon the registers used by the observers, but mechanically (by means of what is called a relay magnet) broke short circuits set up at their stations, which could also be broken in another place by their own keys, without, of course, interfering with the main circuit itself; so that every observer could receive the pendulum beats upon his own record, without receiving those made by observers at other stations.

On Thursday afternoon, the 5th of August, some showers occurred, but not sufficient, according to ordinary experience, to have much effect in clearing the atmosphere; and on Friday morning the sky became overcast with mackerel clouds of a most unpromising character. All the preparations were, however, hopefully continued, and the photographer, Mr. Whipple, of Boston, took on that day some very successful views of Shelbyville, of the college buildings, and of the party of observers. The principal station had been established in the grounds of the college, the instruments being protected by a large tent; close by was the Coast Survey station, where the chronographs just described for recording time, as well as a transit instrument for observing it, had been placed.

Friday evening was cloudy at Shelbyville, but without rain, and the chance seemed to be gradually diminishing of any thing like a good observation of the eclipse.

The plans for photographing the successive phases were most perfect. The movement of the sun from east to west of course made it necessary that the plate should also move correspondingly, but this was readily accomplished by connecting it with a telescope mounted on an axis parallel to the earth's equator, which axis is itself fixed to another at right angles to it, or parallel to that of the earth; this second axis being turned by clock-work once in twenty-four hours in a direction opposite to that of the earth's rotation, all the parts of the instrument evidently follow the movement of the heavens or of any celestial object to which the telescope may be directed. The axis around which the telescope turns can be rotated by hand or clamped in position, and in connection with the other, which can be disengaged from the clock-work, enables the instrument to be pointed in any direction at pleasure. This style of mounting is known as the equatorial, and is almost always used for astronomical telescopes. It is similar to the ordinary tripod used for small instruments, except in the addition of clock-work, and in having the principal axis inclined toward the pole-star instead of being vertical.

But it was necessary not only to take photographs, but to know the time at which they were taken, that they might accurately measure the movement of the lunar disc over that of the sun. This might have been secured by simply noting them from the face of the chronometer; but the object was more neatly and certainly attained by having the slide itself, as it dropped at the end of the exposure, break the electric circuit, and record its own time on the chronograph.

The spectroscopic work was the most difficult and important of all. Professor Winlock, the director of Harvard College Observatory and chief of the party, had charge of this. Though, as above stated, it has been found that the prominences can be seen with the spectroscope at any time, still the probability that they could be better observed at the time of the eclipse than at other times made it a duty to try the experiment, and the result has, as will soon be seen, proved that such is the case. Another observation was obtained with a spectroscope at Bardstown.

A large number of persons had come in, some from considerable distances, to observe the expected phenomenon. Among them was Mr. Frankenstein, of Springfield, Ohio, an artist, who hoped to paint the appearance of the eclipse and its effect on the landscape. This seemed an admirable idea, and it is quite remarkable that attempts of this kind have not been previously made; as they have not, at least to our knowledge. The circumstances of the present one made it eminently suitable for pictorial effect, owing to the small altitude of the sun; and the landscape, seen from the point selected, (some high hills east of the town,) is certainly one of great beauty.

The clouds broke away at about midnight and the thermometer fell considerably, reading about 59 at sunrise. The observing party improved the opportunity for final adjustments of instruments and preparatory observations, and hope revived in the hearts of all.

The sun rose unobscured on the morning of the 7th, and the day was cloudless till about ten o'clock, when some small cumuli drifted for about an hour across the sky, which then resumed its unbroken blue. The weather was also delightfully cool with a light breeze, which increased in the afternoon, and at four was blowing quite freshly. There were no signs of the predicted hailstorm, and strong faith would certainly have been needed for one to retain a belief of its arrival.

As the prospect of fine weather improved, and in fact seemed almost certain, the people, citizens and strangers, assembled on the observatory hill, and a rope was drawn round the tent where the instruments were mounted, to prevent a natural but dangerous curiosity on the part of those not immediately engaged in the special observations.

Every one now felt that they would be fully repaid for the time and labor devoted to the journey.

At about half-past four the edge of the sun was visibly indented; some persons maintained that they could see the moon some time previous to the contact; but this must probably be ascribed to a lively imagination. Smoked glass now came into demand, and all eyes were anxiously watching the rapidly decreasing orb. I had secured, through the kindness of an influential friend, an excellent position on the court-house, itself a high building and situated on the highest point in the town, commanding a fine view in all directions, particularly toward the north-west, from which quarter the shadow was sweeping toward us at the rate of more than a mile every second.

Some five or six gentlemen had followed me to the roof of the building, after which the ladder leading to the cupola was drawn up, to prevent a general ascent by the crowd below. At a quarter or twenty minutes past five, the wind began to abate, and the darkness was quite noticeable, and of course from that time continually increased, the general effect being like that of moonlight some time before the totality. The darkness was much more striking than at any time during the annular eclipse of 1854; this was probably owing to the total absence of any cloud, which would have reflected and multiplied the light of the unobscured portion of the sun, as on that occasion.

A minute or so before the totality, the complete circle of the moon was easily visible, with faint brushes of light streaming from it in all directions, which were soon to assume much larger dimensions, and, apparently, though not really, a greater brilliancy.

I cast now my eyes to the north-western horizon, and saw a brick-red tinge on the sky evidently caused by the rapidly approaching umbra. The long-expected moment had come; the last direct beam from the sun vanished, and a magnificent corona of rays, faint, of course, compared with the solar light, but bright in the prevailing gloom, shot out round the disc of the moon. These rays were prolonged in four directions at right angles to each other much more than elsewhere; having in these directions a length about equal to the sun's diameter, making the corona or aureola obviously cruciform in its shape.

Venus and Mercury appeared conspicuously on opposite sides of the moon, and Regulus could be seen, though with some difficulty. Several other first magnitude stars appeared in other parts of the sky, Arcturus, Vega, and Saturn being specially noticed by the observers at my side; and undoubtedly fainter ones could have been easily discerned, could one have been willing to divert his eyes from the beautiful sight placed before them, which seemed to surpass the expectations of every beholder. To all our party, I think, it conveyed little or no idea of horror or dread, but only of inexpressible beauty. The moon was at about one sixth of the distance to the zenith above the horizon, so that no straining of necks was necessary to look at it, as it hung over the darkened landscape. Certainly, as it so hung or floated, surrounded by the irrepressible splendor of the great source of light which lay behind it, and attended by its two bright planetary companions, one on each side, it was no unfit type of the glorious mystery which the church had just commemorated on the preceding day. The darkness was not so great as that of moonlight, but of course of a somewhat different character, the light not coming from one definite direction. I think it probable that no shadows were cast, but was too much occupied in other observations to be sure of this point. The birds around the building flew about wildly; and it was said that the fowls went to roost, and the cows started for home, and that the cocks crowed on the reappearance of the sun.

The eclipse had not lasted many seconds when I saw, without specially looking for it, a bright light red or orange drop on the lower edge of the moon, which of course was one of the famous protuberances. It was easily seen with the naked eye, though probably many who had not heard of these appearances did not notice it. Before the end of the obscuration, another appeared on the right where the sun was about to emerge. A third was also visible to the telescope above. Possibly they may have had some connection with the long rays of the corona.

Before we had fairly begun to satisfy our curiosity, a well-marked boundary between the general darkness and a bright portion of sky to the north-west gave warning of the end of the eclipse, and immediately afterward the sun flashed out on the right.

The separation of the discs of the sun and moon during the following hour was probably carefully observed by few except the astronomers and photographers; the moment of interest had passed, and few cared to do more than exchange congratulations on the success of the display. I forgot to notice whether the corona and prominences were visible after the totality; the latter were still seen, according to accounts received from elsewhere, and I met with one gentleman some days afterward who had seen the great protuberance on the lower edge of the sun at Shelbyville, Indiana, a point some fifteen miles from the outside line of totality; he had, of course, no previous suspicion of its existence.

The eclipse was naturally the principal topic of conversation during the evening, and every one was anxious to report his own observations and learn those of others. I found that eleven spectral lines had been seen by Professor Winlock in the great prominence, some of them characteristic of the metal magnesium. He saw only three before and after totality; thus confirming the idea previously entertained, that solar eclipses, though not the only occasions on which these interesting objects may be seen, are, with our present apparatus, far the best. The photographers had taken some eighty pictures, several during the totality, and the times of beginning and ending had been accurately observed both at Shelbyville and, as we afterward learned, also at the stations on the border line, Falmouth and Oakland; which border observations give the position and breadth of the path of the shadow within some eight or ten rods; the southern edge can even be determined with much greater accuracy, owing to a fortunate selection of the station, which proved to be extremely near it. The precise amounts by which these results differ from the previous computations have yet to be determined; but it is probable that the corrections to the tables now used will be very small.

An ingenious method of observing the time of the external contacts, or beginning and end of the whole eclipse, was, as I heard, devised by a gentleman at another station. These phenomena, especially the first, are very difficult to observe accurately, owing to the invisibility of the moon when off of the sun's disc, and the waviness of the sun's limb, making it doubtful that an indentation has been made in it till it has become quite deep, which is, of course, some time after the actual meeting of the two bodies. He observed it with the spectroscope by noting the time of disappearance of one of the lines only visible on the extreme edge of the sun's disc.

Every one not engrossed in some special work had, of course, seen the planets Venus and Mercury; and many had seen others of the first magnitude. The darkness was not so great as was hoped for by those who were searching for intra-Mercurial planets; no candle was necessary for examining the charts which had been prepared. One observer at Shelbyville reported having seen a star of the third magnitude with the naked eye, and as he had no previous knowledge of the existence of such a star in the place in which he was looking, the fact seems indubitable. Dr. B. A. Gould, of Cambridge, who observed at Burlington, Iowa, has since informed me that he saw a star of the fifth magnitude, with a telescope of five inches aperture, near the sun; the star is a well-known one, and the observation shows that, had any planets of that brilliancy (about one fiftieth of that of Mercury) been within three degrees of the sun, within which limits he was restricted in his search by the shortness of time, he would not have failed to detect them.

"Baily's beads" do not appear to have been considered as extraordinary by any of the observers. The limb of the sun just before the totality was of course more or less broken up by the irregularities of that of the moon; but the fragments had no remarkable appearance; and this phenomenon, which has been the subject of so much discussion, seems probably due to irradiation and the difficulty of determining the precise shape of small and brilliant objects.

An able astronomer, who was the chief of the party at Oakland, and who owing to his station being very near the southern edge of the shadow, saw them for fifteen or twenty seconds, says that they presented most clearly the phenomena which he should expect to be caused by the irregular contour of the moon, when its indentations were exaggerated by irradiation.

No discoveries of equal importance with M. Janssen's last year have yet been reported; but as no eclipse has ever been so thoroughly observed, the results cannot fail, when thoroughly collected and compared, to be of great scientific value.

RELIGION IN PRISONS.[27]

For the last quarter of a century, a society has existed in this city entitled the "Prison Association of New York." It counts among its members a large number of the wealthy and influential men of the State. Its object is to improve our prison systems and to effect as far as possible the permanent reformation of our criminals. With so humane and Christian an object we most heartily sympathize.

Its Twenty-fourth Annual Report, which we recently received, is a very interesting and comprehensive document. Accompanying it is a circular in which we are told that the association desires "that the public attention may be directed to this question, and the public sentiment in relation to it enlightened and invigorated, so that our prison systems and our administration of criminal justice may everywhere be improved and brought into harmony with the advancing civilization of the age."

We shall, therefore, offer a few suggestions on this subject.

A criminal is a man morally diseased. As such he should be considered--as such be treated. In a right prison system, the punishment of past offences should be but the secondary object; the prevention of future offences, the main one. No permanent outward change can be effected till an inward reformation has been wrought; and that reformation must come through mental but especially through moral development.

We learn from this report, with much pleasure, that, in the prisons of the chief States, libraries have been established; and that, in many of them, instruction is regularly imparted to the inmates, through classes and lectures. Ignorance is a fruitful source of vice. The Catholic Church, which alone raised the world from the intellectual darkness into which, at the fall of the Roman empire, the inpouring of northern barbarians had plunged her, stands to-day the foremost champion of enlightened Christian education. She regards knowledge as an aid to virtue. She courts the light of science, that in its beams the truth of her dogmas may appear with brighter resplendence.

But experience has clearly shown that virtue is not a necessary consequence of education--that moral does not always follow mental development. To prove this, we need not go outside of this report, in which, page 373, we read the following words of Amos Pilsbury, "the Nestor of jailers on this continent; an officer whose name is almost as well known in Europe as it is in America":

"Experience has, unhappily, demonstrated that the possession of education is not incompatible with the commission of crimes of every kind; and we have seen many melancholy examples of very highly educated men falling victims to drunkenness and other degrading vices." Daniel Webster therefore truthfully said: "Man is not only an intellectual, but he is also a moral being; and his religious feelings and habits require cultivation. Let the religious element in man's nature be neglected; let him be influenced by no higher motive than low self-interest, and subjected to no stronger restraints than the limits of civil authority, and he becomes the creature of selfish passions and blind fanaticism. The cultivation of the religious sentiment represses licentiousness, incites to general benevolence and the practical acknowledgment of the brotherhood of men; inspires respect for law and order, and gives strength to the whole social fabric; at the same time it conducts the human soul upward to the Author of its being."

After quoting these words, Rev. David Dyer, chaplain of the Albany Penitentiary, adds, page 348: "Of all the attributes of man, the moral and religious are the most important and influential. They, by divine arrangement, have this precedency. They are designed to be the mainspring of thought and action, the director of the whole man. Let them be neglected, debased, or treated as of secondary importance, and the whole system will be deranged. Readjustment and reformation will be impossible. There may, indeed, be induced, under the power of seclusion or physical force, a servile fear; perverse passions may, for a time, be checked, and the developments of a depraved will may be staid; but let these appliances be removed, and it will soon become apparent that instead of promoting reformation they have induced spiritual hardness, recklessness, and hate, and made the man a more inveterate slave to his passions and a greater injury to the state. The moral and religious improvement of convicts should, therefore, be the first and constant aim of all to whose care they are committed. Their chief efforts should be directed to the sanctification of the springs of thought and action; and this secured, through the benediction of God, those objects of Christian solicitude will go forth to exemplify in virtuous lives the wisdom and utility of these efforts."

It being plain, therefore, that upon religious and moral influences chiefly we must rely for the reformation of criminals, the question next arises, What should be the nature of those influences? Should they be in accordance with the conscience of the criminal or not? Should the clergyman who is to minister to his spiritual wants, possess his confidence, and lead him to good, be a clergyman of his own church, or of a church from which the prisoner was, is, and will be throughout life, fundamentally separated, in thought and feeling? Should the books which are placed in his hands, with a view to his moral improvement, be such as will attract, because written in accordance with the principles of his church, and recommended by its teachers, or such as will raise suspicion, if they do not actually repel, because coming from a doubtful source, and full, perhaps, of expressions and statements at variance with his religious sentiments?

The proper answer to these questions is, we think, self-evident. No man who has to build a house on a foundation already laid begins by attempting to weaken that foundation.

Last year, in the city of New York, 46,476 were committed to prison. Of this number, 28,667, nearly two thirds, were of foreign birth. A statistical view of all the prisoners of the United States, page 149, shows that twenty-seven per cent of the inmates belong to the same class. A large share of these are undoubtedly Catholics. So, likewise, are many who are put down as of native birth.

Now, we ask, how much is done to bring to bear on these unfortunates the salutary influences of their own religion?

How many prisons in the United States have Catholic chaplains? In how many is a priest invited to minister at stated times to the spiritual wants of this great number of inmates? In how many cases, not so much in this as in other parts of the country, is the priest not only not invited, but with difficulty allowed, if allowed at all, to say mass and administer the sacraments of penance and the eucharist to the prisoners who are of his own faith?

We read in this report, with much pleasure, that libraries have been established in our chief prisons; that "the aggregate number of volumes is 15,250;" that "in some States, a fixed annual sum is appropriated of the increase of the prison libraries; in others, additions are made by special grants. New York appropriates for her three prisons, $950; Pennsylvania, for her two, $450; Michigan, $300; Massachusetts, $200; Connecticut, $200." Of this large and annually increasing supply of books, intended as an aid in the moral reformation of criminals, of whom probably one third are Catholics, what portion is written by Catholics? What portion is Catholic, either in its tone or in its teaching? How many of these books are not more or less _anti-Catholic_, and hence repulsive to the religious feelings of those for whose benefit they are intended?

We have no desire to make proselytes in our prisons. We do not wish to interfere with the religious convictions of prisoners who do not belong to our faith; but we claim as a right, and maintain in the name of justice and of philanthropy and of true statesmanship, that our Catholic criminals should, as far as possible, be attended by Catholic clergymen and be supplied with Catholic books. As the Russian Count Sollohub says, page 572, in his paper on "The Prison System of Russia," "Religion is, beyond contradiction, the first principle of all human perfection. It is this alone which consoles, this alone which replaces the passions by humility, and a disordered life by a life without reproach. But every religion has its forms. Let Catholicism pursue its propagandism (?) in the prisons--nothing better; for this it has its orators. Let Puritanism shut up its criminals and cause them to enter into themselves by the reading of the Bible; it has for that the education which it gives." And again, page 573, "Missionaries, special brotherhoods, the enthusiastic propagandists of Bible societies, and prison visitors are certainly worthy of the most respectful sympathy; but they belong to a different order of ideas."

In reading the article on "Religion in Prisons," by the Corresponding Secretary of the Association, Mr. E. C. Wines, we were much struck by the following words, page 390: "The benefit to convicts is obvious and incalculable of frequent conversation with an earnest, kind, godly, sympathizing, and judicious chaplain, when the prisoner can express his feelings and the pastor can give his counsels and admonitions, with no one by to check the free outpourings of the heart on either side. One special reason for such visits and conversations is, that the chaplain is thereby enabled the better to direct his inquiries and instructions to each prisoner's particular case."

Here the gentleman has, perhaps without knowing it, clearly depicted a _Catholic confession_. Catholic prisoners will thus open their hearts to a Catholic priest and to a Catholic priest only; and from his lips words of counsel and of kindness will have vastly more weight than when they come from any other source whatsoever.

Of Mettray, in France,[28] a Catholic institution, and the model reformatory of the world, we read, page 258, that "the church doors stand always open, and whoever seeks an opportunity for private prayer is free to enter," and, page 259, "the founders of the institution have laid great stress on the influence of religion as affording the only solid foundation for the reformation of criminals; and the words, '_Maison de Dieu_,' are inscribed in front of the church as an acknowledgment that, unless the Lord build the house, their labor is but lost that build it. The proportion of communicants is considerable, and it is noticeable that on the approach of the great festivals, there is always a marked diminution in the number of infractions."

The necessity of bringing Catholic religious influences to bear on Catholic prisoners has been acknowledged in the Irish prison system, which is considered of all prison systems the most perfect; for we are told, page 336, that, besides the Protestant, there are Catholic chaplains who "say mass daily, and hold religious services twice on Sunday."

In the most friendly spirit, we respectfully recommend the consideration of these facts and suggestions to the Prison Association of New York, and to all, throughout the country, who take an interest in our prison system and desire the reformation and welfare of our unfortunate criminals. They are generally the victims of ignorance and wretchedness. Had they been willing to exchange faith for falsehood, and to barter their birthright for a mess of pottage, they might now be prosperous in their native land. Thus is a certain glory found even in their shame. For the sake of principle they have embraced poverty and exile. They are poor; and the poor sin publicly and are punished. Surrounded by countless temptations, when they fall they are more to be pitied than blamed. We could not disown them if we would, and we would not if we could. The church never disowned them. On the contrary, she has performed miracles of mercy in their favor. The Saviour never disowned them, for we read that he ate with publicans and sinners.

Much has been done toward reforming this unfortunate class. Much more may yet be done. Their souls are not dead but sleeping! Let the Prison Association of New York see that the influences of their own religion are brought to bear upon them. Wherever there is a considerable number of Catholics confined in any prison, penitentiary, reform-school, or school-ship, let a Catholic priest be invited to administer to their spiritual wants and to perform the religious service of their church. Let the association see that in the selection of books for prison libraries, a fair share are Catholic books; not dry theological treatises, nor dull books of piety, but books such as are calculated to divert, to instruct, to elevate; to make better men, better citizens, and better members of society; to strengthen conscience and loyalty to the great principles of divine religion and eternal right.

We entirely agree with the association as to the end to be attained, and we have endeavored, in a few words, to point out the means best calculated for the attainment of that end with a very large part of our criminals. We trust that our ideas will receive a trial, and that narrow-minded and bigoted intolerance will not be allowed to put obstacles in the way.

Catholic criminals can be permanently reformed only by Catholic religious influences.

FOOTNOTES:

[27] _Twenty-Fourth Annual Report of the Executive Committee of the Prison Association of New York, and accompanying Documents, for 1868._ Transmitted to the Legislature Jan. 13th, 1869. Albany: The Argus Company, Printers. 1869.

[28] See CATHOLIC WORLD, January, 1869.

CATHOLICITY AND PANTHEISM.

NUMBER EIGHT.

UNION BETWEEN THE INFINITE AND THE FINITE, OR FIRST MOMENT OF GOD'S EXTERNAL ACTION

The result of our preceding article was a supreme duality--the infinite and the finite. The one absolutely distinct in nature from the other. The first self-existing, necessary, eternal, immutable, infinitely perfect, and absolutely complete and blessed in his interior life; the other, created, contingent, mutable, imperfect, and on the way to development. How can this duality, so marked and so distinct, the terms of which are so infinitely apart, be harmonized and brought together into unity?

Such is the fifth problem which pantheism raises, and which it undertakes to solve.

Let us investigate more deeply the nature of the problem.

We do not now inquire whether there be any kind of union between the infinite and the finite, because they are already united by means of the creative act.

The infinite creates the finite, sustains and directs it, three moments which constitute the finite and cause it to act. This is the first and fundamental union between the infinite and the finite. After what union, then, do we seek when the problem is raised, Is there a union between the infinite and the finite already perfect as to being, or, in other words, between the infinite and the finite already united by the creative act?

We inquire after a union which may mark and express the highest possible elevation of perfection which the cosmos, or the assemblage of all finite beings, may attain; and as the finite, as we shall see, cannot acquire its highest possible perfection except by a union with infinite perfection, it follows that the problem inquires after the highest possible union between the infinite and the finite.

We shall, according to our wont, give the pantheistic solution of the problem, and then subjoin the answer of Catholicity. The pantheistic solution is as follows: The infinite is the highest possible indetermination and indefiniteness in the way to development. It becomes definite and concrete in the finite, and this by a gradual process.

First, it assumes the lowest possible form of existence in the mineral kingdom. Then it begins to show life in the vegetable kingdom. It acquires sensation and perception in the animal, and shoots up into intelligence and consciousness in humanity. Yet is this intelligence and consciousness essentially progressive, and begins from the minimum degree to rise to the highest. This principle explains all the stages of more or less civilization of which history makes mention. At first the infinite acquires those faculties in humanity which border on and are more akin to the senses, such as the imagination and the fancy; hence the primitive state of nations is marked with very imperfect development of the reasoning faculties, and with a superabundance of imagination; consequently, this primitive state abounds in national bards, who discharge all those offices which, in nations more civilized, are fulfilled by others, such as historians, orators, etc. It is also the age of myths, when people with young and robust fancy are apt to give flesh and blood and personality to any striking legend in vogue, until the legend, so dressed up and personified, is misunderstood for a historical fact and real person. Then, in proportion as the development advances, the infinite acquires a better explication of the reasoning faculties, and hence the ages of philosophy. Of course the development is gradual and slow, and is perfected by time and continued development, until the infinite arrives not only to the fullest explication of the reasoning faculties, but also to the full consciousness of its infinity, and of its eternal duration.

The infinite, arrived at the fullest explication of its intelligence, and to the full consciousness of its infinity, is humanity, or the cosmos arrived to the highest possible perfection. This humanity, dressed up by the imagination of the people, with individuality and personal traits, is the Christ, or the myth which Christians adore.

"The subject of the attributes," says Strauss, "which the church predicates of Christ, is not an individual, but a certain idea, though real, and not void of reality, like the Kantian ideas. The properties and perfections attributed to Christ by the church, if considered as united in one individual, the God-man, contradict each other, but may be reconciled in the idea of the _species_. Humanity is the collection of two natures, or God made man; that is, the _infinite spirit transformed into a finite nature who is conscious of his eternal duration_. This humanity is begotten from a visible mother and an invisible father, that is, spirit and nature. It is that which performs miracles, enjoys impeccability, dies, and rises again, and goes up to heaven. Man, believing in this Christ, and especially in his death and resurrection, may acquire justification before God."[29]

According to pantheism, then, the infinite, acquiring the full consciousness of his infinite perfections in humanity, is the highest possible perfection of the cosmos, and the union, therefore, between the two is the union of _identity_.

We are dispensed from attempting any refutation of this theory, seeing that it rests on premises which we have already demonstrated to be false and absurd. We only beg the reader to observe how utterly futile and useless is this theory for the solution of the problem which has called it forth. The problem is, how to raise the cosmos to the highest possible perfection, or, in other words, how to establish the highest possible union of the finite and the infinite, from which the highest possible perfection of the finite may result.

Pantheism answers by proclaiming the absolute identity of the infinite and the finite, by marking the highest possible perfection on the cosmos, when the infinite in its finite form of development acquires a consciousness of its infinity. Now, it is evident in this answer that one term of the problem is swept away, that no real cosmos exists, that it is but a phenomenon of the infinite, and that, consequently, in the pantheistic solution the problem of the highest possible union of the infinite and the finite cannot exist, because the second term of the union does not really exist.

In the preceding article we raised the question, Is there a means by which to raise the cosmos to the highest possible perfection, a perfection almost absolute and beyond which we cannot go? And we answered that the problem cannot be solved by human reason, being altogether super-intelligible, and that the solution of it must be left to the Catholic Church, the repository of divine revelation.

Now, the church answers the problem by laying down the first moment of the external action of God, the hypostatic moment. By it the human nature, and through it the cosmos, is elevated to the highest possible perfection--a perfection beyond which we could not go; and thus the problem is resolved, and the aspiration of the finite to the highest possible union with the infinite is satisfied. That the reader may fully understand the doctrine of Catholicity in answer to the problem, we shall beg leave to recall a few principles which will pave the way to the very heart of the answer.

1st. Every work of God, before it exists in itself, has an objective existence in God's Word.

We remarked, in the sixth article, that every contingent being must have a twofold state of existence, one objective, the other subjective. The objective is the ideal and intelligible state of every being residing eternally in the mind of God. Now, all God's ideality or intelligibility is centred in the Word, whose constituent is to be the very ideality or intelligibility of God. Consequently, the cosmos, before it exists in itself, has an objective and intelligible state of existence in the Word. In other terms, the Word is the subsisting and eternal intelligible expression of every thing that God is, and every thing that resides within God. He is, therefore, essentially the expression of all divine ideas. Now, all the works of God are a divine idea. Therefore, the Word by his personal constituent is the representation, the type of the general system of God's external works.

2d. All the works of God, inasmuch as they reside in the Word in a typical state, are infinite.

For whatever is within God is identified with his essence, which is absolute simplicity. Therefore, the cosmos, in its typical state residing in the Word, resides in God, and is thus identified with the essence of God, and is consequently infinite. St. John, with the sublimest expression ever uttered by man, renders this idea when he says, "All that was made in him (the Word) was life,"[30] indicating that the Word, consisting of all the intelligibility of God and that which was made belonging to the ideality and intelligibility of God, was the very life of the Word, and consequently infinite.

3d. The Word is not only the type but the efficient cause of the cosmos. The truth of this follows from the essential relation of the Word to the Father.

The Father, knowing himself, knows also whatever is possible. But whatever he knows he utters and expresses by his Word. Therefore, the Father, through his only Word, utters himself and things outside himself. But his utterance of creatures is also the cause of their subjective existence, since God is pure and undivided act. Consequently, through his single Word he affirms himself and his exterior works, and consequently he is also their efficient cause.

4th. The external action of God tends to express, exteriorly, the divine idea of the cosmos, as perfectly as it is uttered interiorly.

We have shown in the preceding article that, although it was not necessary that God should effect the best possible cosmos, for the reasons which we have therein given, yet it was most agreeable to the end of creation that God should effect the best possible cosmos. Now, the best possible cosmos is evidently that which draws as near as possible to its intelligible and typical state. Consequently, the external action of God has a tendency to express, exteriorly, the divine ideas as perfectly as he utters them interiorly. St. Thomas proves the same truth with a somewhat similar argument. Every agent, he says, intends to express his own similitude (the interior idea) on the effect he produces, and the more perfect is the agent, the better and stronger will be the similitude between him and his effect. Now, God is most perfect agent. It was, therefore, most agreeable to him to stamp his own similitude on his external works as perfectly as possible; that is, it was most agreeable to him to render his external works as like their typical state as possible.

5th. This supreme or best possible expression of the typical state of God's external works could not be substantial or ontological.

We have seen that the typical state of the cosmos, residing eternally in the Word of God, is identified with him, and is therefore infinite. It follows, therefore, that if we suppose a supreme, substantial, and ontological expression of this typical state, we must suppose a supreme, substantial, and ontological expression of the infinite. Now, this is absurd; because a supreme and ontological expression of the infinite would be the very substance of God. On the other hand, the expression, requiring necessarily to be created, would be essentially finite. Consequently, on the supposition, we should have a finite infinite substantial expression of God, which is a contradiction in terms.

6th. The supreme expression cannot be effected except by an incorporation of the infinite into the finite.

Having excluded the identity between the finite and infinite natures, an identity which would be a necessary consequence if the expression were substantial and ontological, if a supreme expression of the infinite is to be effected, if the cosmos, in its subjective state, is to be elevated and made as like as possible to its typical state, there are no other means of effecting this than by an incorporation of the infinite into the finite. For let it be remembered that the finite, in force of its nature, is indefinitely progressive. You can add perfection to perfection, but unless you transform it into the infinite, it will never change its nature, and will continue to be finite. Thus, the only possible way of elevating it to the highest possible perfection, is to raise it to a union with the infinite greater than which you cannot conceive.

7th. This union or incorporation must be effected by the Word.

Because, first, the Word is the natural organ between the Father and his exterior work, since, with the same utterance, the Father speaks himself and his external works. Secondly, this union is required in order that the external works may draw as near to their typical state as possible. Now, the Word is the living and personal typical state of the cosmos, the intelligible life of the external works; it is necessary, therefore, that _he_ should enter into the finite, and bring into harmony the interior infinite type of the cosmos, with its finite external expression; unite together the ideal intelligible state with the real subjective state of the cosmos.

From all we have said, it follows that all the external works reside in the Word; that inasmuch as they reside in the Word in their typical state, they are his very life, and consequently infinite; that the Word is not only the typical but efficient cause of the cosmos; that the external act tends to express exteriorly the typical state of the cosmos as perfectly as it is uttered interiorly; that this supreme expression could not be substantial and ontological; and that, consequently, the only means of effecting it was an incorporation of the infinite into the finite, to be executed by the Word as the natural organ between God and his external works.

Now, this is the answer which Catholicity affords to the problem, What is the union by which the finite attains its highest possible perfection?

It answers in the sublime expressions of the Eagle among the Evangelists, and which resume, in a few words, all we have hitherto said.

"In the beginning (the Father) was the Word.

"And the Word was with God.

"And the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made _by him_, and without him was made nothing.

"That which was made in him was _life_.

"And the Word was made _flesh_, and dwelt among us."[31]

The Word of God, the subsisting ideality of the Father, the living type of his external works, united himself to human nature, the micro-cosmos, or abridgment of the cosmos, in such a close and intimate union as to be himself the subsistence of human nature, and thus exalted the cosmos to its highest possible perfection. This union of the Word with human nature is called hypostatic or personal union.

We must now study its nature and properties, draw the consequences which flow from it, and point out how well it answers all the requisites and conditions of the problem.

And in the first place, we remark that the subsistence of finite beings is also contingent and variable. We have before given an idea of subsistence and personality; but we beg leave to recall a few ideas about these most important notions of ideology, that the reader may better perceive in what the nature of the hypostatic union really consists. We shall explain the following notions: possibility, actuality, nature, substance, subsistence, and personality.

Possibility is the non-repugnance of a being. It is intrinsic or exterior. When the essential elements which constitute the idea of a being do not clash together or contradict each other, the being is intrinsically possible. When, besides the intrinsic possibility, there exists a principle which may give the being actual existence, the possibility is external.

The intrinsic possibility of a being in the mind of the cause or principle of this being is called intelligible actuality. Actuality or existence, properly speaking--that is, subjective actuality--is the existence of the being outside of the intelligent cause which perceives it; or, in other words, the external expression of the intelligible actuality.

Nature is the radical, interior principle of action in every existing being.

Substance is the existing of the being in itself, or the permanence and duration of a being in itself. Now, a being which is a substance may be united with another substance, and the union may be so close that one of them may become the natural, inseparable, intrinsic organ of the other. In this case the being which is thus united with the other and has become the organ of the other, although not ceasing to be a substance, possesses no subsistence of its own. What, then, is the subsistence of a being? It is not merely the existing in itself; it is the exclusive possession of the existing in itself and whatever flows from this exclusive possession. A being is possessed of existence in itself and of its operations, when the union of which we have spoken does not exist. But whenever such union exists, though the being continues to be substance or to exist in itself, it has yet no exclusive possession of itself.

Hence, subsistence is defined the last complement of a substance which makes it an independent whole, separate or distinct from all others; makes it own and possess itself, and renders it responsible for its operations. Personality adds to this the element of intelligence; so that a person is that supreme and intelligent principle in a being which knows itself to be a whole, independent of all others; which enjoys the possession of itself, and is responsible for its actions. Consequently, every substance which is complete--that is, detached from and independent of all other substances in such a manner as to constitute a whole by itself, and alone to bear the attribution of its properties, modifications, and functions--is a subsistence.

The subsistence or personality of a contingent being is also contingent, and may be separable from it so as to give rise to a twofold supposition, either that the contingent being never had a subsistence of its own, or, if it had, it may be deprived of it, and its own subsistence may be substituted by another.

In the first place, we remark, in vindication of this statement, that it is impossible that any substance could really exist without a subsistence. Because, as we have said, subsistence is the last complement of substance, and consequently without it the substance could not be actual, but would be a mere abstraction. That for which we contend in the proposition just laid down is, that it is not necessary that a substance should have a subsistence of its own, but that it may subsist of the subsistence of another.

For it is evident that every being comprised within the sphere of the contingent and the finite may cease to be a whole by itself, and may contract with a nature foreign to itself a union so intimate and so strong as to depend on this foreign nature in all its functions and its states, and no longer to bear the attribution and solidarity of its actions and modifications. If, for instance, a hand detached from the whole body were to trace characters, this action would be attributed to it exclusively; it would be a subsistence, a whole by itself, and we should say, _That hand writes_. But if it should become a part of, and we should consider is as dependent on, a human nature and will, it would then lose the solidary attribution of the function of which it is the organ; and then we could no longer say, _That hand writes_; but, _That man writes_.

A contingent substance may be deprived of the possession of its subsistence by a union with a substance even inferior in nature to itself. Because its superiority over this nature would not prevent its being dependent on it in its functions and in its states, as is the case with the human soul, which presides over the body, which produces in it continual changes, and which, in spite of the excellence which distinguishes it from the mass of matter which it animates, yet depends on the body in its most intimate situations, and finds itself bowed down by the continual evil which it suffers thereby.

Hence is it that in man the possession of subsistence belongs neither to the soul nor to the body, and there is no other subsistence in him but the sum of the two natures of which he is composed, but the whole of the two extremes united together, and which is at the same time spirit and body, incorruptible and corruptible, the intelligent and the brute.

Hence, neither the soul nor the body are denominated separately by their respective functions; but it is the whole man who receives the attribution and the different appellations of the actions and states of either nature, and we say, man thinks, man walks, man wills, man grows. Consequently that axiom, _Actiones et denominationes sunt suppositorum_, Actions are to be attributed to the subsistence. We remark, in the second place, that in the infinite alone the subsistence and personality is necessary, and consequently can never be separated from him or be dependent on any other. Because in this order personality affects a nature essentially complete, total, and of its own intrinsic nature absolutely independent in its action and in its eternal and immutable state, of all external substance.

It follows, therefore, that if a divine personality enters into a finite nature, it must necessarily preserve its own subsistence, since it is evident that, if a divine person is united to a created nature in a manner so close and intimate as to form one single individuality, the created nature, in force of the principles above stated, would have no individuality of its own, and the divine personality would, in such case, necessarily be the supreme and independent principle constituting the new individual, the infinite term and completion of the two natures. Now, such is the hypostatic union. The infinite person of the Word united to himself human nature in a manner so close and intimate as to form one single individuality, Christ Jesus, the Theanthropos; so that the human nature of Christ had no subsistence of its own, but subsisted of the personality of the Word. Hence, in Christ the Word of God was the only supreme and independent principle, who knew himself to be a whole apart, composed of the human and divine natures, who bore alone the attribution and solidarity of the actions springing from either nature, and who was, consequently, the only person in Christ.

But to make the nature of the hypostatic union more intelligible to the reader, we shall dwell upon it a little longer.

We may reduce all the unions between the infinite and the finite to three. The first is the action of God creating finite substances, maintaining them in existence and directing all their movements, permitting, however, their defects and shortcomings.

This is the first and fundamental union between the infinite and the finite. It begins the moment the finite is created, and continues in existence by preservation and concurrence. All this in the natural order. In the supernatural order there is also a first and fundamental union, as we shall see, by which the action of God effects, as it were, a new and superior term, preserves and directs it in its development. Thus, the first union between the finite and the infinite is the action of God effecting a finite term, maintaining it in existence and directing it in its development, both in the substantial and in the sublimative moments. However, this union not only leaves whole and entire the individuality and subsistence of the two terms united, but is not even so close and intimate as to prevent the finite term of the union from occasionally failing in its action, and of falling short of the aim to which it naturally tends. Hence a second and more excellent species of union. By it the infinite is so closely united with the finite as not only to preserve it, and to direct it in all its actions, but also to prevent it from falling into defects and errors.

This second kind of union, though, as it is evident, far exceeding the former in intimacy and perfection, since it implies an extraordinary employment of activity on the part of the infinite, and a special elevation of the finite, is yet not so close as to deprive the finite term of its own subsistence and individuality.[32] We may, therefore, conceive a third kind of union, whereby an infinite personality may be united to a finite nature so closely and so intimately as not only to move and direct it in all its actions, as not only to prevent it from falling into failings and imperfections, but as to make it the _intrinsic instrument_, the _intimate organ_ of his own infinite action in such a manner as to form of the finite nature and of the infinite personality a new and single individuality.

This supposition is eminently possible. For, on the one hand, the infinite personality being possessed of infinite energy, and, on the other, the finite nature being endowed with an indefinite capacity of sublimation, nothing can detain the first from communicating itself to the second with such energy, power, and intensity of communication as to render it its own most intimate and dependent organ of action. In fact, let the communication of an infinite person to a finite nature be carried to its highest possible degree of union short of absorbing and destroying the real existence of the finite, its substantiality, so to speak; let this finite nature be, accordingly, raised to the highest possible intimacy with the infinite person; let the latter take such intense possession of the former as to make it its own intrinsic organ, the immediate and sole instrument of his own infinite operation, and what will the result be? Why, that the finite nature will no longer possess itself, no longer form a whole by itself separated from and independent of any other; no longer bear the attribution of the actions springing from its nature; in short, it will no longer be a subsistence and an individuality by itself, but will form one single individuality with the divine person, or rather the infinite person will be the only single subsistence of the two natures united, the infinite and the finite. The finite nature in this supposition would stand, with regard to the infinite person, in the same relation in which our body stands with regard to our soul. For the union of body and soul, which constitutes the individual called man, takes place according to this kind of union. The soul is united to the body in a manner so close and so intimate as to render the body its own most intrinsic, dependent instrument, the organ of its operations in such a manner that, in force of this operation, the body does not possess itself, does not form a whole apart, nor is it accountable for the actions which immediately flow from its nature. In other words, it has no subsistence of its own, but subsists of the subsistence of the soul and the whole individual man. The result of this union is possessed of the subsistence and forms one person.

The Incarnation of the Word is like to this union, hence called hypostatic or personal union. The second person of the Trinity united himself to the entire human nature, constituted of body and soul, in a manner so close and intimate as to be _himself_ the subsistence of the human nature; the latter never enjoying a subsistence of its own, because, contemporaneously to the very first instant of its existence, it became the internal, the immediate, and the most intimate organ of the Word of God, and subsisted of the subsistence of the Word, so that it never bore the attribution and solidarity of those actions which have an immediate origin in human nature, but the attribution and solidarity, and, consequently, the moral worth, of those actions belonged to the personality of the Word, according to the axiom that _Actiones sunt suppositorum_.

Hence the union between the Word of God and his human nature was not a moral union, which always implies the distinct individuality and personality of the two terms united, as Nestorius thought, and many would-be Christians of the present day seem to hold.

Nestorius was ready to grant that the union between the Word and human nature was as high and intimate as possible, so far as moral union can permit; but never would he concede that it was any higher than simple moral union, which kept whole and entire the two individualities united. Consequently, he admitted two persons and two individualities in Christ--the _Word_ of God, and the man called Christ. From which theory it follows that our Lord was a mere man--a saint, if you will, the highest of all saints, yet simply a man.

Catholic doctrine, on the contrary, teaching that the union of the Word and the human nature was personal, inasmuch as the divine person of the Word was the subsistence in which his human nature subsisted, teaches consequently, at the same time, that in Christ there is one person, one individuality--the divine personality of the Word; that therefore Christ, the new individual, is God, being the second divine person, in which both his divine and human nature subsist. Nor was the human nature of this new individual so absorbed by the divine personality as to cease to be a substance, as Eutyches affirmed, who upheld, it would seem, a fusion and a mixture of the two natures altogether inconceivable and absurd.

From all we have said we may form quite an accurate idea of what the hypostatic union really means. It is the union, or the meeting, so to speak, of the human and divine natures in the one single point of contact, the infinite personality of the Word of God; the human nature having no personality of its own, but subsisting of the identical personality of the Word.

The new individual possessed of the divine and human nature in the unity of the single personality of the Word is Jesus Christ.

To complete now the idea of the hypostatic union, we shall point out some consequences which evidently flow from that union:

1. We should consider that nature being transmitted through generation, and Christ being possessed of two natures, the human and the divine, it is necessary to admit in him a twofold generation: one eternal, according to which he received the divine nature from the Father; the second temporal, by which he received his human nature from the Virgin Mother.

2. As nature is the radical principle and source of operation in every being, it follows that, as Christ is possessed of two natures, we must predicate of him a double operation--one human, the other divine.

3. In force of the same principle, we must predicate of him whatever necessarily belongs to the two distinct natures. Hence, as intelligence and will, together with their respective perfections, belong both to the human and to the divine nature, it is clear that we must attribute to Christ, first, a divine intelligence and a divine will with their perfections, such as infinite wisdom and knowledge, infinite holiness, goodness, justice, etc.; second, a human intelligence and a human will, together with the perfections of these faculties, as knowledge, wisdom, holiness, etc.

4. As actions, though immediately proceeding from nature, are to be attributed to the subsistence and personality, because nature could not act without being possessed of subsistence, and as the subsistence and personality of both natures of Christ is one--the personality of the Word of God; and as this personality is infinite, it follows that the actions of Christ, whether immediately springing from his human nature, or proceeding from his divine nature, have all an infinite worth and excellence, on the ground of the infinite worth of the person to whom they must be attributed. This principle, so evident, and grounded on the axiom of ideology to which we have alluded--_Actiones sunt suppositorum_--has been denied by some, especially Unitarians. But happily the most abstract principles of ideology have such a bearing upon human dignity that it is easy to refute such would-be philosophers on the strong ground of the dignity of the human species. Let us give an instance. How are the actions immediately proceeding from the corporal nature of man, such, for instance, as those of locomotion, distinguished from the actions of locomotion in the brutes? And why is it that the actions of locomotion of the first may attain the highest and most heroic moral worth, while the same actions in the brute may never have a moral dignity? Ontologically they are the same. An animal may move its foot; I may do the same; both movements may save the life of a man. In me, the stirring of my foot may have the dignity of a moral and heroic action. In the brute, it can never have it. What causes the difference? The difference lies in the fact that I am a person, the brute is not. I, being a person, the supreme, first, and independent principle of action of both my natures, corporal and spiritual, it follows that all actions radically flowing from either of my natures are to be attributed to me as person, as the supreme and independent principle of them; and as I, as a person, am capable of moral dignity, all the actions, whether proceeding from my corporal or my spiritual nature, become capable of moral worth and dignity.

In Christ, the personality or the supreme and independent principle of action of both his natures, human and divine, being one, it is evident that whether his actions radically proceed from his human nature, or spring from his divine nature, they must all be attributed to his one and single person; and as the person is infinite, the worth and dignity of all his actions is simply infinite. As in man the personality of both corporal and spiritual natures being capable of morality, the action springing from either nature may have a moral dignity and worth. We shall conclude this article by answering a few objections raised by Unitarians against the hypostatic union. We shall take them verbatim from Dr. Channing's lecture on _Unitarian Christianity_:

"According to this doctrine, (the doctrine of those who hold the hypostatic union,) Jesus Christ, instead of being one mind, one conscious intelligent principle, whom we can understand, consists of two souls, two minds: the one divine, the other human; the one weak, the other almighty; the one ignorant, the other omniscient. Now, we maintain that this is to make Christ two beings. To denominate him one person, one being, and yet to suppose him made up of two minds infinitely different from each other, is to abuse and confound language, and to throw darkness over all our conceptions of intelligent natures. According to the common doctrine, each of those two minds in Christ has its own consciousness, its own will, its own perceptions. They have, in fact, no common properties. The divine mind feels none of the wants and sorrows of the human, and the human is infinitely removed from the perfections and happiness of the divine. Can you conceive of two beings in the universe more distinct? We have always thought that one person was constituted and distinguished by one consciousness. The doctrine that one and the same person should have two consciousnesses, two wills, two souls infinitely different from each other, this we think an enormous tax on human credulity."[33]

We are not, of course, aware from what source or teachers Dr. Channing learned the doctrine of the hypostatic union. Of one thing we are fully assured, that the Catholic Church never taught, first, that in Christ there are two souls. He is endowed with a human soul, belonging to the human nature of which he is possessed. The infinite and divine nature of the Word, of which Christ is also preserved, has never, in theological language, been called a soul, nor can we denominate it by that name except in loose and metaphorical language, unworthy of a philosopher and theologian who is stating points of doctrine.

Again, the Catholic Church never taught that the human soul of Christ was ignorant. This may have been the opinion of those from whom Dr. Channing may have drawn the theory of the hypostatic union; but in stating a doctrine in which all Christendom concurs, Protestant as well as Catholic, we should have thought it more honest if Dr. Channing, not satisfied with his own teachers, would have taken the pains to ascertain what two hundred and fifty millions of Christians hold about it.

The first real objection of Dr. Channing is as follows:

"We maintain that this (to attribute to Christ two natures in one person) is to make Christ two beings."

The same looseness and want of accuracy of philosophical language. What does Dr. Channing mean by _being_? If by being is meant nature, of course we do all attribute to Christ two natures, the human and the divine.

If by being is meant person, we deny flatly that to attribute to Christ two natures is to make him two persons.

Let the reverend doctor prove the intrinsic impossibility of two distinct natures being united in one single subsistence and person, and then we shall grant him that Christ, being possessed of two natures, is two persons also. But such impossibility can never be demonstrated; for the fact of the union between soul and body in man, in the unity of one single personality, is a contradiction to all such pretended impossibility. We have, moreover, shown in the course of this article the intrinsic possibility of such supposition.

Dr. Channing continues:

"To denominate him one person, one being, and yet to suppose him made up of two minds infinitely different from each other, is to abuse and confound language, and to throw darkness over all our conceptions of intelligent natures."

If our reverend opponent chooses to look with contempt and slight on all distinct and accurate notions of ideology, which he calls, in another place, vain philosophy; if he prefers to form crude and undigested ideas; if he will not sound to the very depth the nature, the faculties of intelligent beings, their acts, the genesis of their acts, their distinctions from other faculties and their acts; but loves rather to argue from ideas common to men who have never thought and thought deeply on these subjects, and distinguished them carefully, and classified them, is it any fault of ours if, when we propound the true philosophical doctrines about these subjects, Dr. Channing's ideas should become confused, and that darkness should spread over that which was never clear?

"According to the common doctrine, each of these two minds in Christ has its own consciousness, its own will, its own perceptions. They have, in fact, no common properties. Can you conceive of two beings in the universe more distinct?"

If by being the doctor meant natures, we cannot conceive any thing in the universe more distinct, for which reason Catholicity teaches that there are two _distinct_ natures in Christ.

If by being the doctor means that those two natures must make two persons, we cannot grant the assertion, and ask again for proofs.

"We have always thought that one person was constituted and distinguished by one consciousness."

This is the only show of reason we can find in the whole passage we have been refuting; and we have no hesitation in affirming that, if our opponent thought that one person is constituted by one consciousness, in the sense that when an intelligent nature is endowed with consciousness it must necessarily possess a personality of its own, so that consciousness and personality may be said to be identical, as the doctor supposes, he was wrong in thinking so, and should study more deeply into the distinctive essence of consciousness and personality. We may make the following suppositions, according to true ideology:

1st. An intelligent nature, having consciousness of itself, may have a personality of its own, as is the common case in human nature.

2d. An intelligent nature, having the consciousness of itself, may be deprived of its own personality and subsist of the personality of another, simply because consciousness and personality are two distinct things, and may either go together or be separated, without one being affected by the other.

Personality is the last complement of an intelligent nature, by which it forms a whole apart from all others, possessing itself, and being solidary of its actions.

Consciousness, or the _me_, is nothing more than the notion of an intelligent activity which perceives the identity of itself, thinking and reasoning with the act which perceives such identity. It rises in man in that first moment on which he becomes aware that the act which perceives the reasoning activity is not something different from itself, but something identical with the reasoning activity. In that first instant in which he perceives himself, man may pronounce, I.

He that says I, in uttering that monosyllable testifies of being conscious that there is an activity, that this activity is the same which reflects, speaks, and announces itself, perceiving this activity.

Now, it is evident that the two notions of personality and consciousness are absolutely distinct, and as such they may be separated; and that the one can exist without the other in the sense already explained. Consequently, supposing an individual composed of two natures, one divine, the other human, both brought together in the unity of one divine person, it follows that the divine nature has consciousness of itself; in other words, is conscious that there is an infinite activity which perceives itself, and is conscious of the identity between the activity and the perception of that activity. It follows, in the second place, that the human mind of the human nature has also a consciousness of itself; that is, that in itself there is a finite activity, and that activity perceives itself, and is conscious of the identity between the activity and the act of perception.

The divine nature in this one divine person would be conscious of being that supreme and independent principle of action of the natures; whereas the human nature would not be conscious of being such a supreme and independent principle of action, but dependent and subject.

FOOTNOTES:

[29] Strauss, _La Vie de Jésus_. Par Littré, Paris.

[30] We read this passage as St. Cyril of Alexandria, St. Augustine, Beda, and others read it.

[31] St. John i.

[32] This species of union is what, in theological language, would be called confirmation in grace, and took place in the Blessed Virgin and in some saints.

[33] _Unitarian Christianity_, p. 196.

THE SEVEN BISHOPS.

We found, in a leading daily paper of New York the other day, an editorial remark which illustrates so well the propensity of Protestant journalists toward inconsistency whenever they deal with the relations between civil government and the Catholic Church, that we here cite it in full:

"Spain," said _The Tribune_, "is going to have a trial of the seven bishops. There will be some difference, however, between the question at issue in the Spanish trial and that in the famous English cause which Macaulay describes as the most important recorded in the history of England. In the Spanish case, the cause of freedom will be represented rather by the government, who prosecutes seven bishops for resistance of the secular authority, than by the prelates who are to be placed on their defence. It seems to us a good omen when they venture to put bishops on trial for any thing in Spain."

Now, _The Tribune_ has always been a foremost advocate for complete separation of church and state. When the new government of Spain decreed freedom of religious worship, _The Tribune_, in common with other American journals, hailed the measure with delight, as a great step toward the mutual independence of the two orders. But here, in this Spanish affair, there is a more absolute and oppressive assertion of their union than even Henry VIII. ever ventured upon in the creation of the Anglican establishment. Only, since the union is effected by a tyrannical assertion of the supremacy of the secular over ecclesiastical authority, Protestant writers see in it an evidence of progress and liberality. It makes so much difference whether it is my bull that is gored, or your ox.

The parallel, however, between the seven bishops under James II., and the seven bishops under Serrano, (their number has been increased to ten since that paragraph was written, and before our readers see these pages may be raised still higher,) is such a fortunate one that we purpose looking at it a little more closely. It will be found, we think, to tell strongly for our side, and to teach some lessons which the Spanish regency can ill afford to disregard.

In 1687, King James II. published his celebrated Declaration of Indulgence, by which, after expressing his conviction that consciences could not be forced, and religious persecution always failed of its object, he proceeded to suspend the execution of all penal laws against the Catholics and Dissenters alike, to authorize all religious bodies to hold public worship after their own fashion, and to dispense with all religious tests as qualifications for any civil or military office. Whatever may be said of the constitutionality of this declaration, it was unquestionably in accordance with the principles of freedom and justice which have since been recognized completely in this country, and are gradually becoming established in Great Britain and all other constitutional states. The Declaration of Indulgence might to-day be accepted in every particular as the platform of the English liberals or _The New York Tribune_. The Protestant party in James's day, however, was any thing but the party of religious freedom or liberal ideas. Church and state, in their minds, must be one--and that one the Protestant church. The declaration was violently resisted. A year later (April 27th, 1688,) James issued a second declaration, repeating the points of the former one, and proclaiming his unalterable resolution to carry it into effect. By an order in council he subsequently commanded that this paper should be read on two successive Sundays at the time of divine service by the officiating ministers of all the churches and chapels of the kingdom. "The clergy of the Established Church," says Macaulay, "with scarcely an exception, regarded the indulgence as a violation of the laws of the realm, as a breach of the plighted faith of the king, and as a fatal blow levelled at the interest and dignity of their own profession." The order was generally disobeyed. The Archbishop of Canterbury and six of his suffragans presented a petition to the king, recounting their objections to the declaration and their reasons for refusing to order its publication in church. For this they were committed to the tower, and tried before the court of king's bench on a charge of seditious libel. In the midst of the most intense popular excitement they were acquitted, and that day, the 30th of June, 1688, is often referred to as the crisis of the English revolution. So far as it was a political movement, this affair of the bishops represents a victory of the people over the arbitrary authority of the crown. So far as it was a religious movement, it represents a triumph of the secular power over what are called the great Protestant principles of liberty of conscience and freedom of worship. Though the bishops may have been political martyrs, they stand nevertheless as the representatives of religious intolerance, proscription, and persecution.

And what is the case of the bishops in Spain? Since the overthrow of Isabella, the country has been in a state little better than anarchy. The regency of Serrano, though it probably commands the adhesion of a majority of the people, has never been generally acquiesced in. Republicans, Carlists, Isabellistas are strong enough to cause the regency grave apprehension, and are only kept down by military power. The Carlists especially display a vitality which proves them to possess a strong hold of some kind upon the country, and to be much more than the little band of miserable conspirators which Madrid despatches represent them. It is difficult to know the truth about them; for we get little news from Spain, except such as filters through the offices of the regency at Madrid. It is said, however, that the clergy in general are favorable to the Carlists, which, considering the manner in which the churches and convents have been plundered by the existing authorities at the capital, is not at all unlikely. To put the clergy entirely at the mercy of the civil power, the regent issued, on the 5th of August, the following extraordinary decree:

"DECREE.

"At the proposal of the minister of grace and justice, and with the approbation of the council of ministers, I ordain as follows:

"Article 1st. That an exhortation shall be made, and I hereby make it to the most reverend archbishops and the right reverend bishops to send immediately to the government, as is their bounden duty, a circumstantial account of all those ecclesiastics of their respective dioceses who have abandoned the churches to which they were appointed, in order to combat the political situation established by the Constitutional Cortes.

"Article 2d. The most reverend archbishops and right reverend bishops are charged to send to the government, immediately after their acquaintance with this decree, and without delays or excuses being listened to, a statement of the canonical and public measures they may have adopted, during the separation and abandonment of the rebel priests, with a view not only to correct and restrain them, but also to repair the most grievous scandal produced among the faithful by such disloyal and reckless conduct; and the government reserves to itself, after examining the reports which the prelates may transmit to the ministry of grace and justice, the adoption of such other measures as it may consider expedient.

"Article 3d. It being notorious that many ecclesiastics excite the innocent minds of some people against the laws and decisions voted by the Cortes, and also against the order which I have issued for their fulfilment, let the most reverend archbishops, right reverend bishops, and ecclesiastical administrators send round their dioceses for circulation, within the precise term of eight days, a short pastoral edict, exhorting their flocks to obedience to the constituted authorities; and the said prelates shall, without loss of time, transmit a copy of the said edict to the secretary of the said ministry.

"_Article 4th. The most reverend archbishops and the right reverend bishops are likewise charged to withdraw the faculties of confessing and preaching from those priests who are notoriously displeased with, who have not hesitated to make an ostensible display of opposition to the constitutional regimen._

"Article 5th. The government will render account of this decree to the Cortes.

"FRANCISCO SERRANO.

"MANUEL RUIZ ZORRILLA, "_Minister of Grace and Justice_."

It is difficult to imagine a bolder usurpation of authority. If priests are found guilty of political offences, the regent has the _power_ (we do not speak of the right) to proceed against them just as he would against lay citizens. Not satisfied with that, he wishes to impose ecclesiastical penalties also for political heterodoxy, to constitute himself the hierarchical superior of all the bishops and archbishops in Spain, to dictate the terms of their pastoral addresses, and to make the church a mere instrument of oppression in the hands of the civil power. He orders the prelates to turn informers. He instructs them to lay punishments upon the parochial clergy in plain violation of canon law. Worse than all, in the 4th article of his decree, he commands the bishops to take away the faculties of hearing confessions and preaching from all priests who are even "displeased with the constitutional regimen." Comment upon such an order is entirely superfluous. If it were obeyed, probably three fourths of the parishes in Spain would be without pastors. As a matter of course, the bishops have tacitly refused to comply with this decree, and Serrano threatens to proceed against the most obnoxious of them for disobedience.

Now, let any impartial person compare the cases of the English and the Spanish bishops, and tell us which represents the more perfectly the cause of just government and enlightened principles. Both refused obedience to an order of the chief civil authority of the realm because they held it to be an unwarrantable intrusion upon the dignity and independence of their order, and a violation of the laws. Herein the cases are parallel. The difference between them is just this, that the order of James, though it was unconstitutional, was a good and liberal measure in itself, while the order of Serrano is not only illegal but tyrannous. How can _The Tribune_ say that "in the Spanish case, the cause of freedom will be represented rather by the government who prosecutes seven bishops for resistance of the secular authority, than by the prelates who are to be placed on their defence"? To our view, Serrano appears as the champion of civil and ecclesiastical despotism, and the bishops are martyrs in the cause of political freedom and religious independence.

James II. calculated that the power of the throne would be sufficient in any case to insure the conviction of his seven bishops; but the prosecution failed; the dissenting sects, which would have benefited from his indulgence equally with the Catholics, united with the Anglican Church to withstand him; the people fell on their knees before the bishops in the streets; and in six months the king was a fugitive. Will Spain pursue the parallel to this point? No government can afford to be unjust. No government, especially which bases its authority upon the consent of the people can last long after it has become arbitrary and oppressive. Men love equity instinctively, and the decree of the Spanish regent will be worth more to the Carlists than an army of soldiers.

LINES ON THE PONTIFICAL HAT PRESERVED IN MADAME UZIELLI'S PRIVATE ORATORY.

O high exalted instinct of the soul! That evermore doth find A grace and hidden splendor not their own In things of curious kind;

Casket, or signet-ring, or coat of mail, Or ermined robe of state, That once belonged to history's champions, The good, the wise, the great!

This relic fair, which love most Catholic Devoutly treasures here, To me, beholding it, than rubied crown More glorious doth appear.

For cinctured round with spiry wheaten ears And clustering grapes of gold, Types of the pure oblation offered now For bloody rites of old,

Here, (by no freak of fancy,) underneath Its rim of mystic red, It shaded from a Roman summer's sun The sacred snow-white head

Of our dear Pius; as from church to church, Amidst the kneeling throng, Serene he passed--a vision of delight, The ancient ways along!

Angels of Rome! oh! shield that head beloved From danger and all fears; Watch o'er the pontiff brave, the sovereign good, The priest of fifty years!

And when his hour arrives, so long postponed By Christendom's fond prayer, May he in heaven's own hierarchy throned, Be still our glory there!

_Oratory, Birmingham._ E. CASWALL.

FOREIGN LITERARY NOTES.

In his latest historical work, (_Isabelle de Castille. Grandeur et Décadence de l'Espagne_,) the distinguished historian, M. Capefigue, says that, besides other debts to Isabella of Castile, Spaniards also owe an association that saved Spain from disorder and anarchy--_La Santa Hermandad_, the holy brotherhood, whose law was that of absolute solidarity. Cervantes, in _Don Quixote_, never lets an occasion pass of praising the brotherhood, with which Isabella also introduced the holy office--the Inquisition. It is our habit, says M. Capefigue, in matters historical, to avoid the adoption of ready-made opinions, and more especially declamations. We must examine with judgment the customs, the institutions, of a period--the necessities of an epoch. Then, frequently, every thing is justified and explained. Power is not inflexible through pleasure or caprice, but through necessity. Ogres only exist in fairy tales. In political history there are no men who from mere caprice eat human flesh. There are two periods in the history of the Inquisition. In the first, it rendered immense services. Ferdinand and Isabella had just delivered Spain. But the Moors still covered the land, and had to be watched. In constant communication with the Arabs in Africa, they ceased not to invoke the aid of their brethren across the strait. Together they conspired to reconquer Andalusia, the promised land of the Arabs, who never ceased longing for the lovely countries watered by the Guadalquivir. Theirs it was to hope and to plot. Spain's it was to detect and punish them. In times of peril for a state, exceptional powers are given, extraordinary tribunals created. At a period exclusively religious, the sign of Spanish nationality was Catholicity. Christian was the synonym of citizen, and the holy office was charged with the police of the state against those who accepted not the law of the land. Not only France but other countries have had their committees of public safety and their revolutionary tribunals. In the second period, the Inquisition--no longer useful to the state--became a tribunal of theology. It pursued heresy, which in societies based on religious principles is always a danger. Most remarkable is it that even in its decline the Inquisition preserved its popularity so largely among the great men of Spain. Lope de Vega was the chief of familiars of the holy office. Calderon was one of its most ardent members, bearing its banners at _autos da fe_. Velasquez gloried in the title. Murillo paints the flowers--the saints that ornament the _san benito_--and Zurbaran takes his grandest heads from the Dominican fathers of the _santa fide_. Without the guard and protection of the Inquisition, Spain would not have effected the great things in her history. Torn by interior dissensions, she would not have had the Americas; the reign of Charles V. would not have been so glorious, nor would she have gained the battle of Lepanto and saved Christian Europe.

* * * * *

The French publisher, V. Palmé, announces as in press the celebrated work of Cardinal Jacobatius, _De Concilio_, forming the introduction to the grand collection of councils.

* * * * *

The 14th, 15th, and 16th volumes of the _Bullarum, diplomatum et privilegiorum sanctorum Romanorum pontificum Taurinensi editio_ have just been published at Turin. The 14th volume includes the years from the sixth to the sixteenth of the pontificate of Urban VIII. (1628-39;) the 15th terminates that pontificate and contains that of Innocent X. (1639-54;) and the 16th embraces the first seven years of Alexander VII. (1655-62.) The bulls and constitutions are published in chronological order. Some idea of their number may be formed from the fact that of Urban VIII. there are 829, of Innocent X. 199, of Alexander VII. 385. Each volume has _index nominum et rerum præcipuarum, index initialis, index rubricarum_.

* * * * *

Late French papers announce the death of the Baron de Croze, formerly deputy from the department of Charente Inférieure, father-in-law of Count Anatole Lemercier, and for some years Cameriere of his holiness Pius IX. The holy father was much attached to Baron de Croze, and frequently held with him long and familiar conversations on politics and history. Some ten years ago, the Baron addressed a memorial to Pius IX., strongly urging his holiness to restore the Coliseum and to appeal to the entire world for the immense sums necessary for so great a work as the restoration of the noblest monument of the antique grandeur of the Romans. "My dear son," replied Pius IX., "I have seen your memorial, and thank you for it; but do you not know that there are two kinds of vandalism, the one of destruction, the other of restoration? Never has the Coliseum been more beautiful than in the moving contrast of the splendor of its past and the magnificence of its ruins. To restore them would, it seems to me, be an artistic sacrilege, and would annihilate the work of ages only to produce a poor and colorless counterfeit. Think no more of it, _caro mio_." And the baron thought no more of it.

* * * * *

The Parisian publishing circulars announce in press and soon to appear the celebrated Theology of Salamanca, _Collegii Salamanticensis Cursus Theologicus_.

* * * * *

In a late German bibliographical catalogue we remark the name of a saint we now see for the first time, and concerning whom we acknowledge ourselves utterly ignorant. It occurs in the title of a work thus announced: _Sainct Velociped. Eine Moderne Reiselegende_--Saint Velocipede. A Legend of Modern Travel.

* * * * *

_Saint Agobard, Archevêque de Lyon, sa Vie et ses Ecrits_, par M. l'Abbé P. Chevallard, is the title of a handsome octavo volume just published at Lyons. Saint Agobard's life covered the period from 779 to 840, and, with his writings, forms an important page of the history of the church in France during the ninth century. His episcopal career was active, and his influence on the religious questions and discipline of his time considerable. The history of this holy man is necessarily attached to that of the reign of Louis le Débonnaire. St. Agobard's reputation for talent and learning has never been contested, and historians and critics unite in the opinion that he was the first mind of his period in France. It is not exclusively within the church, nor by Catholics alone, that St. Agobard is thus highly appreciated. MM. Guizot and Ampère have spoken with great admiration of him; Ampère particularly mentions his intelligent efforts in combating a widely spread and deeply rooted belief that a disastrous epidemic which carried off thousands of cattle was caused by the emissaries of the Duke of Benevento, who--said popular report--scattered powders over the fields and in the fountains, thus producing sudden death of the animals. Something similar is recounted by Manzoni in his _Promessi Sposi_, where he describes the _Untori_ and the pretended cholera poisoners. Besides the essays of St. Agobard on theology, liturgy, and ecclesiastical discipline, his writings on the superstitions of his period, and on the pernicious influence of the Jews in Lyons, are remarkable and of high value in an historical point of view.

* * * * *

Much indignation has been expressed in several European and English papers concerning an imaginary prohibition of the pope to the physicians of Rome from attending any person who, after three days' medical attendance, should refuse the sacraments. The paragraphs containing the indignation have been widely copied in the United States, and we therefore notice the silly statement. The existence and validity of an old brief of Sixtus V. is probably the origin of the singular blunder. The brief in question orders doctors, under pain of excommunication, to warn the parish priest of the patient's danger, if, after three days, he appears in peril of life; but beyond that the doctor cannot act, and continues his attendance to the last, irrespective of the patient's religious state or dispositions. And the provision is evidently wise and humane. In very many cases it is dangerous for the patient to know that his physician considers him in peril of death. To advise his family is much the same as to tell the patient; and the obvious prudence of the matter is to notify the parish priest, who can act according to the necessities of the case. So much for one of the many falsehoods of the day. Like many others, it has travelled fast and far. Will this refutation overtake it? Doubtful.

* * * * *

A new history of Pope Pius IX. is announced as almost ready for publication: _Histoire de Pie IX. et de son Pontificat_, par M. Alexandre de Saint Albin.

* * * * *

The distinguished Father Theiner, of Rome, has lately given his friends occasion to regret that he had not remained known to the literary world by his _Monumenta_ alone. No words but those of praise and admiration could then have been found for him. Our occasion for this remark is his late controversy--or series of controversies--with M. Crétineau-Joly, concerning the Cardinals Consalvi and Caprara, and Bishop Bernier, touching their connection with the concordat of 1801. The matter has culminated in an octavo volume lately out, _Bonaparte, le Concordat de 1801 et le Cardinal Consalvi, suivi des deux Lettres au Père Theiner sur le Pape Clement XIV._, par J. Crétineau-Joly; and of which we made mention in our August number. M. Crétineau-Joly is a terrible adversary, and wields a trenchant blade. Such a rapid shower of cut, thrust, back, forward, and circular strokes is rarely seen. It is to be regretted, however, that M. Joly, in the abundance of his power of replication and retort, should not have been content with telling Father Theiner, as he does, "You have been given a bad cause to sustain, and you defend it with bad arguments." But blood becomes as hot in literary quarrels as in physical combats, and M. Joly goes entirely too far when he talks about surprising his adversary, "_Vingt fois, trente fois, en flagrant débit de mensonge_." Those who know Father Theiner are satisfied that he is in this case the victim of his imagination and of his simplicity, and that, moreover, he has been badly advised.

* * * * *

Dr. F. W. Kampschulte, Professor of History at the University of Bonn, has hitherto been known as an author only by a few works of secondary importance, such as his _History of the Ancient University of Erfurt_. He has, however, just taken rank quite suddenly among the best historians of Germany by his lately published _Johann Calvin, seine Kirche und sein Staat in Genf_, (John Calvin, his Church and his State at Geneva.) The first volume alone is as yet published. But this one is quite enough to display remarkable erudition, and an amount of literary labor nothing less than enormous. Dr. Kampschulte asserts on good grounds that, without the assistance of Berne, Genevan Protestantism would never have succeeded as it did, and he has, accordingly, thoroughly and successfully searched the archives of Berne for new and valuable documents. Finally, the author has not, like too many of his predecessors in the same field, been content to take for Calvin's correspondence Beza's edition of the _Epistolæ et Responsa Calvini_, which really contains but a small portion of Calvin's correspondence, but has with wonderful labor and perseverance collected a large amount of Calvin's letters hitherto unknown, and which were dispersed throughout Europe.

* * * * *

A second edition of the _Bibliotheque des écrivains de la Compagnie de Jésus_, par le P. Augustin de Backer, is announced as soon to be published. It will be in three volumes in folio, each volume to contain about three thousand columns, and will be placed at the very low price of forty-five francs. It will not be for sale in the usual manner by booksellers, and we therefore make special mention of it. Persons desiring to obtain it may address the author, (College Saint Servais, Liège, Belgique,) or the publisher of the _Etudes Religieuses, Historiques et Littéraires_, (_No. 18 Rue Lhomond, à Paris_.) The first edition, commenced by Fathers Augustin and Alois de Backer, appeared in 1855, in seven vols. 8vo. The new edition, besides being in a single alphabetical series, will contain numerous corrections and additions. It also contains articles on controversies of special interest, such as the publication of the _Acta Sanctorum_, the origin of the order of _Carmel_, etc.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

LECTURES AND ESSAYS ON IRISH AND OTHER SUBJECTS. By Henry Giles. New York: D. & J. Sadlier & Co.

Besides biographical lectures on O'Connell, Curran, Dr. Doyle, Oliver Goldsmith, and Gerald Griffin, this volume contains other lectures on the spirit of Irish history, Irish social character, etc., which many of our readers have, doubtless, heard delivered by the author in his pleasant and effective style.

Mr. Giles is of Irish birth, and for many years officiated and preached as a Unitarian minister. There can be no doubt that his Irish patriotism is sincere and enthusiastic, and yet, as we read, we feel as though something were wanting. For reasons that can be perfectly well understood without detailed explanation, Irish patriotic character always appears incomplete without Catholicity. Oliver Goldsmith and the Duke of Wellington are as much of Irish birth as Dr. Doyle and Daniel O'Connell; but how much more essentially Irish to every one are the two latter than the two former. The Catholic reader of these lectures sadly misses what he feels to be most essential. Take, for instance, the lectures on O'Connell, Gerald Griffin, and Dr. Doyle, which are among the best, and he perceives the absence of an element of appreciation that nothing but Catholic sympathy could supply. These papers have high merit as oral lectures, and precisely because of this merit they fall short of their reputation when read. The effective lecture is not necessarily an effective essay. There are certain elements nowadays almost indispensable to the success of a lecture, and they happen to be precisely those which detract from its literary merit. The redundancy of anecdote is one of these elements, and Mr. Giles was strongly given to it.

The book is, nevertheless, pleasant reading, although such essays as "The Christian Idea in Catholic Art and in Protestant Culture" afford additional proof--if any were needed--of the barrenness of Protestantism in art.

* * * * *

ORDER AND CHAOS: A Lecture, delivered at Loyola College, Baltimore, in July, 1869. By T. W. M. Marshall, Esq. Baltimore: John Murphy & Co. 1869.

Mr. Marshall, who is both one of the most solid and altogether the wittiest of English writers, delivered this lecture in Baltimore before a select audience, on the eve of his return to England. It is a well-reasoned argument, clothed in the author's usual choice and happy style, and spiced with a seasonable amount of his humor. Its topic is the order prevailing in the Catholic Church contrasted with the disorder which rules among the sects, as a proof that the former is of God, while the latter are of man. We quote the following extract, which contains a well-delivered blow at the disunionists:

"You are asked to believe, by those who prefer the temple of chaos to the sanctuary of God, this monstrous proposition: that although disorder is inexorably banished, as we have seen, from every other part of his dominions, as a thing abhorrent to the Divine Architect, it finds its true home and congenial refuge precisely in that spiritual kingdom of which he is at once the lawgiver and the life. Brute matter knows nothing of it; earth, and sea, and sky refuse to give it a place; the very beasts of the field obey a law which regulates all the conditions of their existence; but confusion and chaos, which can find a home nowhere else, reign, and ought to reign, in the Christian church, and in the kingdom of souls! That is the proposition which is deliberately maintained, at this hour and in this land, by men whose profession it is to teach others eternal truth. They gravely assert that religion--which, when it is divine, is a bond of union stronger than adamant, and when it is human, is the most active dissolvent, the most powerful disintegrating agent which divides and devastates modern society--_gains_ by ceasing to be one, and that Christianity derives its chief vitality from the very divisions which make it contemptible in the sight of unbelievers, and had often provoked the scorn and derision even of the pagan world. As this statement may seem to you impossible, even in this nineteenth century, which is tolerant of all absurdities in the sphere of religion, I will quote to you the very words of one of the most conspicuous preachers of this land, who holds a high position in the hierarchy of chaos. I take them from one of your own local journals, of the second of this month, (June.) You know that of late years many Protestants, weary of their ceaseless conflicts and ashamed of their unending divisions, have begun at last to sigh for the unity which they have lost, and that in England they have even formed a society with the express object of bringing together what they ignorantly call 'the different branches of the church.' We are told, however, by the journal to which I allude, that the Reverend Henry Ward Beecher, vehemently rejecting every such project, lately 'preached against the schemes of church union, whether planned by pope, protestant, or pagan'--pray understand that these are not my words--and added this characteristic dissuasive from unity. 'The strength of the Christian religion lies,' he said--in what do you suppose? in its truth, its holiness, or its peace? no, but--'_in the number of the existing denominations_.' The hands fall down in reading such words. 'I pray,' said He who will judge the world, 'that they may all be _one_ as thou, Father, art in me, and I in thee.' I sincerely trust, replies Mr. Beecher, that they never will be one. 'Be perfect,' said St. Paul, 'in the _same mind_ and the _same judgment_.' It is much more important, rejoins Mr. Beecher, that you should maintain your divisions and perpetuate your differences, for in _them_ lies the strength of Christianity. 'Sects,' observed the same apostle, 'are the work of the flesh.' Mr. Beecher judges them more leniently, and warns his hearers, as you see, against the mistake of St. Paul. Yes, these human teachers have come at last to this. They know so well that supernatural unity is beyond _their_ reach, that they have come to hate it, and to call it an evil! Yet even they will not deny that it was the unity of the first Christians which conquered the heathen world; and when the victory was accomplished, and the surviving pagans had only strength enough left to beat themselves against the ground where they had fallen, _they_ also cried out in their impotent rage, '_Execranda est ista consensio_'--cursed be this unity of the Christians. They had found it to be invincible, but did not know that it was divine. Mr. Beecher dares not say openly, 'Cursed be the unity for which Christ prayed,' for even his disciples, though they can bear a good deal, could not bear _that_; but he is not afraid to say, 'Blessed be chaos!' 'Confusion, thou art my choice!' 'Disorder, be thou mine inheritance!' Let us wish him a happier lot, both in this world and the next."

* * * * *

IN HEAVEN WE KNOW OUR OWN; OR, SOLACE FOR THE SUFFERING. From the French of the Rev. Father Blot, S.J. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1869.

We would call special attention to this delightful little book. The lady translator has conferred a very great service on English-speaking Catholics; nor on Catholics alone, but also on all professing Christians "of good-will," who,

"Here in the feeble twilight of this world Groping,"

in order to satisfy one of their deepest and holiest cravings, and not having known the Catholic Church, nor therefore "the communion of saints," have turned--and _most_ naturally--into paths which only lead to deception and despair.

The book before us supplies to "the afflicted" who mourn the loss of friends a consolation as solid as it is abundant: a proof on unshakable grounds of truths which seem to be forgotten even by some among Catholics; that human ties _do_ survive the grave; that

"There the cherished heart _is_ fond, The eye the same, except in tears;"

and that the knowledge and love of creatures must necessarily form an integral part of the happiness of heaven. The reader will be astonished to see what Catholic saints and doctors have said on this subject; and what a stress they have laid on it as a part of their own hopes and anticipations. To those, too, in particular, who are tempted to despair of the departed, an antidote is here offered for this poison of their rest; an antidote which, we are sure, has long been needed by many an anxious heart.

In commending this book, then, to Catholics, we would urge them to put it as much as possible in the hands of non-Catholic friends. The success of a recent work, entitled _The Gates Ajar_, is evidence enough of the hunger that exists in _all_ souls for food of this kind. And why should any be left to pick up crumbs, when a full table invites them? A perusal of _In Heaven We Know Our Own_ may open the eyes of many to the glorious fact it is our privilege to know--that the Catholic religion embraces _all_ truth, and alone can satisfy _all_ the soul's cravings:

"An endless fountain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink."

* * * * *

MOPSA THE FAIRY. By Jean Ingelow. With illustrations. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1869.

If the children wish to visit fairy-land, they could have no better guide than Jean Ingelow; yet even she fails to make the fairy-world half so fair or interesting as our own every-day world. However, Jack learns some good lessons in his visit to fairy-land; for he found a whole nation of fairies turned into stone for being unkind and selfish. Let the little ones take care lest the fate of the fairies befall them. The book is beautifully illustrated, and is altogether a very pleasant book for children.

* * * * *

TWO YEARS BEFORE THE MAST. A Personal Narrative by Richard Henry Dana, Jr. New edition. Boston: Fields, Osgood & Co. 1869.

Twelve years ago we determined upon a voyage similar to that the author describes, and from a similar motive.

This recital of his two years' experience before the mast was put into our hands to deter us from going. We recollect reading it with the greatest interest, and being afterward more anxious to go than ever. After three years' experience, during which we shared all the sailor's toils and pleasures "fore and aft," we returned to a student's life. It was therefore with some curiosity we reopened this book to see what our judgment would be of this sailor's yarn as compared with our own experience.

Before, it had the charm of adventure untried; now it gave the pleasure of again, in imagination, riding the topsail yard-arm amid the wild storm, hauling out the "weather earing," and "sending her" off the Cape with all hands lashed to the rigging. We have never read so vivid yet truthful a description of a sailor's life. It is refreshing to see for once nautical terms correctly and naturally used. We suspect that the author's estimate of the character and religion of the people he visited has changed since he wrote. The condition of the Mexicans now, as compared with their peace and prosperity under the paternal care of the Catholic missionaries, would surely warrant it.

We heartily sympathize with the author in his desire to better the condition of seamen. They are a noble, large-hearted class of men. We never expect to meet more courageous, generous, faithful men than our comrades at sea. Yet their life, which must be full of toil and danger, is made unnecessarily hard and laborious by unjust treatment. They are over-worked and half-fed at sea, and swindled on shore. If among the various protective societies, one were organized to protect seamen from shipping masters, brutal officers, and "boarding-house runners," it would be a praiseworthy act.

The author's account of his later visit to the Pacific coast is very acceptably added to this new edition, and shows the great change that has taken place in the condition of our commerce and of our country.

* * * * *

DIARY, REMINISCENCES, AND CORRESPONDENCE OF HENRY CRABB ROBINSON. Selected and edited by Thomas Sadler, Ph.D. 2 vols. 12mo. Pp. 496, 555. Boston: Fields, Osgood & Co.

In the United States, it is only the readers of the literary biography of the last generation that know Henry Crabb Robinson even by name; for although he was intimately acquainted with some scores of distinguished men, and moved in the best literary society of England, he left little or nothing to recall his memory after he was dead, except the immense piles of manuscript from which these two volumes have been selected. These, we venture to predict, will enjoy a permanent place in literature, not much below the _Diary_ of Pepys and Boswell's _Life of Johnson_. Mr. Robinson, however, had nothing of the Pepys or the Boswell in his character. He was a man of sharp natural faculties, excellent scholarship, abundant wit, eminent social accomplishments, and strong character. In his youth he was a foreign correspondent and sub-editor of _The Times_. Afterward he practised at the bar. But for the most important part of his life, covering a period of some thirty years before his death, he had no profession, and passed his time in the society of literary and other celebrities, with whom, for his extraordinary conversational powers and more sterling qualities, he was always a welcome guest. It is to his anecdotes and recollections of such men--Lamb, Wordsworth, Southey, Byron, Coleridge, Moore, Rogers, Goethe, Lady Morgan, Lady Blessington, Landor, and others--told with spirit and discretion, that the _Diary and Reminiscences_ owe their value. The work of selection and arrangement has been performed with excellent judgment, and no one who takes up the volumes will readily lay them aside.

* * * * *

THE ELEMENTS OF THEORETICAL AND DESCRIPTIVE ASTRONOMY; for the use of Colleges and Academies. By Charles J. White, A.M., Assistant Professor of Astronomy and Navigation in the United States Naval Academy. 16mo, 272 pp. Philadelphia: Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger, 819 and 821 Market street. 1869.

Most writers of text-books, probably, are impelled to their task by an impression that a void exists which only can be filled by a work answering to a conception which they have formed in the course of their studies. This arises from the fact that few subjects of study can be thoroughly mastered by merely imbibing the ideas of another person, and that consequently every one who spends much time in acquiring, or particularly in teaching, any science, is obliged to think a good deal upon the subject, and hence to arrange it almost necessarily in his own mind in a different shape, and probably one better adapted to himself, than that in which it was presented to him. Finding nothing just like this among existing text-books, he naturally concludes that the really systematic arrangement has yet to be given, and by himself.

This every teacher perhaps is tempted to do; but unfortunately, the best teachers, who perceive what difficulties are met with by the mass of students, sometimes deny themselves the pleasure, or are perhaps unable to indulge in it, while others supply books suited only to a few. Sometimes, also, no void remains, having been already filled. But in this subject of astronomy there certainly was a need of a new work sufficiently precise and condensed to present salient points to the mind of the student, and form matter for a recitation, without being unnecessarily technical and uninteresting. Herschel's _Outlines_, though an interesting and thoroughly scientific work, and clear in its explanations, is rather fit to be read than to be studied or recited from; yet this was undoubtedly the best book for those not wishing to pursue astronomy professionally, but merely to acquire a sufficient knowledge of it for a liberal education, or to understand navigation and other branches of knowledge in which it is involved.

Mr. White's book is exactly what was wanted for this purpose, supplying all Herschel's defects for the student, being nearly or quite as clear, and much more concise. It also contains other matters which would not usually be found except in works on what is called practical astronomy, but which are necessary for any one who desires to make use of his knowledge; which end is also secured throughout by the precise and definite form in which every thing is treated. One often fancies he understands a subject, but finds that his knowledge is unavailable from not being sufficiently in detail.

The author has a thorough acquaintance with his science, and remarkable natural ability as a teacher, developed by long experience. It will be a decided waste of time for any one to undertake a similar book till the progress of science renders large additions to this absolutely necessary; and this is brought up to the actual date of publication, containing the latest results of the spectroscope, and the most recent determinations of the astronomical constants.

* * * * *

DIOMEDE. From the _Iliad_ of Homer. By William R. Smith. New York: D. Appleton & Co.

This version of the Fifth Book of the _Iliad_ is as successful, perhaps, as any similar attempt yet made. If not as smooth and polished as Pope's, it is at least more accurate. But we venture to think that the author has mistaken the true metre for translating Homer. We believe the blank-verse of Tennyson the only one capable of rendering it adequately. Much as we appreciate the version before us, we have not yet seen any thing to equal Tennyson's "specimen translation" of the celebrated moonlight scene, (_Iliad_, Book viii.)

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PATTY GRAY'S JOURNEY FROM BOSTON TO BALTIMORE. By Caroline H. Dall. Boston: Lee & Shepard. 1869.

A pleasant and interesting story of Patty's journey to and stay in Baltimore. Though Patty was a little girl, she was nevertheless a true Yankee, and thought "that people must talk and act as they did in Boston, or they could not possibly talk and act right." She thought, too, "she could never love a 'Secesh;'" still, like a dear little girl as she was, she soon learned to love her uncle Tom and other relatives dearly. If the preface had been left out, the book might be a good one for children; it certainly cannot be good for them to have all the abuses of slavery served up again and again. That evil has been done away with, and, at least as far as the children are concerned, "let us have peace."

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ECCLESIASTICAL MAP OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. Arranged by Rev. E. H. Reiter, S.J., of Boston, Mass. For sale by Fr. Pustet, Bookseller and Publisher, 52 Barclay St., New York; 204 Vine St., Cincinnati, Ohio.

On this large and excellent map of the United States the seven Ecclesiastical Provinces into which the country is divided are distinguished by different ground colors, and the boundaries of the several dioceses in each province and of the vicariates apostolic are indicated by red lines. All the episcopal sees are marked by a line, either red or blue; while the archiepiscopal sees are shown by a combination of these two colors. We regard this map as a very useful publication.

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AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SHAKER, AND REVELATION OF THE APOCALYPSE. With an Appendix. F. W. Evans, Mount Lebanon, Columbia County, N. Y. June, 1869.

No man in our day should attempt to solve the religious question without a competent knowledge of the basis of the claims of the Catholic Church to being the church of God and her faith the true Christian faith. Her claim is prior to all others as an historical fact, and must be fairly set aside before another can be allowed to come into court. The author of the above autobiography is, as is usual with the opponents of the Catholic Church, sadly lacking in this knowledge. Among other absurdities, he tells us gravely that "the Roman Catholic Church was founded by Leo the Great"! Well, after all, that is an improvement on Rev. Justin D. Fulton, of Boston, who affirms, "Romanism is the masterpiece of Satan."

The author appears to possess a smattering knowledge of several things, and an exact and thorough knowledge of none. His book is a jumble of materialism and spiritualism, of infidelity, Protestantism, and credulity.

The language attributed, on page 80, to the late Archbishop Hughes, we venture to say was drawn from the writer's imagination.

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HOSPITAL SKETCHES, AND CAMP AND FIRESIDE STORIES. By Louisa M. Alcott. With illustrations. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1869. Pp. 379.

_Hospital Sketches_ originally appeared in the columns of the Boston _Commonwealth_, over the signature of Tribulation Periwinkle, and are "simply a brief record of one person's experience," as an army hospital nurse. They are written in a pleasant, gossipy, natural style; the incidents, a judicious admixture of the "grave and gay," the humorous and the pathetic, being alike removed from the extremes of levity and gloom.

_Camp and Fireside Stories_, though more pretentious in style and elaborate in plot, are not, in our opinion, of equal merit.

* * * * *

BIBLE HISTORY; containing the most remarkable events of the Old and New Testament. Prepared for the use of Catholic Schools in the United States. By Rev. Richard Gilmour. With the approbation of the Most Reverend J. B. Purcell, D.D., Archbishop of Cincinnati. Cincinnati and New York: Benziger Bros. 1869. Pp. 336.

We can heartily recommend this as an excellent "intermediate" text-book in sacred history. Nor must we omit a special commendation of the publishers, who, as far as the paper and typography are concerned, are deserving of all praise. The illustrations are numerous, always pertinent to the text, and, generally speaking, satisfactory. An appendix contains "Maxims from the Sacred Scriptures," "The Christian Doctrine as seen in the Narrations of the Bible," and "A Bird's-Eye View of the Holy Land," the key to which last, strange to say, omits the city of Jerusalem.

* * * * *

THE LETTERS OF PLACIDUS ON EDUCATION. London: Richardson & Son. For sale by The Catholic Publication Society, New York.

We commend these _Letters of Placidus_ to the careful consideration of educators. They are from the pen of a sound Catholic, an accomplished scholar, and one who evidently speaks from a thorough experience. Some, indeed, may think them bold in places; but all will find them to contain suggestions worthy of their deepest attention.

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THE EMERALD. An Illustrated Literary Journal. Vol. III. New York: The Emerald Publishing Company. 1869. Pp. 412.

This volume, in many respects superior to its predecessors, comprises an immense amount of interesting and entertaining reading matter, and is profusely illustrated.

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THE OFFICE OF VESPERS; Containing the Order of the Vesper Service, the Gregorian Psalm Tones harmonized, with the Psalms for all Vespers during the year pointed for chanting. By Rev. Alfred Young. New York: The Catholic Publication House. 1869.

Father Young has given us, we are glad to see, strictly Gregorian melodies, both in the ritual of the vesper service and in the psalm tones, such as are to be found in authorized editions of the _Antiphonale Romanum_. This is something we commend with all our heart. The melodies commonly found in our "choir books," "vesperals," and "services," are for the most part so garbled, both in the inflections and arrangements, as to leave very little of the original Gregorian tone standing. The chief merit of the book, however, consists in a new division of the tones, and of the psalms, by which but one pointing of the psalms is needed for chanting any one of the tones with their varied concluding cadences. Father Maugin attempted something of this kind in his _Roman Vesperal_, but succeeded only in reducing the different pointings to four. The simplicity of Father Young's arrangement cannot fail to be appreciated by organists as well as by the singers. With his book in our choirs we need not be condemned to hear the tiresome repetition of the same five psalms sung to the same five tones on every Sunday and festival in the year. We hope the author will find sufficient success with the present publication to give us, as he proposes, the _Hymnal_ and _Antiphonal_. With these we can have our vespers chanted as they should be, in their truly effective style and religious spirit, in comparison to which our so-called "musical vespers" are tame, unmeaning, and, spiritually, unprofitable.

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THE TWO WOMEN: A Ballad. By Delta. Milwaukee: The Wisconsin News Company. 1868.

This somewhat curious effusion gave us much pleasure as we read it. The smoothness and grace of the verse, and sometimes the diction, too, remind us strongly of Tennyson.

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THE LIFE OF HENRY DORIE, MARTYR. By the Abbé Ferdinand Baudry. Translated by Lady Herbert. London: Burns, Oates & Co. For sale by The Catholic Publication Society, New York.

This neat little book is full of interest, as giving not only an admirable sketch of its noble hero, but also a view of the Corea and its inhabitants, for which the reader will be grateful who is eager to know more of that strange region, and the wondrous work that is doing there.

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THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY has just published a new and complete classified catalogue of all the American and English Catholic books now in print. To be had _free_ on application at 126 Nassau Street.

* * * * *

THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY has in press and will publish in a few weeks: _The Writings of Madame Swetchine_, 1 vol. 12mo, $1.50, uniform with _Life of Madame Swetchine_. _Hymns and Songs for Catholic Children_, containing the most popular Catholic hymns for every season of the Christian year, together with May songs, Christmas and Easter carols, and for the use of Sunday-schools, sodalities, etc.

THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. X., No. 56.--NOVEMBER, 1869.

THE LIFE OF FATHER FABER.[34]

In the life of Father Faber there was no sudden and violent change from the excitement of worldly affairs to the quiet of the cloister, no striking intervention of divine Providence, such as that which in a single day converted Ignatius from a courtier to a saint. He suffered, it is true, from spiritual conflicts and that rupture of natural ties which for so many converts to the faith is little short of a species of martyrdom; but the tender piety which beams from all his maturer devotional works seems to have filled his heart from boyhood, and his progress from heresy to faith was like the gradual development of a seed planted in his breast in early youth. Yet it is hardly in the Faber family that we should have looked for a phenomenon like this. They were of Huguenot origin, and proud of their religious ancestry; and their exiled forefathers, who settled in England after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, we may fairly presume were honored in the family as confessors of the faith. The grandfather of the subject of these pages was the Reverend Thomas Faber, vicar of Calverley, in Yorkshire. Frederick William was born at the vicarage, on the 28th of June, 1814. His father, Mr. Thomas Henry Faber, was soon afterward appointed secretary to the Bishop of Durham, and removed with his family to the episcopal domain of Bishop Auckland. Durham had not yet lost its dignity as a County Palatine, and in the glories of the ancient city, where the bishop held his court with all the pomp and something of the power of royalty, there was much to impress a warm poetical imagination, like that of young Faber. The poetical faculty was afterward fostered by the beautiful scenery of the Lake country, when he was sent to school at Kirkby Stephen, in Westmoreland. There it was his chief delight to ramble alone among the hills and meres, and fancy the chases filled again with deer, the forests resounding with the hunter's horn, the ruined halls and castles resonant with feast and song, and the deserted abbeys vocal with prayer and chant. He shows his familiarity with this region in some of his published verses. Subsequently, he studied at Harrow, under Doctor Longley, afterward Archbishop of Canterbury, by whose kindness and influence he was reclaimed at a time when he had adopted infidel views. He gave himself with all his heart to the study of English literature; but the classics got rather less attention from him than they deserved, and his career at Oxford, where he was matriculated at Baliol College, in 1832, cannot be called a brilliant one. He was a man of scholarly tastes and of scholarly attainments as well, yet in certain of the highest requirements of the university he seems to have fallen short; for we hear of his failing once or twice, not indeed in his examinations, but in competition for a distinguished place. The fact probably was, that he applied himself with undue partiality to favorite studies, such as poetry and divinity. He was remarkable even at this time for graces of person and manner, fine conversational powers, and a rare faculty of attracting friends, notwithstanding a certain dangerous keenness in his perceptions of the ludicrous, coupled with great frankness in the expression of his feelings. "I cannot tell why it is," said one of his schoolmates at Harrow, "but that Faber fascinates every body." This remark was repeated to him afterward, and filled him with a sense of obligation to use the gift in promoting God's glory.

The temporary eclipse of faith to which we have alluded was of very short duration; and when he came to Oxford, he was keenly alive to religious impressions, with a strong Calvinistic tendency. The tractarian movement, however, was just beginning, and Faber became an enthusiastic admirer--"an acolyth," as he expressed it--of John Henry Newman, who was then preaching at St. Mary's, Oxford. He did not make Mr. Newman's acquaintance till several years later; but under his influence he forgot his evangelicalism, and threw himself eagerly into the great movement for the revival of church principles as expounded in the _Tracts for the Times_. "Transubstantiation has been bothering me," he wrote to a friend; "not that I lean to it, _but I have seen no refutation of it_. How can it be absurd and contradictory to the evidence of our senses, when they cannot by any means take cognizance of the unknown being, substance, which alone is held up as the subject of this conversion?"

This tendency toward Catholic truth was but slight, however, and evanescent. There came a reaction in the course of a little while, and Mr. Faber wrote to one of his friends:

"I have been thinking a great deal on the merits and tendency of Newmanism, and I have become more than ever convinced of its falsehood.... What makes me fear most is, that I have seen Newman himself _growing_ in his opinions; I have seen indistinct visions become distinct embodiments; I have seen the conclusion of one proposition become the premiss of a next, through a long series: all this is still going on--to my eyes more like the blind march of error than the steady uniformity of truth--and I know not when it will stop."

How thoroughly his mind and heart were taken up with religious problems we can see in almost every letter. One of the correspondents to whom he seems to have expressed himself with the fullest freedom was Mr. John Brande Morris, and to him he writes, in 1834:

"When, after writing to you, and one or two other relations and friends, I turn to pen a letter to my literary intellectual friends, you cannot conceive how weak and uninteresting the topics of discussion become. It is like one of Tom Moore's melodies after an Handelian chorus, at once ludicrous and disgusting from its inferiority."

He read a great deal of religious biography, and when he saw "the maturity of faith and the religious perfection to which many good men arrive so early," he felt disheartened at his own condition. "It is true," he said, "I have often had hours of ecstatic, enthusiastic devotion; but the fever has soon subsided, and my feelings have flowed on calmly and soberly in their accustomed channels." He looked for the fruits of his faith and found none. Yet in his ignorance of what constitutes the true spiritual life, Faber, in his earnest search after perfection, was doubtless much nearer to God than the evangelical saints whose condition he so envied. He was soon surrounded at Oxford by a little circle of admirers, who made him, in some sort, the exemplar and guide of their religious life. He was about twenty or twenty-one years of age when he began a systematic effort to improve the opportunities for doing good which he believed had thus been providentially opened to him. "I proceeded," he wrote soon afterward, "to dictate, to organize, so to speak, a system of aggressive efforts in favor of religion; and under my guidance a number of prayer-meetings was speedily established; and by God's grace I was enabled to do it with little noise or ostentation." In another letter he describes the perplexity which he suffered during a vacation visit to one of his disciples, who had "declined from his Christian profession," and manifested an unregenerate fondness for the pleasures of life, balls, theatres, etc., which are generally so attractive to the young. Mr. Faber had little difficulty in reasserting his influence; but his friend's father had "a violent prejudice against what he called 'the humbug of evangelicals,'" and strongly disapproved of the enthusiastic views of the little Oxford coterie. Mr. Faber could not hold his tongue and let the son alone; he trembled at the thought of breeding domestic dissension; and he could not break off his visit without giving offence. It would be interesting to know how he got out of the difficulty, but he does not tell us.

There soon came a time when he discovered that, however Calvinism might answer for seasons of religious excitement and spiritual exaltation, it was not fit for the daily food of the soul. He could not always be at a prayer-meeting or an exhortation. Secular studies exacted most of his time, and he felt then that there was nothing for him to lean upon. Another change in his religious views was the inevitable consequence. He had been for some time an admiring student of the works of George Herbert; Herbert led him on to Bishop Andrewes; the necessity of sacraments, the prerogatives of the church, the "penitential system of the primitive church," and "the girdle of celibacy and the lamp of watching" became subjects of frequent recurrence in his letters; he confessed that "the evangelical system feeds the heart at the expense of the head," and "makes religion a series of frames of feeling;" and before long we find him quoting with approbation the writings of Dr. Wiseman. He was indeed steadily advancing toward the Catholic Church, though he was far enough from suspecting it. In June, 1836, he writes:

"Newman is delivering lectures against the Church of Rome. I have just come from a magnificent one on Peter's prerogative. He admits the text in its full literal completeness, and shows that it makes not one iota for the jurisdiction of the Bishop of Rome."

It was well that he was getting even by these slow degrees to a more comfortable faith; for in his university career he was destined to suffer, just at this time, several severe trials. He had carried off, in 1836, the prize for a poem on _The Knights of St. John_; but in the examination for his degree he made a comparative failure, his name appearing only in the second class, and, as a consequence of this misfortune, he was also defeated in a contest for a fellowship in his own college. To divert his mind from this double mortification and recruit his exhausted strength, he made a short visit to Germany with his brother, the Reverend Francis A. Faber. Soon after his return, he secured a fellowship at University College, and also carried off the Johnson divinity scholarship, for which there was a strong competition. His position being now secure, he began to prepare himself zealously for orders. He made the acquaintance of Doctor Newman, and joined in his scheme for compiling the _Library of the Fathers_, undertaking, as his share of the work, to translate the _Books of St. Optatus against the Donatists_. He obtained a few pupils, and during the vacation accompanied a small reading party to Ambleside, near the head of Windermere. There he was fortunate enough to form a friendship with Wordsworth, and used to spend long days rambling with the poet over the neighboring mountains--Wordsworth muttering verses in the intervals of conversation. His correspondence is full of admiring allusions to Wordsworth's poetry, "Well or sick," he says, "cheerful or sad, I can almost always get happiness and quiet and good resolves out of the old poet--God bless him! One may hang on one sonnet of his by the hour, like a bee in a fox-glove, and still get sweetness." His opinions of some other famous poets would be declared unquestionably heterodox. He wrote to his brother from Italy in 1843:

"I spent a _delicious_ evening at Fiesole, yesterday, and not being, as I had feared, tormented by a single thought of the execrable rebel and heretic, Milton, I had nothing to disturb the beautiful tranquillity of the sunset, and the rosy mists of the garden-like Valdarno.... England has no 'need' of Milton: how can a country have need of any thing, policy, courage, talent, or any thing else, which is unblessed of God; and how can any talent in any subject-matter be blessed by the Eternal Father for one who, in prose and verse, denied, ridiculed, blasphemed the Godhead of the Eternal Son? Milton (accursed be his blasphemous memory) spent a great part of his life in writing down my Lord's divinity--my sole trust, my sole love; and that thought poisons _Comus_."

For Byron, "the beast who thrust Christ into company with Jove and Mohammed"--Byron, "trampling under foot his duties to his country, and scorning the natural pieties," his antipathy amounted to loathing. "I must say that I cannot comprehend the anomaly which strikes me both in guide-books and conversation of quoting and praising men like Milton and Byron, when a man professes to love Christ and to put all his hopes of salvation in him."

Mr. Faber's old master at Harrow, Doctor Longley, now Bishop of Ripon, ordained him deacon in 1837, and Bishop Bagot promoted him to the priesthood at Oxford in 1839. Meanwhile, he had spent the long vacations at Ambleside, assisting there in parochial work, and preaching twice a week, and the rest of the year he had passed among his books at Oxford. A devoted Anglican at this time, and full of hope that the movement guided by Pusey, Newman, and their associates would revolutionize the whole English establishment, he had gone so far toward Catholicism that when, just after his ordination as priest, he made a second visit to the continent, he wrote to the Rev. J. B. Morris the following curious letter from Cologne:

"I fear you will think me a sad Protestant. I determined, and so did M----, to conform to the Catholic ritual here. We both of us got Mechlin breviaries at Mechlin, and go to church pretty regularly every day to say the hours, and we say the rest of the hours as the priests do, in carriages, or inns, or anywhere. Also, I have been tutorized in the breviary by a very _nice_ priest, a simple-hearted, pious fellow with little knowledge of theology. But it all will not do. The careless irreverence, the noise, the going in and out, the spitting of the priests on the altar-steps, the distressing representations of our Blessed Lord--I cannot get over them. The censing of the priests, the ringing of bells, the constant carrying of the blessed sacrament from one altar to another--this I can manage; because I can say psalms meanwhile. But at best, when I can get away into a side chapel with no wax virgins in it, and no hideous pictures of the FATHER, I cannot manage well."

The idea that Anglicans were excommunicate from Western Christendom was a terrible distress to him. "Would you not like," he writes to the same friend, "to spend six months among the Munich disciples of Möhler, Döllinger, etc., etc.? Of course I shall know more of all this when I have travelled. I shall strive to realize all such little ways of impeded communion as are unstopped. It will surely do _me_ good, if no one else."

He soon had the coveted opportunity for more extended travel; for in 1841, he went abroad as tutor to a young gentleman from Ambleside, and spent six months journeying through the countries bordering on the Mediterranean and the Danube, Styria, the Tyrol, and Northern Germany. Memorials of this interesting tour are found in some of his published poems and in a volume called _Sights and Thoughts in Foreign Churches and among Foreign Peoples_, which appeared in 1842, dedicated to Wordsworth. Into this book the author introduced many reflections upon religious matters, chiefly in the form of conversations with an imaginary representative of mediæval Christianity, as well as of Mr. Faber's own Catholic feelings, whom he calls "the Stranger." The volume closes with a dream, in which the author conducts the stranger through English cathedrals, with their bare altars and empty niches. "The stranger regarded them with indignation, but did not speak. When we came out of the church, he turned to me, and said in a solemn voice, somewhat tremulous from deep emotion, 'You have led me through a land of closed churches and hushed bells, of unlighted altars and unstoled priests. Is England beneath an interdict?'"

The private journal of Mr. Faber's journey abounds with evidences of the deep impressions which Catholic customs made upon him, and his secret dissatisfaction with his own cold church--a dissatisfaction of which probably he was still himself unconscious. He is at Genoa on the Feast of the Annunciation, "and not to be utterly without sympathy with the Genoese around us, we decorated our room with a bunch of crimson tulips, apparently the favorite flower, that we might not be without somewhat to remind us of her

'Who so above All mothers shone; The Mother of The Blessed One.'"

In Constantinople he is impressed with the folly of patching up the Anglican succession by an alliance with the Greek Church. "Depend upon it," he writes, "cast about as we will, if we want foreign Catholic sympathies, we must find them as they will let us in our Latin mother." He witnesses a procession of pilgrims from Vienna to the shrine of the Blessed Virgin at Mariazell. "It was a bewildering sight. I thought how faith ran in my own country in thin and scattered rivulets, and I looked with envious surprise at this huge wave which the Austrian capital had flung upon this green platform of Styrian highland--a wave of pure, hearty, earnest faith." He is indignant at the desecration of Sunday by the Lutheran population of Dresden, and exclaims, "Yet year after year are we assured in England of the connection between popery and whatever is disagreeable in the foreign way of keeping Sunday. No person who has not been abroad, and heard and seen and investigated for himself, would credit the extensive system of lying pursued by English travel-writers, religious-tract compilers, and Exeter Hall speech-makers, respecting the Roman Church abroad; and whether the lies be those of wilfulness or of prejudice, ignorance, and indolence, I do not see much to distinguish in the guilt. These dirt-seekers scrape the sewers of Europe to rough-cast the Church of Rome with the plentiful defilements."

Soon after his return home, he was offered the college living of Elton, in Huntingdonshire, and at first declined it, but afterward, for a reason which curiously illustrates his conscientiousness, he determined to accept. "My chief rock of offence," said he, "is the subduing the poet to the priest." He would have given up poetry altogether, but Keble convinced him that he had no right to bury his chief talent in a napkin. To cultivate it in moderation was more difficult, and here he thought the uncongenial duties of the pastoral office would be a great help in correcting his inordinate love of literature, and keeping him within the bounds of usefulness. "I do not say you are wrong," was Wordsworth's remark on hearing his determination; "but England loses a poet."

If his reason for accepting the rectory was a strange one, his first step on taking possession was still stranger and still wiser. He determined to visit Rome and study the method pursued by the church in dealing with the souls committed to her care. "I want to go to Italy," said he, "not as a poet, or a tourist, or a pleased dreamer, but as a pilgrim who regards it as a second Palestine, the Holy Land of the West." Dr. Wiseman, then coadjutor bishop of the central district of England, gave him letters of introduction to Cardinal Acton and Dr. Grant at Rome, so that he was enabled to see much more of the charitable and religious institutions of the Christian capital than falls to the lot of the ordinary visitor. He studied Italian, in order that he might understand the numerous lives of saints in that language, and singularly enough, or providentially we should rather say, he conceived a particular devotion to St. Philip Neri, his future father. Of his visit to the room in which the saint used to say Mass he writes, "How little did I, a Protestant stranger in that room years ago, dream that I should ever be of the saint's family, or that the Oratorian father who showed it me should in a few years be appointed by the pope the novice-master of the English Oratorians. I remember how, when he kissed the glass of the case in which St. Philip's little bed is kept as a relic, he apologized to me as a Protestant, lest I should be scandalized, and told me with a smile how tenderly St. Philip's children loved their father. I was not scandalized with their relic-worship then, but I can understand better now what he said about the love, the child-like love, wherewith St. Philip inspired his sons. If any one had told me that in seven short years I should wear the same habit, and the same white collar in the streets of London, and be preaching a triduo in honor of Rome's apostle, I should have wondered how any one could dream so wild a dream."

Sensibly as he was affected by the pious practices and associations of Rome, his attachment to the Church of England was as yet unshaken. He still cherished the delusion that some way could be found of connecting the Anglican establishment with this venerable apostolic church. Controversy on such points of doctrine as indulgences, etc., he put aside. "The one thing necessary to prove," said he, "is that adherence to the holy see is essential to the _being_ of a church: _to the_ well-_being of all churches I admit it essential_." He visited the church of the Lateran on St. John's day, and knelt bare-headed in the piazza to receive the holy father's blessing. "I do not think," he writes, "I ever returned from any service so thoroughly christianized in every joint and limb, or so right of heart, as I did from the Lateran on Thursday." Afterward Cardinal Acton obtained for him the favor of a private audience with Pope Gregory XVI., the story of which he tells in the following words:

"The Rector of the English College accompanied me, and told me that, as Protestants did not like kissing the pope's foot, I should not be required to do it. We waited in the lobby of the Vatican library for half an hour, when the pope arrived, and a prelate opened the door, remaining outside. The pope was perfectly alone, without a courtier or prelate, standing in the middle of the library, in a plain white cassock, and a white silk skull-cap, (white is the papal color.) On entering, I knelt down, and again when a few yards from him, and lastly before him; he held out his hand, but I kissed his foot; there seemed to be a mean puerility in refusing the customary homage. With Dr. Baggs for interpreter, we had a long conversation; he spoke of Dr. Pusey's suspension for defending the Catholic doctrine of the Eucharist with amazement and disgust; he said to me, 'You must not mislead yourself in wishing for unity, yet waiting for your _church_ to move. Think of the salvation of your own soul.' I said I feared self-will and _individual_ judging. He said, 'You are all individuals in the English church; you have only external communion and the accident of being all under the queen. You know this; you know all doctrines are taught amongst you, any how. You have good wishes; may God strengthen them! You must think for yourself and for your soul.' He then laid his hands on my shoulders, and I immediately knelt down; upon which he laid them on my head, and said, 'May the grace of God correspond to your good wishes and deliver you from the nets (_insidie_) of Anglicanism, and bring you to the true holy church!' I left him almost in tears, affected as much by the earnest, affectionate demeanor of the old man as by his blessing and his prayer. I shall remember St. Alban's day in 1843 to my life's end."

That he did not immediately embrace the truth seems to have been not the effect of cowardice, but of a genuine scruple such as he expressed to Pope Gregory. The Anglican party at this time were sanguine of their ability to bring their members, as a body, into communion with the Roman see, and Mr. Faber was doubtless conscientious in his delay, though he suffered terribly from distress of mind. "I grow more Roman every day," he writes. "I hardly dare read the Articles; their weight grows heavier on me daily. _I hope our Blessed Lady's intercession may not cease for any of us_ because we do not seek it, since we desist for obedience' sake." He prayed at the shrine of St. Aloysius on the feast of that saint, and left the church as if speechless and not knowing where he was going. After he became a Catholic, he told Dr. Grant that on the 21st of June St. Aloysius "had always knocked very hard at his heart." Twice he took his hat to go to the English College and make his abjuration, but on each occasion some trifling circumstance interfered to prevent the execution of his purpose. He wore a miraculous medal, and he obtained some rosaries blessed by the pope. At last he went home to Elton, having suffered during his visit a degree of mental anguish which actually resulted in physical injuries that affected him all the rest of his life.

Dr. Newman's state of mind was very much like Mr. Faber's at this time. The two friends wrote to each other, and agreed to delay their final decision for a little while longer; and in the mean time Mr. Faber threw all his energy into his parochial duties, endeavoring to copy the methods of pastoral labor which he had gone to Rome to study. His parish was disorderly in consequence of long neglect, and what religious vitality there was in the place was found principally at the dissenting chapel. Mr. Faber relied for reformation upon preaching, and what he considered the sacraments. He cared very little for ceremonies and vestments, and compared those who would now be called ritualists to "grown-up children playing at mass, putting ornament before truth, suffocating the inward by the outward." "This is not the way to become Catholic again; it is only a profaner kind of Protestantism than any we have seen hitherto." When the surplice controversy was agitating the Established Church, he told his congregation that he usually preached in a surplice because he preferred it, but he "would preach _in his shirt-sleeves_ if it would be any satisfaction to them." He tried to establish the devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus; he published three tracts on examination of conscience; he introduced confessions, and out of the most promising of his young male penitents he formed a confraternity which used to meet at the rectory every night about twelve o'clock and spend an hour in prayer. On the vigils of great festivals, their devotions lasted two or three hours. On these nights, and also on Fridays and every night in Lent, the whole party used the discipline, each in turn receiving it from the others.

These devotional practices seem to have excited the powers of darkness; for it is related that many times while the brotherhood were assembled, mysterious disturbances were heard, often apparently just outside the door of the oratory. The house was searched with lights, but nothing was ever discovered which could account for the noises.

On Sunday afternoons, the rectory grounds were thrown open to the parish, and the clergyman mingled freely with his flock, while games of foot-ball and cricket were introduced to make the gatherings more attractive. Of course the Sabbatarians were frightfully scandalized at such proceedings; but no one could deny that a great moral improvement was soon perceptible in the parish, and the dissenters began to forsake their chapel to crowd around Mr. Faber's pulpit. His own austerities were fearful. He fasted rigorously, often eating for his dinner nothing more than a few potatoes and a herring, and in fact never taking a genuine meal except on Sunday. He wore a thick horsehair cord tied in knots about his waist. Want of food often brought upon him severe attacks of sickness, and sometimes he fainted in the church while reading prayers. In such matters as these he seems to have been his own director; but in other religious practices he governed himself a great deal by the advice of Dr. Newman. "I have a request to make," he writes to Newman in November, 1844, "which I cannot any longer refrain from making; but I shall submit at once to a _No_, if you will say it. I want you to revoke your prohibition, laid on me last October year, of invoking our Blessed Lady, the saints and angels. I do feel somehow weakened for the want of it, and _fancy_ I should get strength if I did it."

It was some relief, perhaps, in this suffering of mind to give utterance to his Catholic yearnings with his pen, since he durst not pour out his whole soul in prayer. He had entered into a scheme for publishing a series of lives of the English saints, and written for it a _Life of St. Wilfrid_. All the volumes had caused more or less irritation; but in the _Life of St. Wilfrid_ the Catholic tendencies of the tractarian school were developed with the utmost freedom--with so much freedom that we can hardly understand how they could have come from the pen of any man who was even nominally an Anglican. His difficulties, however, were now almost over. In the autumn of 1845, many of his friends were received into the church. Among them was Dr. Newman; and then Mr. Faber hesitated no longer. He put himself at once into communication with Dr. Wareing, the vicar apostolic of the eastern district, not to be instructed in Catholic doctrine, for that he knew and believed already; but to inquire about various minor points connected with a formal reception into the church. To abandon his work at Elton he knew would involve spiritual injury to many; and about that he felt at first some scruples. He asked advice of one whose counsel he had always followed in times of perplexity--we presume Dr. Newman. "Your own soul," he was told, "is the only consideration, and you must save that, because--"

"No," interrupted he, "I have obeyed you as a Protestant and without the 'because,' and I don't want to hear it now."

Another obstacle in his way was the state of his pecuniary affairs. He had borrowed a large sum of money for charitable and other works in his parish; and if he gave up his living, he could pay neither principal nor interest. Was it not his duty to remain rector of Elton until the debt was paid? He consulted an Anglican dignitary of his own party. "Depend upon it," was the answer, "if God means you to be a Catholic, he will not let that stand in the way." Confident, therefore, that God would provide, he wrote to acquaint his friends of his purpose, and had no sooner dispatched the letters than he received from a generous anti-Catholic gentleman, who had heard of his perplexity, a check for the full amount of the debt.

He officiated at Elton for the last time on the 16th of November. At the evening service he told his people that the doctrines he had preached to them, though true, were not those of the Church of England; he could not, therefore, remain in her communion, but must go where truth was to be found. Then he hastily descended the pulpit stairs, threw off his surplice, which he left upon the ground, and made his way as quickly as possible through the vestry to the house. For a few minutes the congregation remained in blank astonishment. The church-wardens and some others followed him to the rectory, and begged him to remain; he might preach what he pleased, and they would never question it. It was a sorrowful interview, for he loved his flock with all his heart; but he was firm in his resolve. The next morning he started early for Northampton, hoping to escape observation; but the people were on the watch at their windows; and as he passed through, they waved their handkerchiefs and cried, "God bless you, wherever you go." Mr. Faber was accompanied by Mr. T. F. Knox, a scholar of Trinity College, Cambridge, and seven of his parishioners. They were all admitted into the church the same evening by Bishop Wareing, and the next day received their first communion and the sacrament of confirmation. "A new light," wrote Mr. Faber next day, "seems to be shed on every thing, and more especially on my past position--a light so clear as to surprise me; and though I am homeless and unsettled, and as to worldly prospects considerably bewildered, yet there is such a repose of conscience as more than compensates for the intense and fiery struggle which began on the Tuesday and only ended on the Monday morning following."

Owing to various circumstances, a good many recent converts had settled at Birmingham, where the church of St. Chad, under the charge of the Rev. Mr. Moore, had become a great centre of Catholic life. Mr. Faber and his companions went there, Faber accepting the hospitality of Mr. Moore, and the others disposing of themselves in various ways. They continued, however, to look up to their former pastor for direction, and he soon conceived the idea of forming them into a sort of community. With the approval of Mr. Moore and Dr. Wiseman, they took possession of a small house in Caroline street, Mr. Faber of course joining them. No definite rule was drawn up at first, but their general purpose was to assist the parochial clergy in visiting the sick, giving instruction, and similar duties. Mr. Hutchinson, who afterward became a member of the little band, has given an amusing account of a visit he paid them a few days after their establishment. Mr. Faber, terribly scorched, was standing over the fire stirring a kettle of pea-soup. There was hardly any furniture except a long deal table, a chair, knife, fork, and mug for each man, some pewter spoons with the temperance pledge stamped on them, and a three-legged table, split across the middle, at which, when he could be spared from the pea-soup, Mr. Faber was engaged writing a pamphlet on the reasons for his conversion. Up-stairs there were four small rooms, one used as a chapel, the others as dormitories. There were no bed-steads; they all slept on the floor. Such was the beginning of the Wilfridian Community, or Brothers of the Will of God, though they took no distinguishing name until some time later. At the commencement of the new year, the generosity of a friend enabled Mr. Faber to visit Italy, where he had reason to think he could obtain money for the support of the new community. During his absence, the brethren found employment with some of the Catholic tradesmen in the town, returning to Caroline street every night. The distinguished convert was of course received in Rome with great affection, especially by the ecclesiastics who had known him on his former visit. Cardinal Acton fell upon his neck and kissed him. The pope gave him a gracious interview. The English College offered him a home. The superior of the Camaldolese at Florence expressed a great desire to see him. "He was ill in bed," says Mr. Faber, "and his bed full of snuff; he seized my head, buried it in the snuffy clothes, and kissed me most unmercifully." There is, in fact, a good deal of fun now and then in Mr. Faber's letters. He tells, for instance, how "the dear old pope" refused to be angry with the Anglican Bishop of Gibraltar, who came to Rome to give confirmation, his holiness saying with a chuckle that "he really had not been aware hitherto that Rome was in the diocese of Gibraltar;" and how, in "a fit of unholy mirth," the holy father mimicked the way the English Protestants did homage, "a familiar nod with their chin, as if they had swallowed pokers." He was disappointed in the pecuniary aid which he had come abroad to seek, but the journey was productive of much spiritual comfort and improvement; and as money was soon forthcoming from another quarter, he was enabled to go back to Birmingham with a light heart, and to set about the more complete organization of the community according to a rule which he had devised during his absence. Meanwhile, arrangements had been completed for removal to more commodious quarters in Birmingham; and in the course of the year 1846 the brethren moved a second time to a fine estate at Cheadle, generously given them by Lord Shrewsbury. They named it St. Wilfrid's. Their first work here was to open a school for boys. Pupils came in rapidly; but the bigotry of the neighborhood was aroused, and the most amazing reports were circulated about the new institution. A relative of Mr. Hutchinson (who had joined the community under the name of Brother Anthony, Mr. Faber being styled Brother Wilfrid of the Humanity of Jesus) sent a Scotch physician to examine the establishment, and we suppose to report upon the sanity of the inmates. The same relative described Mr. Faber as "an ambitious villain and a hellish ruler," and declared that wherever he went in London "the finger of scorn was pointed at him." "I am said to have _strangled_ one of my monks," wrote the "hellish ruler;" "the story is all over the land, and is believed. Mrs. R---- came to see me at St. Wilfrid's, 'to see the man;' and glaring at me in silence like a tigress, she told Lady Shrewsbury and Lady Arundel that I was quite capable of all she heard, and that her faith in it was established."

Humility had led Mr. Faber to defer ordination to the priesthood, and up to this time he had received only minor orders; but in the Advent season of 1846 he was raised to the subdeaconship, and at the end of the following Lent he was ordained deacon and priest by Dr. Wiseman at Oscott. The brothers could now engage much more effectively in missionary work; and as, besides having a priest among them, they received several valuable converts from time to time, they were enabled to map out a wide extent of neglected country into districts, and devote their days to a systematic visitation of every house within their limits. The crowds who came on Sundays to St. Wilfrid's soon overflowed the little chapel, and Father Faber used to preach to them in a yard near the house, or under the beech-trees in the garden. It was not unusual for him also to preach in the streets, wearing his habit or cassock and holding a crucifix in his hand.

In a few months there remained but one Protestant family in the parish, and the Protestant church was almost entirely abandoned! Brother Anthony Hutchinson wrote, "We have converted the pew-opener, leaving the parson only his clerk and two drunken men." The poor people became extravagantly fond of "Father Fable," as they used to call him; but he was not held in particular affection by the Protestant clergy, and sometimes was unwillingly involved in what he used to call "fighting and squabbling with parsons." On one occasion he was followed into the room of a sick man by a minister of the Primitive Methodists, who insisted on remaining there to hear what was said in confession, and was with great difficulty persuaded by the invalid to leave the house.

It was not only from Protestants, however, that Father Faber had to suffer annoyance; his worst troubles came from those of his own faith. About the time of his ordination he had made arrangements for the publication of a series of lives of the saints, translated from the Italian and other foreign languages, and afterward so widely known as the Oratorian Lives. A part of the literary work he did himself, but the most of it he committed to other hands, having at one time between sixty and seventy translators at work under his direction. The series began with a _Life of St. Philip Neri_. It reached a large sale; but so little familiar were English readers with the supernatural manifestations which abound in biographies of the chosen servants of God that exception was taken to the work in various quarters, and when the _Life of St. Rose of Lima_ appeared, the opposition became extremely violent. It was objected that the lives of foreign saints, however edifying in their respective countries, were unsuited to England and unfit for Protestant eyes. Under the advice of Dr. Newman, who nevertheless approved of the work very cordially, the series was finally suspended. But then a reaction set in; it was discovered how much practical good the publications had done; some of those who had criticised them most severely retracted and apologized; and the translations were resumed under the auspices of the Oratorians, with whom Father Faber's community had meanwhile been consolidated.

Mr. Faber and Mr. Hutchinson, the only priests in the community at St. Wilfrid's, were on the eve of taking their vows when news arrived that Dr. Newman was coming over from Rome to establish in England the Oratory of St. Philip Neri. Father Faber was at prayer when he felt suddenly an interior call to join the new congregation. His final decision was reached only after a long interior struggle and a free conference with Bishop Wiseman. Humanly speaking, it was a great sacrifice--perhaps the greatest Father Faber ever made. Besides giving up the infant community to which he had devoted so much care, and descending at one step from the position of superior to that of novice, he had to tear himself away from a congregation which was quite as warmly attached to him as his old flock had been at Elton, to give up St. Wilfrid's, and to face the vehement opposition of his brethren in the community and the generous friends to whom he had been indebted for his foundation at Cheadle. "Giving St. Wilfrid's up," he wrote, "seems to unroot one altogether from the earth, and the future is such a complete blank that one feels as if one was going to die." "It is Elton over again," only, "in my first spoliation I kept my books and my Elton children; now I lose these two." To his surprise, however, when once his mind had been made up, the opposition of the community of St. Wilfrid's suddenly ceased. They all professed their willingness to follow him; and the result was, that the Oratorians took possession of the whole establishment. Dr. Newman came to St. Wilfrid's in February, 1848, and admitted the entire community to his congregation. "Father Superior has now left us," wrote Faber, "all in our Philippine habits with turndown collars, like so many good boys brought in after dinner. Since my admission I seem to have lost all attachment to every thing but obedience; I could dance and sing all day because I am so joyous; I hardly know what to do with myself for very happiness."

It was not thought necessary to exact from him the full period of three years' noviceship, so at the end of six months he was dispensed from the remainder and appointed master of novices. In October of the same year, the whole congregation removed from Birmingham to St. Wilfrid's; but Father Faber was not allowed to remain long in this favorite home; for in the spring he was sent with five other fathers, namely Dalgairns, Stanton, Hutchinson, Knox, and Wells, and two novices, Messrs. Gordon and Bowden, to found a new house in London. At the head of this he remained until his death, and he never saw St. Wilfrid's again but once.

The introduction of a new order or a new congregation is so common an event now that we can hardly understand how bitter was the ill-feeling aroused by the opening of the London Oratory in a hired house in King William street in May, 1849. It was the first public church which had been served by a religious community in that diocese since the old faith was put under the feet of the English schism. Bishop Wiseman was a warm supporter of the Oratorians, but many of the secular clergy looked upon them with suspicion, doubted the discretion of a community composed entirely of converts, disapproved of the public wearing of their habit, and complained that their peculiar services, with new prayers, hymns in the vernacular, and a new style of preaching, were Methodistical, and ought to be suppressed. Experience, however, in time showed the doubters their mistake, and the diocesan clergy became not only friends but imitators of the Oratorians. A great deal of popular animosity continued to be manifested, especially during the excitement which followed the reëstablishment of the English hierarchy. The walls of London were placarded, "Down with the Oratorians," "Don't go to the Oratory," "Banishment to the Oratorians," etc.; the fathers were cursed in the streets, and even _gentlemen_ used to shout at them from their carriage-windows. The government finally issued a proclamation reviving an old statute which forbade Roman Catholic ecclesiastics to wear the habit of their order, and thenceforth the Oratorians always appeared in the streets in secular garb.

Father Faber was doing an immense amount of labor at this time, preaching, visiting the sick, giving retreats and missions, and conducting special devotions, besides employing some time in literary occupations; yet he was almost constantly a sufferer from disease, and was often obliged to cease for a while from all work whatsoever. He had long been subject to very severe and prostrating headaches, connected with which is the following remarkable incident which we shall give in his own words, written to the Countess of Arundel and Surrey on the 2d of December, 1850:

"And now I have so many things to tell you that I hardly know where to begin. Some time ago, a lady at prayer in our church thought it was revealed to her that St. Mary Magdalene of Pazzi wished to confer some _grazia_ on me in connection with my headache. Her director gave her permission to act upon this; whereupon she wrote to me, begging me when my headache came on to apply a relic of the saint to my forehead. Some days elapsed; I asked Father Francis, my director, for his leave to do this; as it was a merely temporal thing, he took some time to consider. I became ill, and had a night of great pain. I thought he had forgotten all about it, and that it would be a blameworthy imperfection in me to remind him of it. The morning after, he came to confession, and found me ill in bed; he was going away, but I knew he was going to say Mass, and so I made him kneel down by my bedside, while I put on my stole, and with considerable pain heard his confession; when he rose, I gave him the stole, and asked him to hear my confession, which he did. Afterward he said, 'Well, now, I think it would be well to try this relic.' I answered, 'Just as you please.' I was in great suffering, and very sick besides. He gave it me, and walked away to the door to say Mass. I applied the relic, a piece of her linen, to my forehead; a sort of fire went into my head, through every limb down to my feet, causing me to tremble; before Father Francis could even reach the door, I sprang up, crying, 'I am cured, I am quite well!' He said I looked as white as a sheet; I was filled with a kind of sacred fear, and an intense desire to consecrate myself utterly to God. I got up and dressed, without any difficulty, or pain, or sickness. This was on the Wednesday. On the Saturday I had another headache, but I had not asked Father Francis's leave about the relic, and felt I ought to take no steps to get rid of my cross. In the afternoon he told me I might apply it. Fathers Philip and Edward were in the room. I was on my bed; I took the relic and applied it; there was the same fire in a less degree, but no cure. I then said to the saint, 'I only ask it to go to the novena and benediction.' The cure was instantaneous; while Father Philip had such an impression that the saint was in the room, that he was irresistibly drawn to bow to her. Well, I said my office; then in an hour or so came the novena and benediction; and as soon as I returned to my room, I was taken so ill again I was obliged to go to bed. Meanwhile I had totally forgotten what the others reminded me of afterward, that two years ago Michael Watts Russell wrote to me from Florence, and said, 'The children send their love, and desire me to say they have just come from the tomb of St. Mary Magdalene of Pazzi, whom they have been asking to cure Father Wilfrid's headache.'

"After all this, I am sure I shall lose my soul if I do not serve God less lukewarmly; so please pray for me."

God had not given him, however, the favor of a permanent restoration to health. He was never well in London. "I have two vocations," he wrote to Father Bowden, "one for my body and one for my soul; and they happen to be incompatible, so the body must do the best it can, and the soul must rough-ride it for another sixty years, which is supposed to be the term of incessant headache still left me. When you and I sit toothless together, shaking our palsied heads at recreation, we shall look down upon the junior fathers who have been only thirty or forty years in the congregation with an ineffable contempt; and when my dotage comes on, I shall fancy myself still novice-master and you a refractory novice, and I shall trip you up on your crutches for mortification." For the sake of his health he was persuaded to start on a journey to Palestine; but he fell very sick on the way, and went no further than Italy. He reached Naples on the feast of the Immaculate Conception, (1851,) and entered the Oratorian church just as benediction was about to be given, "which," he says, "was jolly." In the same letter (to Father Hutchinson) he writes, "If I can get one, I will bring one of _the rum things_ they put on the altar in Advent and Lent, when flowers are forbidden; they take my fancy hugely." He came home far from well enough to resume his work; but there was a great deal to be done, and he never had any mercy on himself. There was a country house for the congregation to be built at Sydenham Hill, and the fine new Oratory at Brompton to be erected in place of the little establishment in King William street, which the community had long ago outgrown. They took possession of the Brompton house in March, 1854. The vast cost of this great institution had been defrayed principally from the private means of the individual members, but there had been several donations--£10,000 toward the purchase of the site from a lady who wished her gift to be anonymous; £4000 from the Earl of Arundel and Surrey; and £700 collected by a committee for the erection of the church. The current expenses of the house were also defrayed from the pockets of the fathers, it being a rule of the congregation that the receipts from their churches should not contribute in any way to the support of the house, and indeed at Brompton the income of the church did not equal its expenditure.

It was while the Brompton building was under way that Father Faber began with his _All for Jesus, or the Easy Ways of Divine Love_, that remarkable series of spiritual works which made his name so widely known and loved throughout Europe and America. _All for Jesus_ appeared in 1853; _Bethlehem_, the eighth and last of the series, was published in 1860. In the mean time, he had collected a volume of his earlier and later poems; completed his poem of _Prince Amadis_; published a collection of his hymns, many of which have become exceedingly popular, and finished a great deal of minor literary work. He made preparations for other books, on _Calvary_, _The Holy Ghost_, _The Fear of God_, and _The Immaculate Heart of Mary_, fragments of which appeared after his death under the title, _Notes on Doctrinal and Spiritual Subjects_. These various writings are too well known and too fondly esteemed, especially in the United States, for any criticism to be called for here, and we can do nothing better than copy the just eulogy which Father Bowden cites from _The Dublin Review_:

"We know of no one man who has done more to make the men of his day love God and aspire to a higher path of the interior life; and we know no man who so nearly represents to us the mind and the preaching of St. Bernard and St. Bernardine of Siena in the tenderness and beauty with which he has surrounded the names of Jesus and Mary."

All these exquisite works were written in the midst of the most awful physical suffering. "It is plain," he writes in 1858, "that life can't be lived at this rate. But my mind is now like a locomotive that has started with neither driver nor stoker. I can think of nothing but being seized, put on board one of her majesty's ships of war as compulsory chaplain, and carried round the world for two years. If I was on land, I should jib and come home." Bright's disease of the kidneys, gout, neuralgia--a complication, in fact, of numerous disorders, left him hardly an hour of ease, hardly a night of rest. Soon after Easter, in the year 1863, the hope of checking his disease or even notably relieving his sufferings was finally given up. He seems to have been conscious of his condition even before the physicians had pronounced their opinion. During the month of April he made one or two short journeys, but without experiencing any relief. By the middle of June he was so much worse that the last sacraments were administered. On the 28th--his forty-ninth birthday--he saw all the members of the community, one by one, recommending himself to their prayers, and leaving with each some parting gift. He rallied a little after this, and was even well enough to take one or two short drives, and to enjoy farewell visits from Cardinal Wiseman, and Dr. Newman, and many of his other friends. His mind continued perfectly clear and calm until some time in September, when attacks of delirium became frequent, and the sedatives which had been used to produce sleep lost their soothing effect. He received holy communion daily up to and including the 24th of that month. The next day his attendants were able to put him into bed, which had not been done since June; he had passed day and night in his chair, propped up with pillows. He now lay quite still, gazing at a large crucifix, and moving his eyes from one to another of the five wounds. When told that his death was near, he only repeated his favorite exclamation, "God be praised!" On the morning of the 26th, Father Rowe told him that he was going to say Mass for him. He showed by his face that he understood what was said; and just as the Mass must have ended, he turned his head a little and opened his eyes with a touching expression, half of sweetness and half of surprise. So his spirit passed away, as if in the act of realizing the picture which he had drawn in _All for Jesus_: "Only serve Jesus out of love, and while your eyes are yet unclosed what an unspeakable surprise will you have had at the judgment-seat of your dearest Love, while the songs of heaven are breaking on your ears and the glory of God is dawning on your eyes, to fade away no more for ever!"

We have already alluded in the first part of this article to Father Faber's elegance of appearance and manner, and from a portrait prefixed to the biography it seems that he retained his advantages of person to a late period of his life. He was remarkable for his habits of order and neatness, and once, when a father remarked upon the tidiness of his room, he replied, "The napkin in the sepulchre was found _folded_ at the resurrection." As might be imagined from the narrative of his life, he was always distinguished for gentleness; and Father Bowden remarks that he never was severe in the manner of correcting the faults of his spiritual subjects, except possibly in matters connected with the ceremonial of divine worship. Any defect of demeanor during service, or inattention to the requirements of the rubric, he rebuked with marked severity. In the church he would have every thing of the best, whether it could be seen by the congregation or not. When the new high altar of marble was put up in the Oratory, he was much dissatisfied because the back was not finished like the front, and he found fault with the altar rails for the same reason, complaining that "the side next our Lord" was not ornamented. He was very fond of children, and his correspondence contains some striking evidences of his tenderness to them. We have already spoken of his love of humor--a sense which seems naturally to accompany the poetic instinct. His room was at all hours the frequent resort of his brethren who looked upon it as a renewal of St. Philip's "School of Christian Mirth." Father Bowden quotes the language of an old friend, who wrote at the time of Father Faber's death of "the indescribable charm of his private intercourse, of that wonderful brilliancy of conversation in which he excelled all those whose social powers have made them the idols of London society as far as they have excelled ordinary men, of the magic play of his countenance and of his voice, of the unprecedented combination of tenderness in affection, unearthliness of aim, and worldly wisdom, which characterized his private intercourse, and of his power of attracting little children and learned men, one as much as the other."

Father Bowden has told the story of this beautiful life with appreciation and affection, and with no mean literary ability. His style is direct and unaffected, and he is not given to the superfluity of pious reflection with which the biographers of religious men are so apt to retard their narratives. The volume contains a very copious selection from Father Faber's private correspondence, so that it may be considered in many portions virtually an autobiography.

FOOTNOTE:

[34] _The Life and Letters of Frederick William Faber, D.D., Priest of the Oratory of St. Philip Neri._ By John Edward Bowden, of the same Congregation. Baltimore: John Murphy & Co. 1869.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.

ANGELA.