CHAPTER XIII.

A RIVAL FOR EDITH.

Dick Rowan came home in the spring of '52 to begin a new life. In the first place, he was to have a ship of his own. Mr. Williams had a beautiful ship almost ready to launch, and he was to be the master of it. He was to name it, too, that had been promised him; but what name he meant to bestow was as yet a secret to all but himself. What could it be but the _Edith Yorke_? He had other matters to settle, too; he must become a Catholic. He had promised Edith that he would, if, on reading, he found he could do so conscientiously. He had read a good deal, more than he liked, indeed, and saw nothing to object to. Besides, the fact that it was Edith's religion and the religion of his father's boyhood was a strong argument in its favor. There was one other affair to settle, the thought of which made the color drop out of his cheeks, and his heart rise in excited throbs. He had studied it over and over during this last voyage, and his mind was made up. Edith was almost seventeen years old, and he meant to speak to her. She must know now, if she ever would, whether she was willing to be his wife.

Perhaps something said to him by Captain Cary had hastened his decision. The captain had seen what his studies were, and been vexed by them.

"You are going too far, Dick," he expostulated. "A man never should change his religion for a girl's sake. She won't like you any the better for it. Besides, Dick, I can't help saying it, you are making a fool of yourself. She will marry Carl Yorke."

Dick stared, reddened, then grew pale. "I think not," he said decidedly. "Don't say that again, captain."

The first thing to be attended to, then, was his religion. He must be a Catholic when he met Edith. Besides, if religion gives strength, he would feel better prepared to put his fortune to the test. He went, therefore, to a clergyman immediately.

"I do not wish to read any more, sir," he said. "I do not like the way in which learned men prove their arguments to be true. It is too ingenious. It always seems to me that the other side could be just as well proved, if one were clever enough. I am willing to believe whatever is true. I cannot swear to any doctrine, except the existence of a God and the divinity of Christ. Those two truths I would stand by with my life. For the rest, I can only say that I place my mind and heart passively in the hands of God, and ask him to direct them. I can do no more, except to say that, if I do not believe, neither do I disbelieve anything that has been proposed to me. Perhaps my head isn't a very good one; I dare say it is not. I certainly do not like subtleties. It seems to me that all necessary truth may be known and believed by a very ordinary intellect with very moderate study. What I want in religion is what I find in the faces of some of the poor people whom I see here at Mass in the early morning, and I don't believe they got that out of books, or got it themselves in any way."

"You are right," the priest said. "What you saw in their faces was faith, a pure gift of God. But you believe baptism to be necessary to salvation?"

"I am inclined to think so, but not sure," was the reply. "If I were sure, then I should already have faith, which is what I come to ask for. If it is necessary, I wish for it."

The priest mused. This was not a very fervent penitent certainly; but he was a sincere one, and in his fine, earnest face the father read a latent fervor and power of strong conviction which would be all the more precious when aroused.

Dick mistook the father's silence for hesitation, and his real impatience broke out. "I am uneasy, sir," he said; "I wish to be one thing or another."

The priest looked at him. "What do you mean?"

Dick paused a minute, resting his head on his hand, then raised his bright, clear eyes.

"What I say to a priest goes no further?" he said interrogatively.

"Your confidence is safe with me."

"Edith said that I should tell you everything," Dick muttered, half to himself, and for a moment his dreamy eyes seemed to contemplate the picture his mind held of her saying so. A smile just stirred his lips, and he went on. "I was born an outlaw, sir. The conventionalities which keep many people straight had nothing to do with me. Then I like adventure, and am hard to frighten. I have been about, and seen all sorts of people believing all sorts of things, and one sort was as good as another, as far as I could see. The effect of this is, of course, to make one liberal; but such a liberality, if a man has not a settled religious belief, unhinges the principles. There have been times when I have thought that it wasn't much matter what I did. I had half a mind to run away with Edith, and turn privateer."

"Who is this Edith?"

"She is a little Catholic girl who was brought up with me, sir. I'm going to ask her to marry me, and I think she will. She is the only person in the world whom I depend on, or who has any influence over me. I believe in her. She is as true as steel. And she believes in me. I can't fail her, sir. That thought has kept me from harm so far."

"It is a poor reason for being a Catholic," the father said in a dissatisfied tone. "It is a weak hold on virtue when your motive is an affection like this."

The young man smiled with a sudden recollection.

"When we were at St. Michael's, last winter, there was a great storm, and a vessel was wrecked close to the coast. We went down to the shore to see, but nothing could be done. One man swam to or was washed to a little rock not far from the shore. There he lay clinging, with the waves breaking over him. He couldn't have held on long, and we could not get to him any way. But Captain Cary brought out a big bow and arrow of his that always reminded me of Ulysses', for no one but the captain, I believe, could bend it, and, in a lull of the wind, he shot a little cord over to the man, and the man drew it out. Hope revived his strength, I suppose, and it seemed as if the tempest waited for him. We tied a rope to the cord, and a larger rope to that, and he drew it out, and tied it to the rock, and we saved him."

The priest smiled. "Very true. We rise, we are saved sometimes by degrees, and this little hold may be tied to a stronger. Go out into the church, and make the prayer of the blind man, 'Lord, that I may receive my sight.' To-morrow morning I will baptize you. I find you sufficiently instructed."

That evening Dick made a request of the priest. "When men were to be knighted, in olden times," he said, "they used to keep a vigil in the church. Now, if by baptism I am to be made fit to enter heaven at once, changed from a child of the devil to a child of God, why, it is worth thinking about. It is a great thing to happen in a man's life, and it happens but once. I would like to keep a vigil in the church. I could think there better than anywhere else."

The priest hesitated. He hardly knew what to think of this mingled coldness and fervor.

"Besides," the young man added, "you say that Christ is there bodily. I would like to watch with him one night. It seems to me wrong to leave him alone there now, when he is to do so much for me to-morrow."

The priest consented. "But do not fancy that the Lord is alone, though his earthly children forsake him," he said. "Doubtless the place is crowded with angels and archangels."

Dick gazed steadfastly at the priest, and for a moment lost himself.

"Then, perhaps," he began hesitatingly, but broke off there. "No, if he had preferred the company of angels, he would have remained in heaven," he said. "It will be no intrusion. He comes here to be with man."

Night came on, the church was locked, and all was dark save a small golden flame that burned suspended in air. A watcher sat far back in one of the seats, but after a while drew nearer, still sitting, not kneeling. The whole place was full of silence and a sense of waiting. In the shade, the stations hung unseen, but not unfelt. He had seen them that day, and they spoke through the dark, "Here he fell! Here he was struck! Here he was nailed to the cross!"

There was in this darkness and silence such a vacuum of the earthly, that the heavenly seemed to break through the thin wall of sense and flow around the soul.

When the priest came in at daybreak, he found his penitent prostrate before the altar. After Mass was over, the baptism took place.

The father was struck by the countenance of his convert. It wore a rapt and exalted expression, and he appeared to see nothing of what was visibly before his eyes.

"God bless you!" he said to Dick on going out of the church. "Come to see me. And for a while try to think of God entirely, and not of Miss Edith Yorke."

"Sir," said Dick quietly, "I have thought of Edith Yorke but once since I entered the church last night; and then it was as though the Blessed Virgin put her aside and stood in her place."

TO BE CONTINUED.

A PAGE OF THE PAST AND A SHADOW OF THE FUTURE.

It is, perhaps, hardly to be believed, in this new country whose mental geology grows and changes so quickly that one stratum of thought and of circumstances is gone even before one has had time to analyze it--it is, perhaps, hardly to be believed that the shadow of the penal laws in the mother-country should still cloud with lingering touches the reminiscences of a yet unfaded life. Young people whose ideas and education belong to this century can still remember one of those priests of old--one of those silent champions--whom the English law made outcasts from their kind, and fair game for their enemies.

Such a one was James Duckett, the pastor of a scattered flock that covered the plain of Gresham, of historic memory, to the fort of Edgehill, the last standpoint of the "lost cause" of the Stuarts.

The way in which his retreat was discovered, by a party of Catholics from one of the large country-houses of Gloucestershire, was very amusing as well as interesting.

They were returning from a picnic at a charming old Tudor manor-house, one of the seats of the Marquis of Northampton, by name Compton-Wyniatts, and where the family tradition asserts a portion of the Royalist army to have lain hidden the eve of the terrible battle of Edgehill. The house is full of holes and hiding-places, sliding-panels, and trap-doors, great ghostly chambers, and funereal beds, not to mention the vast cobwebbed garrets which the soldiers are alleged to have occupied. It has a very deserted appearance, and, indeed, its owner hardly ever lives there; but it is picturesque in inverse ratio of its desolation. Just outside the front courtyard is the lawn, shaded by chestnut-trees, and here the picnic took place.

Returning home, and passing through the hamlet of Brailes, two miles from Compton-Wyniatts, the party observed some curious things lying on the roadside hedges. Upon examination, they proved to be ecclesiastical vestments, and evidently genuine Catholic property, ritualism being as yet unknown in the country districts of England. It turned out that they belonged to Mr. Duckett, and the whole party repaired to Mr. Duckett's house. This was a cottage in a little garden, with a hay-field between it and the old parish church, Protestant now, but once the only home these costly vestments should have known. There was the old man, the priest of the past, in the homely peasant garb, now abandoned by the peasants themselves, in coarse blue woollen stockings and a snuff-colored coat, and leather garters at the knee. Huge-buckled shoes were on his feet, and a thickly-folded neckcloth was wound stiffly round his throat. I saw him myself, later on, when the existence of this living relic of the penal days was better known among the county circle. The lower room of his cottage, stone-flagged and bare, was a little school where a few children were taught catechism and reading; the upper rooms were reached by a steep wooden staircase _outside_ the house. Here was a "large upper chamber, furnished," and this was the chapel. It was as cold, and bare, and poor as it could well be; the roughest workmanship was displayed in the altar, the rails, and the benches. The raftered and thatched roof that was immediately above was broken and untrustworthy, and the rain of the last thunder-shower had discolored both it and the floor below. The small sacristy, off the chapel, was in the same state of decay and dilapidation; hence the damage done to the vestments that had been put out in the sun to dry. Mr. Duckett had treasures here that many modern churches might, and with reason, have envied. The vestments--especially a white cope and a gold-embroidered chasuble--were very rich and beautiful, and such as must have been, no doubt, a gift from some persecuted Catholic family to the persecuted temple of God. But, better still, there was a small leaden chalice, said to have been used by many of the martyrs of Tyburn, by special permission given in consideration of the difficulty of obtaining gold and silver vessels for sacred purposes, and of the probable sacrilege and spoliation the known existence of such vessels would provoke. And, among other things, there was also a little bell, wide and round, like a low-crowned hat, and four little clappers inside, making a sweet chime when the bell was shaken. This was afterwards copied by the modern artificers of Birmingham, but they could not transmit to their copy the mellow, time-harmonized tone of the original.

In Mr. Duckett's sitting-room, a small, unpretending, and homely nook, was the portrait of his revered and beloved patron, Bishop Bishop, in Mr. Duckett's youth the only and supreme ecclesiastical authority in England. The priest was an old man now, seventy-five or thereabouts, but his heart was true yet to his friend and patron, whose praises he was never tired of repeating. He told, also, how, although parishes had been formed around him and churches had grown up at his side, yet once his duties carried him on midnight rides and to distances of forty or fifty miles, for a sick-call or a promised and occasional Mass at some one of the many places that claimed his care. Broadway, a village at the foot of the Coteswold Hills, just at the edge of the fruitful plain or vale of Gresham, was one of these stations, and now, as for many long years past, there stands in its midst the Passionist Monastery of St. Saviour, the novitiate house for the province of Great Britain. Two hundred Catholics and a spacious church, model schools under government inspection, and confraternities of many kinds, have turned the far-off hamlet, where a few stray and hunted Catholics were hidden, into a very centre of religion for twenty miles around. Wordnorton, the hunting-box of the Duc d'Aumale, and Chipping-Campden, a thriving little mission on the opposite ridge of the Coteswold, are both served from the monastery at Broadway; and so great is the personal ascendency of the monks, and so universal their popularity, that they need not fear the letter of the law, and _do_ often contravene it by walking abroad in their monastic habit.

Here is one of the changes that have occurred in the straggling field of Mr. Duckett's early labors; and, while all this is happening around him, the calm old man waits for his summons in the same homely and unobtrusive dress he has sanctified by his daily work in the vineyard of Christ.

It is said, and I believe with truth--at least, I _hope_ so--that the monastic garb of all religious orders was originally modelled on the coarse habiliments of the poorest and simplest of mankind--the shepherds and husbandmen of the hard-working rural districts. If so, it suggests a very beautiful and a very happy thought, and brings before our eyes the many parables in which God's church is likened to a field, a vineyard, an orchard, a garden. Tillers of the soil and sowers of the grain, reapers of the harvest and fosterers of the vine, are priests and deacons, bishops and monks; and all through sacred history runs this touching parallel. Nowhere is religion without her crown of nature's weaving: the blossoming rod and the sceptre of Christ's jurisdiction are one.

And so, to return to our friend, the priest and pastor of a forgotten and happily buried age of persecution, God's voice called _him_ in time, and among the many who daily wait in the temple's outer court he was chosen to blossom forth in a higher life, and to wear his robe of glory in a nobler place than that where he had clothed himself like the poor and the unnoticed, and only wore by stealth the sacred garments of his priesthood.

He died in the year 1866, if I mistake not, and his place was filled by a young man, newly ordained, as if to bear witness how suddenly one state of things had died away and another had come in its stead, but also, perchance, to point out to us--too secure in our present safety--that as quickly as freedom had followed persecution, so we should be ever ready to see persecution follow freedom.

And in these days, surely, we dare not think such a past as that of English religious intolerance so far from us as that it should never draw near us again, and renew itself in many shapes of tyranny and horror. And this, not only in England, where religious persecution may suddenly emerge from the apparent extreme of religious indifference, and where it may be carried on, some day, on members of all Christian communities, no longer in the name of a state church or a general catechism, but in the name of rabid hatred to a Creator, God, and senseless chafing against _any_ constituted authority--not only, I say, may this happen in England, but in other lands, Eastern and Western, old and new.

We see it to-day in red-handed France and Judas-tongued Italy; we may see it elsewhere to-morrow. Persecution is an instinct of the brute; what is not after its own kind, it has no desire to spare. The prevailing systems of philosophy--if we may so degrade the word whose first meaning is love of wisdom--tend to the apotheosis of the brute, and the negation and indignant repudiation of anything in man above the brute. When this task shall be completed, and man _educated_ into the right usage of his newly-discovered nature, what are we to expect but persecution in one form or another from the new lords of the creation, the new monarchs of the system of materialistic supremacy?

There is a new and subtle alchemy running through the so-called moral world, the Areopagus of modern thinkers. Of old, all things might be resolved into component parts, of which _gold_ was infallibly one; now, all men must be resolved into perishable parts, of which _each_ one is stamped with the brand of the brute.

It is a sad contrast, and no doubt it would be needless to define which of the two is the more harmful theory. Let us pass now from the life of the hidden pastor of an obscure village to an incident, perhaps hardly better known, in the career of one of the apostles of a great and glorious city, the same whose comeliness has been so cruelly brought low, and whose desolation at this moment reminds one too forcibly of the plaint of the prophet Jeremiah over doomed Jerusalem.

The Père de Ravignan, whose name is a household word in France, and whose influence over the young men of his day was something all but miraculous, was summoned one night to attend a sick-call. A carriage was in attendance; the two men who had come for him represented the case as of the greatest urgency, but refused to take him with them unless he suffered himself to be blindfolded. After briefly hesitating, he complied with this strange request. The times were dangerous, revolution was hovering like a storm over the state, secret societies were in ever-watchful and almost infallibly secure fermentation. He himself was a well-known man, a representative man, one whose voice was ever raised uncompromisingly against the foes of law and order--one whose life was every day exposed, in consequence of his grand fearlessness of conscience, to the machinations of hidden and treacherous enemies. A less suspicious man might have feared a snare in this strange condition of blindfolding a priest called to a death-bed, but the blood of the old race of _gentilhommes_ that was fast disappearing, added to the courage of the consecrated line of God's ministers that never disappears, made the Jesuit strong in this hour of peril, and he forgot himself to think only of the sinking soul to whose aid he was summoned. He took the holy oils and the viaticum with him, and left the house in the Rue de Sèvres in the carriage that was waiting at the door.

They drove off rapidly; his companions pulled down the blinds, and effectually shut out any daylight that might straggle in. The motion of the vehicle, however, and the many sudden jerks it gave, indicated turnings and corners as being constantly doubled, and even suggested the not unlikely idea that this was done on purpose, with the object of confusing the priest's recollection. The two men preserved a dead silence all the time. At last the carriage stopped; the door was opened, the Père de Ravignan helped out, and conducted up a wide staircase; doors were opened and shut, and then the bandage was taken from his eyes, and he found himself in a large anteroom, handsomely and massively furnished.

"In the end room of this suite of apartments, you will find the person who requires your ministry," said one of his guides.

He passed room after room with the windows darkened, and rich furniture giving a sumptuous air to the large and airy saloons, but order reigned everywhere. He saw neither sign of confusion nor heard any sound of sorrow, nothing to indicate the presence of death or mortal sickness. He began to fear that in truth he had been snared by secret enemies, and that it was his own death he had to expect as the _dénouement_ of this solemn masquerade. The last door was reached; a curtain hung across the entrance, and the chamber was darkened. One lamp burned in the furthest recess. He looked in vain for signs of sickness; there were none. The room was a drawing-room, and was furnished much like the rest. But soon a form rose to meet him, coming slowly from the luxurious lounge near the solitary lamp. It was that of a young man, very handsome, and fashionably dressed. He looked pale and anxious, and his hands trembled slightly as he moved. Yet sick to death he certainly was not. Was this his executioner, or some part of the ghastly pageant of his own coming doom? The priest paused, and the young stranger said, in eager, hollow tones:

"_Mon père_, it is for _me_ that you are here. I am going to die. I shall be dead within twenty-four hours, but I obtained this favor that I might first make my peace with God."

"My son, what does this mean?" asked the priest. "You are not ill!"

"No; yet I shall not see to-morrow's sunset. I dare say no more. I must make my confession."

An hour went by; the solemn mysteries that pass unseen and undreamt-of by the careless world soothed and comforted the doomed man. We know nothing further, nor can we ever know aught concerning this dread interview on the very threshold of invisible death; but, the priest's duty done, the young man craved his blessing and his prayers, and took an agonizing farewell of the last human being who was to show him mercy and promise him forgiveness.

Reluctantly, sorrowfully, the priest parted from the victim, and wended his way through the splendid rooms, whose beauty now seemed so baleful, as though it were but the refinement and gloss of cruelty, the gay mask that hid the torture-chamber.

At the door of the anteroom, the same silent guides were watching his return, and, again blindfolding him, led him out of the gates that closed on such strange mysteries, and hid from view such appalling possibilities of horror.

How many might there have been of these human holocausts, immolated in silence, perchance without the gracious respite allowed this _one_ victim! How many might there have been, perhaps priests, beguiled by a lure such as he had thought his own carrying-off to be, and never allowed to go forth again, as _he_ was being providentially helped to do! And what other crimes besides silent murder might have taken place in that mysterious and seemingly demon-guarded house!

These and other thoughts not unlike them must have pressed painfully on his overstrung mind, as with the same precautions, turnings, doublings, and joltings the Père de Ravignan was driven back to the house of his order, the sinister guides in whose hands his life had helplessly and inevitably lain for several hours preserving yet that impenetrable silence and seemingly respectful behavior, which in themselves were enough to shake the courage of most men.

The house was all astir. Every one had been anxious for the safe return of the superior from his mysterious and perilous errand; for perilous they had intuitively felt it to be, and had indeed once attempted at first to follow the carriage. This, however, had been cleverly frustrated by the well-instructed driver.

Search was made next day by the secret police for any house answering the only description the priest could imperfectly give; inquiries were instituted concerning the disappearance of any person answering the minute description given by the confessor of his young penitent; but although the police swore that they knew every house, and could put their finger upon every individual in Paris, yet not a single trace could be discovered of anything unusual having taken place in the city.

And there the mystery remained and was forgotten, and came to be related only as a tale of dread and wonder, and was only known to few. Even so the secret organization itself, for nothing but vagueness surrounded its palpable though ever-invisible existence, and some believed that the _parti prêtre_ invented stories of its horrors, and others thought they exaggerated the importance of its influence.

Then came '48, with its wild volcanic outburst all over Europe, and under the name of freedom a modern _Vehmgericht_ convulsed and tortured the civilized world. Those who had pooh-poohed its existence or underrated its strength were the first to crouch before its explosive power. Persecution began again, for we all know the story of revolutions, and how the final court of appeal was always death. What mattered it that the persecutors handled the axe, the guillotine, or the rifle, instead of the scourges, the _fasces_, the swords of the Roman lictors? Amphitheatres there were, and wild beasts to tear the Christians in pieces, although the former were called public squares, and streets, and gardens, and the wild beasts were hideous human forms. One Archbishop of Paris in '48 was shot down--perhaps by chance, but who can tell save only God?--on the barricades, as he was trying to quiet the infuriate rabble; another Archbishop of Paris followed him in '71, more foully murdered in shear demoniac wantonness, because order and authority were represented in his person, and because to be a child of God was a burning reproach offered to the godless and soulless Commune.

Thus, two ages of persecution join hands within a short half-century, and in one life, yet in its prime, two figures are prominently and personally interwoven: the old peasant priest who almost dreaded to have the sanctuary lamps lighted for fear of attracting unwelcome notice, so imbued was he with the idea that before the law a Catholic must need be a criminal; and the intrepid Jesuit, having secret dangers in the fulfilment of his ministry, and knowing full well that, before the self-styled law of lawless _liberty_, to be a priest is to be nothing better than a dog.

Some talk lightly of these things that are passing as of mere ebullitions that cannot fail to be quelled; but where is the power to quell, the power to charm these serpents, to humanize these savages? Gone from the kings of the earth, who have abjured the aid of religion, who have expelled her from the schools and colleges, and repudiated her offices in the most solemn and tender relations of life. Gone from the philosophers of this century, who control the thoughts of millions by pandering freely to their passions, and whose first axiom is that everything that is _natural is right_. Gone from the timid politicians, whose precarious object is, not the happy and steady consolidation and progress of the state, but the maintenance of themselves and their creatures in office, and the increase of their hoarded fortunes. Gone, too, from the poets and artists, who should clothe truth and religion in dignified and attractive forms, but whose dearest aim is but to court popularity by encouraging vice. Gone, in a word, from all whose mission it is to raise and guide the people, simply because they find it more profitable to grovel with and follow them.

And religion stands this day as our divine Lord stood centuries ago in the Garden of Gethsemani, with lukewarm and timid disciples in numbers, and with a Judas striving with honeyed words to betray her. The sword she may not use, nor any earthly weapon; for, if God would have it so, could he not send her twelve legions of angels? But no; she stands as he stood, unarmed; and when she preached with the voice of princes and commanded through the mouth of statesmen, no one attacked her, even as the Jews did not apprehend Jesus when he taught openly in the synagogue. But when worldly power was taken away, when concordats were broken, when heresy rose up in her midst, the enemies of the church fell upon her, and in their onslaught tore up kingdoms by the root and trampled order in the dust. The crushed ones look to her--"they shall look upon him they have pierced"--imploringly, but _they_ had tied her hands, _they_ had crippled her in the days of their triumph, and the deluge breaks over them and annihilates them, while it tosses the church on its turbid waves, and at each angry toss only lifts the Ark of the Covenant safer and higher toward heaven.

We may be only at the beginning of a scathing trial: we may be almost at its end. We have seen the blood of the martyrs flow once more; we have seen '71 rival '93, and the Mazas Prison reflect the _Massacre des Carmes_; elsewhere we see the spectre of blood not yet let loose, but hiding impatiently behind the spirit of sacrilege and spoliation. Perhaps this is the hour before the dawn; perhaps only the first watch of the night. But let us not think that the nineteenth century bears a charmed life, and that we dwellers in it have a prescriptive right to a safe and easy-going existence. We must be _for_ the church, _in_ her, _with_ her _of_ her; be hers in spirit and in truth, "not merely pause and hesitate at the threshold, or linger within the outer courts." This is the hour of conversions, for the next may be the hour of martyrdom. And above all, it is the hour for sound philosophy, that will lead us firmly by the hand into the haven of faith, and show us that, to be a good citizen, one has need to be a perfect Christian.

Truth is one; and just as water will rise to its own level, so all particles of truth will lead to the fountain of truth. The church has solved all problems, and fulfilled all yearnings, and realized all ideals long ago; and while men are seeking what they severally want, the church has offered it to thousands of their forefathers before they themselves were ever born to seek it.

SANCTA DEI GENITRIX.

Mother of God! My Queen is simply this. For this elected, the eternal Mind Conceived her in its infinite abyss-- With the God-man co-type of human kind. And she, when came the wondrous hour assigned, Conceiving her Conceiver, girt him round, And held in her Immaculate womb confined That Essence whom the heavens cannot bound! Then brought him forth, her little one, her own; And fed her suckling at her maiden breast-- The only pillow of his earthly rest, And still for evermore his dearest throne O Lady! what the worship faith allows? The Eternal calls thee Daughter, Mother, Spouse!

LIQUEFACTION OF THE BLOOD OF ST. JANUARIUS.

On the nineteenth day of September, there will be gathered together from five to eight thousand persons in the grand cathedral of Naples, to witness again an occurrence which, though it has been witnessed thousands of times already, never fails to fill the beholder with astonishment and awe. Perhaps one-half of the crowd may be from the city of Naples itself. A large portion comes from other parts of Italy. Many are from Austria, Illyria, Hungary, Bavaria, and Prussia, Russia, England, France, and Spain. Some are from the Western hemisphere. And Moors, Egyptians, Arabs, and Turks, ever travelling along the shores of the Mediterranean, are here, too, raising their turbaned heads among these thousands in the cathedral, as intent and as filled with emotion as any around them.

The greater part of that crowd believe that they are witnesses of a deed done by the direct will and power of God--a miracle; and very naturally their hearts are filled with awe and devotion. Others, again, are in doubt what to believe on the point; but they have come to see, and to see exactly for themselves what really does occur. Others, again, are sure beforehand that it is all a trick. They will spare no pains to detect the fraud.

What is it they are all assembled to see? The large cathedral in which they stand fronts on a little square to the north. At the southern extremity is placed the grand sanctuary and high altar, with a large and rich basement chapel underneath. On either side of the church above, there are, as is usual in Italian churches, small side chapels and altars; but about the middle of the western side a large archway gives admission to a very large chapel--to-day the centre of attraction. We might call it a small church. The Neapolitans name it the _Tesoro_. It is cruciform, and a well-proportioned dome rises above the intersection of its nave and transept. Towards its western extremity, and opposite the crowded archway or entrance from the cathedral, stands its elevated high altar; six other altars occupy the transept and sides. The main altar stands about five feet forward, out from the solid stone wall of the building. Behind that altar, in the massive masonry of the wall, is a double closet, closed by strong metal doors, and secured by four locks. From this closet, at nine A.M., is first taken out a metal life-sized bust, held to contain what remains of the bones of the head of St. Januarius, bishop and martyr, who was put to death in the year 305. This bust is placed on the main altar, at the Gospel end. Next, an old and tarnished silver case is brought out from the other side of the same closet. All eyes scrutinize it. The front and the back of it, or, rather, both faces of it, for they are alike, are of heavy glass, securely fastened to the silver frame. Looking through these plates of glass, the interior of the case is seen to contain two antique Roman vials of glass, held securely in their places above and below by rude masses of soldering, black with age. The vials are of different patterns, both very common in the museums of Roman antiquities. The smaller one is empty, save some patches of stain or pellicle adhering to the interior of its sides. The other one, which might hold a gill and a half, is seen to contain a dark-colored solid substance, occupying about four-fifths of the space within the vial. This substance is held to be a portion of the blood of the same martyred saint, gathered by the Christians when he was decapitated, and ever since carefully preserved. Ordinarily it is hard and solid, as it well may be fifteen hundred and sixty-odd years after being shed. The case, or _reliquary_, as it is properly called, is borne to the main altar, and a priest holds it midway between the middle of the altar and the bust, that is, about a foot from the latter. Prayers are said; hymns, psalms, and litanies are recited by the clergy kneeling near. Meanwhile, from time to time the priest moves the reliquary from side to side, that he may see whether the expected change of the substance within the vial has taken place or not; and he presents it to the bystanders crowded around him on the steps of the altar, that each one in succession may reverently kiss it and closely scrutinize its condition. At length, after a greater or smaller lapse of time, perhaps in a few minutes, perhaps only after several hours, perhaps after many hours, the solid mass within the vial becomes liquid--perhaps instantaneously, perhaps rapidly, at times more slowly and gradually, several hours elapsing before the change becomes complete. Sometimes only a portion of the mass becomes liquid, the remaining portion floating as a still hard lump in the liquid portion. This change is what is known as _the liquefaction of the blood of St. Januarius_, and is what these thousands have crowded the _Tesoro_ chapel and the cathedral to witness.

It has occurred repeatedly each year for centuries back. It occurs in public under the eyes of thousands. Accounts of it were written by learned men and by travellers before the invention of printing. In these latter centuries, accounts of it have been published in Latin, in Italian, in Polish, in English, French, German, and Spanish--we presume, in every language of Europe. Some are written by devout believers in the miracle; some by candid but perplexed witnesses, who examined for themselves and are afraid to come to a conclusion; while others that we have seen are filled with such mistakes, both as to persons and events and to established regulations, that we felt the writers had themselves seen little or nothing. They had merely got a hint from one and a suggestion from another, and had filled out the remainder from the storehouse of their own imagination.

We are privileged to insert a full account, written by an American eye-witness in 1864. We are unwilling to abbreviate it too much, although the reader will find in it thoughts we have already expressed or may hereafter have to dwell on:

I had for years determined that, if ever I had a chance, I would go to Naples to see myself the celebrated miracle. This year gave me the desired opportunity, and I would not neglect it. Leaving Rome by railway, on September 17, I reached Naples that evening, and early the next morning went to the cathedral to introduce myself, to say Mass, and to take a preparatory look. The cathedral is an immense semi-Gothic building, dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, to St. Januarius, and to other patron saints of the city. St. Januarius, a native of Naples, was Bishop of Benevento (a city some thirty miles, inland), and was apprehended in the days of persecution under Diocletian, held in prison, exposed to the wild beasts without harm, and finally beheaded near Puzzuoli, about five miles from Naples, in the year 305. His head and body were taken by the Christians, and transported--probably by night, certainly in secrecy--across the bay to the southern shore, and were entombed, between Mount Vesuvius and the sea, on the farm of a Christian called Marcian. It was the custom of the Christians to gather, as far as they possibly could, the blood shed by their martyrs, and, placing a portion of it in glass vials, to deposit such vials in the tombs. In the catacombs at Rome such vials in a niche are the surest sign that a martyr was there deposited. You can still see some of them, or fragments of them, in the opened vaults or niches of the catacombs. The vials within have a thin, dark-reddish crust, showing still where the blood reached in the glass. A few years ago, a chemical analysis of a portion of such crust or pellicle, made by direction of his Holiness, fully confirmed this historical and traditional statement of its origin. Such vials are also to be seen in multitudes in the Vatican and other Christian museums, and in the churches to which the remains of the martyrs have been transferred. As St. Januarius was a prominent Christian, and as his martyrdom attracted the earnest attention of all, we may and should naturally suppose that his case was no exception, and that a portion of the blood was gathered in his case, and, as usual, that the vials containing it were deposited with the body in the tomb.

In the year 385, peace having been fully restored, and Christian churches built, and things quieted, the remains of St. Januarius were solemnly transferred from their original resting-place to Naples, and were placed in a church or chapel dedicated to him, and situated just outside the city walls. _San Gennaro extra muros_ still stands, though, of course, the first building has been replaced by a second, a third, I believe by a fourth church. Here, henceforth, near their martyr and patron saint, the Neapolitan Christians wished to be buried. And when an oath was to be taken with the most binding force and obligation, it was administered and taken before the altar where lay enshrined the remains of this great Neapolitan saint. In course of time--it is not precisely known when, or by what archbishop--the head of St. Januarius and the _ampullæ_ or vials containing his blood were transferred into the city, and placed in some church--probably in the cathedral, where we know that, eight hundred years ago, they were carefully and reverently preserved in the cathedral, _Tesoro_ or treasury, as they called the strong, vaulted chamber of stone in which the relics of the saints were safely kept. The body of the saint was left in the church _extra muros_. It was afterwards taken to Benevento, thence to Monte Vergine, and in 1497 was transferred to Naples, and now lies under the principal altar of the subterranean crypt or basement chapel, beneath the sanctuary of the cathedral.

The cathedral itself is, as I said, a large semi-Gothic building, over three hundred feet long and one hundred and twenty wide, lofty, well-proportioned, and filled with columns, frescoes, marbles, statuary, paintings, and gilding, very bright and very clean. It fronts on a small square to the north. The sanctuary is at the southern end. In the west side of the building is a large, open archway, about thirty feet broad and forty feet high, with a lofty open-work railing of bronzed metal, and of very artistic design. A folding-door in this railing, of the same material, opens twelve feet wide to usher you into another good-sized church or chapel, called the new _Tesoro_ or chapel of St. Januarius, commenced in 1608, by the city, in special honor of the saint, and in fulfilment of a vow, and consecrated in 1646. It is nearly in the form of a Greek cross, over a hundred feet from east to west, and about eighty from north to south. The arms are about forty feet wide, and at their intersection a cupola rises to over a hundred feet above the level of the floor. It is said this chapel cost half a million of dollars. If so, the city fathers got the full worth of their money in rich marbles, in mosaics, frescoes, bronze and marble statues, and in every sort of finest decorations. There is a complete service for this chapel, entirely distinct from and independent of that of the cathedral proper--a dean, twelve chaplains, other minor assistants as needed, and a thoroughly supplied sacristy. In this _Tesoro_ chapel are no less than seven altars; the main one, to the west, opposite the entrance from the church, another grand one, and two subsidiary ones on either side of the chapel. There is also a fine organ. The main altar stands about five feet forward from the rear wall of the building, leaving thus a commodious passage-way between them. In the massive stone wall itself, to the rear of the main altar, are two armories, adjoining each other. In one of them, that to the south, the relic of the head of St. Januarius is kept; in the other, to the north, are preserved the vials containing his blood. These armories, which I might call a double armory, are in the solid masonry, and are closed by strong gilt metal doors, about thirty inches broad and fifty inches high, each secured by an upper and a lower lock.

So much I saw at this visit in the cathedral and in the chapel. The afternoon I devoted to a visit to Puzzuoli, and the scene of the martyrdom of St. Januarius and his six companions. On the way, we stopped to look at and enter the reputed tomb of Virgil, and we passed through the grotto of Posilippo. As the carriage rolled on over the smooth macadamized road, the Bay of Naples stretched away on our left in all its beauty, smiling and rippling in the September breeze, just as it did on the day they were beheaded. Before us was Puzzuoli, once the beautiful summer resort and watering-place for the richest nobles of ancient Rome, often graced by the presence of the emperor himself, and still a place of pretension. On our right, hills and vineyards and olive groves stood now as they stood then. The palaces and houses which the saint looked on are all gone; but their solid stone foundation walls have not perished, and other houses of more modern aspect rise on them. The mineral springs at the foot of the hills are still the same, and in the same repute; and hundreds are still going to them, or meet us returning after their baths. Here and there, alongside our smooth modern road, we see patches of the old Roman pavement, large, irregularly-shaped slabs of hard stone, lying now much less evenly than they did when senators, and consuls, and prefects, and Roman nobles loved to walk along this road, to enjoy the beautiful scene, and to drink in the healthful evening breezes that came to them over the Mediterranean.

We reached Puzzuoli, and its narrow, crooked streets soon led us to the summit of a knoll or spur of the hills, now a little back of the modern city. Here the ancients had placed their amphitheatre. Its remains are still well preserved. The galleries for the dignitaries, the seats for the spectators--it could hold 15,000 at least--the arena, where the gladiators fought and fell, and where wild beasts tore each other or destroyed their human victims, are all still to be easily recognized. We entered a cellar or masonry chamber under the lofty seats. Here the victims were kept until the hour came for thrusting them forth into the arena in the centre. It is now a chapel, with a single plain altar, at which Mass is celebrated from time to time. A votive lamp hangs down from the arched masonry above The walls are plain and void of ornament. The place needs little decoration. Who can kneel there, and not feel his heart swell as he remembers St. Januarius and his companions kneeling and praying, and awaiting their summons? It came, and they were led forth. We went, too, to the arena. Here they stood, sustained by the constancy of faith. There is the seat aloft of the prefect and his attendants and officers, who condemned these Christians to death by the wild beasts, and have come to look on the bloody drama. There, all around, rising backwards, row above row, are the seats, filled then by thousands hoarsely screaming, "_The Christians to the lions!_" To their voices answered the angry growls and roars of lions and panthers, shut in their dens beneath--those recesses in the masonry below the lowest, the front rank of seats. For one or two days past the beasts have been deprived of their food, that they might be more furious and eager for the tragedy. Excited by the clamor, maddened by hunger, frenzied, too, perhaps by the sight of the victims, whom they could see through the bars of their doors--for perhaps they had already had experience of such feasts--the beasts walked impatiently from end to end of their small prisons, glared and growled through the bars, or impatiently strove to tear them down. The prefect gives the signal: the multitude is hushed in silent expectation. The servitors hurry forward to the edge of the seats above, and with cords and pulleys are lifting upwards the heavy doors in their grooves. The iron grates against the stone as it mounts. Soon out from below into the arena leap the ravenous wild beasts. They rush on, each one intent on seizing a victim. They crouch, as is their nature, for a final spring, fastening their glaring eyes on the martyrs; but they spring not. The eye loses its glare; the stiffened mane and bristling hair become smooth, and, with moans almost of affection, they draw themselves gently over the sand up to the martyrs, and fawn on them and lick their feet. There will be no bloody tragedy here to-day. God vouchsafes to the prefect Timotheus and to these multitudes another proof of the saintly character and heavenly authority of these men whom they would slay. Some, we may hope, were awed, and believed, and returned to their homes with hearts yielding to the grace of God; but not so the prefect, nor the majority of that crowd. "Sorcery! Witchcraft! Chaldean superstition!" they cried. "Away with the dangerous magicians! If they can do this, what can they not do? Who is safe? Slay them at once!" The prefect ordered them to be led out to the top of a neighboring hill, and to be beheaded on its summit in the sight of all and as a warning to all. We followed the steep and narrow old Roman road up which they must have walked. The rains have not yet washed away all of the old Roman pavement. Vines and olive-trees and flowers of richest hues shade it and beautify it now, and were not wanting to it in those days of imperial luxury. To our martyrs it was the road to heaven. No earthly beauty could cheer them as they were cheered by Christian faith and the firm hopes of quickly reaching a blessed immortality. We reached the spot of execution, the level top of a knoll, overlooking some part of the city, the beautiful bay, Puzzuoli, and much of the neighboring country. A little church stands here now, served by a small community of Capuchins, who hold the faith of the martyrs, and try to imitate their virtues; who seek first the kingdom of heaven and its righteousness, and hope that, like the martyrs they honor, they may pass from this consecrated spot to the abode of bliss. Here the saint and his six companions were beheaded. The Capuchins showed us in the church a stone, now inserted in the wall and carefully preserved, said to have been stained by his blood, and still to show the stains. They said, too, that, when the blood of St. Januarius liquefies in Naples, these stains grow moist and assume a brighter reddish color. This I had no opportunity of verifying. Here, too, we might almost guess the route down the precipitous sides of the hill to the waters of the bay, almost under our feet, by which that night the Christians bore the body of the saint to their boat. Across the bay, five or six miles off, we could see the houses of Torre dell' Annunziata, near where they landed with it. A little back lay the farm of the Christian where they entombed it. A Benedictine monastery from the sixth century marked the spot....

As you may well suppose, night overtook us before we got back to Naples. The next morning, I went to the cathedral again. It was the 19th of September, the festival proper of the saint--the day of his martyrdom and entrance into heaven. The exposition of his relics, during which the liquefaction usually occurs, commences at nine A.M. I was at the door of the chapel at half-past eight. I found the chapel already crammed and jammed. Still, way was made for me somehow. I went to the sacristy, and was then conducted back to the chapel, and into the space behind the main altar, in front of the armories, to await the hour appointed. Of course, the crowd could not yet enter the sanctuary of the main altar, much less pass behind the altar. Only five or six privileged persons were there. Mass was being celebrated at the altar itself. That over, we sat and waited, and I asked questions on the all-absorbing subject.

Since the building and opening of this new _Tesoro_ chapel--that is, since A.D. 1646--the relics are in the keeping of the Archbishop of Naples and the city authorities conjointly. Everything is regulated by the long and minute agreement then entered into by all parties. I said each door of the armories has two locks. The archbishop keeps the key of one, the city authorities the key of the other. The armories cannot be approached except through the open chapel, and cannot be opened, save by violence, unless both parties are present with their keys.

I was patiently waiting for nine o'clock to strike. Our number was increasing. At last there joined us behind the altar a tall, thin, gentlemanly man, all in black, about forty-five years of age. He was introduced to me as Count C----, the delegate to-day on the part of the city. He bore a large red velvet purse or bag, with gold cords and braiding, very rich in its workmanship. Opening its mouth, he drew forth two good-sized, long-handled antique keys with complicated wards. They were connected by a steel chain, strong and light, about fifteen inches in length. The cardinal, Riario Sforza, is absent in Rome, driven into exile by Victor Emmanuel's government; but before leaving he gave his keys in charge to one of the chief ecclesiastics of the city in his stead. Accordingly, a canon of the cathedral soon appeared, bearing another red velvet bag, something like the first, but not so rich, and, moreover, somewhat faded. He, too, took out of his bag two good-sized, long-handled keys, equally antique in their look and complicated in their wards, and similarly connected by a steel chain. Count C---- inserted one of his keys in the lower lock of the armory to the south, and turned it. We heard the bolt shoot back. The pious-looking canon was short, and the upper lock was rather high, so they placed some portable steps in position. He ascended them, and inserted one of his keys in the upper lock. That bolt shot back, too; and he swung the heavy metal door open. We looked into the interior of the armory, about two feet wide, three and a-half or four feet high, and sixteen or twenty inches deep, in the masonry of the wall. It was lined with slabs of white marble, and a scarlet silk curtain hung down towards the front. A thick metal partition divided it from the other armory. One of the chaplains of the _Tesoro_ then mounted the steps, and took out from the armory a life-sized bust of St. Januarius, of silver gilt. A mitre on the head of it, and a short cope which had been put on the shoulders, designated his episcopal character. In the head of this bust are contained the relics of the head of the saint.

We know precisely when this bust was made; for in the spring of 1306 an entry was made in the account-books of Charles of Anjou, then sovereign of Naples, stating how much silver and how much gold from the king's treasury had been given to a certain artificer as materials, and how much money was paid to him for his workmanship, in making this very bust. In making it, he modelled the features after a very ancient bust of the saint, still existing in Puzzuoli. In the archiepiscopal diary, relative to St. Januarius, under the date 13th September, 1660, there is a long account stating that, it being perceived that the relics inside this bust had become somehow displaced--as well they might after 355 years--the cardinal archbishop, on that day, in the presence of all requisite witnesses, had the bust opened by a goldsmith; himself reverently took out the relics, and held them in his hands until the goldsmith had repaired the damage; that his eminence then reverently replaced the relics, properly sealed, and had the bust closed as before, and in all this carefully observed the prescriptions of canon law. Since then, everything has been untouched.

Four other chaplains, with torches, attended the chaplain whom I saw take out this bust, and it was borne in procession round to the front of the altar, and deposited on the altar itself, just where the missal would stand when the Gospel is read. They then returned to the armory.

Count C---- with his second key unlocked the lower lock of the other--the northern armory. The little canon again mounted the steps, unlocked the upper one, and swung back the metal door. We looked into the armory: it was just the fellow of the first--size, marble lining, red silk curtain, and all. The same chaplain then, as before, took out the reliquary containing the _ampullæ_ or vials of the blood. I will describe it. Conceive a bar or thick plate of silver, about two and a-half inches wide and about sixteen inches long, to be bent until it forms a ring or circle of about five inches diameter. Let a circular plate of glass of the requisite diameter be inserted and firmly fastened to the edge of the silver ring on one side, and a similar plate of glass be also inserted and firmly fastened to the other edge. You will thus have, as it were, the centre-piece of an ostensory, five inches across and two and one-half inches through, with a silver rim, and glass plates forming the front and rear. On the top, let there be a little ornamental scroll-work, cherubs and their wings, and a central stem rising upward, and bearing an oval crown three inches by two inches, and above that a small elegantly-worked silver crucifix. Below the circular rim, attach a round, hollow bar of silver, about one inch in diameter and three inches long. It will serve as a stem to hold the reliquary by, or as a foot which may be inserted into an opening fitted to receive it. The reliquary may thus be kept upright, whether it be placed on a stand on the altar or put away in its armory. This reliquary is strong and plain, with very little ornamentation on the silver, but that, they say, in very good style. Inside this frame, or case, or reliquary, between the front and rear glass, and perfectly visible through them, stand two _ampullæ_ or vials of glass, both fastened to the silver rim at top and at bottom by rough, irregular masses of dark soldering. They are held to be the identical glass vials in which a portion of the blood of St. Januarius was poured at the time of his martyrdom, which were laid in his tomb, and, in 385, were brought with his body to Naples, and which have ever since been carefully and reverently preserved. They are of the old Roman patterns and material. One may see hundreds of just such vials in the museums of Naples and Rome. One of them is long and narrow, like a modern vial, yet not so even and symmetrical. The neck, too, does not narrow in the manner of modern vials. A fillet runs three or four times round it just below the neck. Perhaps it was an ornament; more probably it was intended by the maker to prevent the little vial from slipping when held between the fingers. The other _ampulla_ or vial is of a different pattern. Its height is the same; the neck is a little higher up, and is encircled by a single fillet of an undulating curvature. The lower portion swells out until it is two inches in diameter, and the vial would hold, I judge, about a gill and a-half. In the interior of the first _ampulla_, I saw two patches resembling the pellicle which I had seen, at Rome, left on the inner surface of the glass vases after the martyrs' blood originally contained in them had entirely evaporated or passed away. The other vial, THE AMPULLA, contains a substance ordinarily hard, dark, with a reddish or purple hue, and filling ordinarily three-fourths of the space within the vial, perhaps a little more. This substance is held to be a portion of the blood of St. Januarius, still retained in this vial, in which it was originally placed on September 19, A.D. 305.

In this description of the reliquary and the _ampullæ_, I have, of course, summed up the result of all the careful and scrutinizing observations which I had the opportunity of making. I have not been able to learn when this silver reliquary or case was made. No entry is found settling the point, as in the case of the bust. The style of ornamentation on the silver case and on the crown would indicate about the same epoch of art. But I am inclined to think it the earlier made of the two. Charles of Anjou showed himself to be too liberal in the matter of the bust to be suspected of being a niggard in preparing the reliquary, and those coming after him would have felt bound to be guided by the example of his liberality. It was probably made some time before the year 1300, possibly even by Roger, King of Sicily, who visited Naples about A.D. 1140.

But to go back. As the chaplain took the reliquary out from the armory, he examined it, and said, "_E duro e pieno_"--"_It is hard and full._" In fact, the larger vial, as he showed the reliquary round to each one of the eight or ten persons behind the altar, and as I most clearly saw it, was filled to the very top, I could not be mistaken in that; but whether the contents were liquid or solid, I really could not tell. For the very fulness prevented any change being visible, at least to my eyes, in that uniformly dark mass, even if the contents were liquid, although the reliquary was moved freely from side to side, held horizontally, or even reversed. After we had each one venerated and fully examined the reliquary, the canon, with his attendants bearing torches, bore it in procession to the front of the altar, and showed it aloft to the people. I followed immediately behind, and ascended the steps of the altar with them. On the platform in front of the altar, we were four: 1. The chaplain, holding the reliquary in his hands by the stem I have spoken of. He stood facing the altar, or leaning over it, between the middle and the Gospel end, where now stood the bust. 2. In front of the bust, and close to the first chaplain, on his left, stood a second chaplain, bearing a lighted taper in a silver hand candlestick. He would sometimes hold this in such a position, eight or ten inches off from the reliquary and behind it, that the light from it would shine on the interior, so that the observer would not be troubled by the reflection of the ordinary light from the surface of the plate of glass next to him. 3. Count C----, the city delegate, stood at the right of the first chaplain, and, therefore, in front of the middle of the altar. It is his sworn duty not to lose sight of the precious reliquary from the moment the doors of the armory are opened at nine A.M., until it is replaced there, and duly locked up, about half an hour after sunset. He cannot retire from his post at any time, unless his place is supplied by an alternate delegate, who has been chosen, and who, I was told, had promised to come by 11 A.M. 4. Next to Count C----, I stood, or rather knelt, until the people crowded so on me that I positively had not room to continue in that position.

The people, now that the Mass had been over for twenty minutes or so, had entered the sanctuary, or had been introduced into it. They completely filled the space within the rails; they stood crowded on the steps; they even invaded the platform itself, not a very large one, forcing the attendant chaplains, who had borne the torches in the procession, and who now remained to join with the two chaplains at the altar in the prayers, to retire somewhat, and kneel in a group, off at the end of the altar; forced the count and myself of necessity to stand; and just left a little room for the two chaplains to turn in, barely sufficient.

As I stood up, I could see the crowd. The chapel was filled; there are, you know, no pews or seats in Italian churches; all were standing as closely as possible together. The sanctuaries of the side chapels were equally crowded; men stood on the steps and platforms of their altars; the very bases of the columns were turned to account to afford a lofty standing room. And such a crowd! Earnest, intensest curiosity was marked on every face. The way it mingled with awe and devotion was at times rather ludicrous. Hands were clasped in prayer, and heads were bowed, and the lips were reciting something most devoutly; when up the head would be almost jerked, eye-glasses, spectacles, and, a little further off, opera-glasses and lorgnettes would be levelled at the reliquary for a minute or two; and then down with them, and again at the prayers. There were Frenchmen, Germans, Englishmen, Spaniards, and Americans; strangers of every nation. And these had made their way, of course, closest to the altar; at least they predominated in my vicinity. In the body of the chapel, the Neapolitans and Italians stood. The crowd reached to the railing under the grand archway, and beyond that filled the west aisle of the cathedral church, and stretched across the nave and the east aisle to the chapels opposite. The last stood nearly eighty yards off.

These Neapolitans, too full of faith and brimful of devotion on this day, and always exceedingly demonstrative in their manner, gave full way to their feelings, and were praying aloud or nearly so. The common people of Naples have a habit of modulating their voices while speaking, running up and down the gamut in a way quite novel to us. You heard those tones, not inharmonious, from the thousands who were praying in various pitches. Some were in groups, chanting or half-singing the litanies; some groups were reciting the rosary devoutly; others united in the acts of faith, hope, and charity; and still others in prayers and hymns appropriate for this occasion, and in their own Neapolitan dialect. To me it seemed a perfect Babel. But no one could for an instant look on them, and doubt the earnestness of their faith and the intensity of their devotion.

My attention was soon drawn to one group, or rather line, of a score of elderly women, from 50 to 80 years of age, strung along outside the sanctuary railing, from the centre door of it to the Gospel end. They all joined in one chorus. They all spoke so loudly, their tones were so earnest and modulated, and their position made them so prominent, that I asked who they were. I was told they were the ancient matrons of certain families in Naples who have ever claimed to be the blood-relatives of the saint; and, by right of prescription and usage, they occupy that position along the altar-rails on occasions of the exposition of the relics. They were evidently poor, very poor. It touched me to see here a dignity of descent claimed and recognized far beyond that based on wealth or worldly position--a dignity which nobles might crave in vain, and yet from which their poverty and daily drudgery do not debar these simple souls. I said they were old. Among them and close to them stood younger women and girls, other members, I presume, of their families, who at present prayed in lower tones, inaudible, or, at least, not noticeable, in the crowd of subdued voices When they become grandmothers, I presume they will take more prominent positions, and feel privileged to pitch their voices in shriller tones. I thought at first there was one exception. I heard a clear, bell-like, treble voice, which generally led their chorus of litanies or prayers, and which never seemed to tire. But I was mistaken in the supposition. I at last traced the voice. It was that of an elderly woman who will scarcely see sixty again. She stood in the line, tall, thin, emaciated. Her brow was lofty; her eyes clear, and blazing with animation; her cheeks sunken in, not a tooth left; and, as she spoke, her broad chin seemed to work up and down a full inch. She wore a clean, old, faded calico gown, without any starch in it; and around her head was wound, like a turban, a bright, stiffened, red and yellow bandanna, reminding me somewhat of the respectable colored _maumas_ I had seen in the South. Her voice was clear and sweet, and she made free use of it. Others might tire, or rest, or suspend their clamorous prayers for a while; but she, no, she never tired, and her voice was ever heard among the rest, like a clear trumpet stop in a full organ. It was delightful, at last, to watch her occasionally, as she kept her eyes fixed on the bust of the saint on the altar, and every feature of her countenance kept changing to express the sense of her words. Were she not in church, her hands and arms and whole body, I am sure, would have joined in the movements. As it was, she confined herself to bowing her head, or turning it slowly from side to side, yet always keeping her eyes fixed on the altar. I had seen, many times, earnest, silent, tearful prayer. Here I witnessed equally earnest, _noisy_ prayer. I might come to like it, but only after some time and after many trials.

While this universal hubbub of prayer was filling the church, the chaplain, still holding the reliquary in his hands by the stem beneath, bent over the altar, and, with the other chaplains and those of the bystanders who joined in, recited the _Miserere_ and other psalms, and the Athanasian Creed, and various prayers. His face glowed with the intensity of his feelings. He kept his eyes earnestly fixed on the reliquary, from time to time moving it over from side to side, and examining it. Sometimes he rubbed the glass face, front or rear, as necessary, with his white pocket-handkerchief, that he might see more clearly the interior. Sometimes the other chaplain held the candle in a proper position to aid his inspection. In about five minutes, he turned round with the reliquary to the people, and held it up, with the candle behind it, that all might see. He let those near look as scrutinizingly as they wished, reached it to each one of the ten or fifteen on the platform and upper steps to kiss it, and, if they chose, as, of course, they did, to examine it, at six or ten inches distance. He then turned to the altar as before, and the litany of the saints was recited, with some other prayers. In about five minutes more, he again turned towards the people, and gave the immediate bystanders another opportunity to examine the reliquary closely as before. Then again to the altar for other psalms, hymns, and prayers. This alternation of prayers at the altar, holding the reliquary near the bust, and of presentations of it to the bystanders and the crowd, every five minutes or so, continued for over half an hour. But no change was visible. Once he left the altar, and making his way--I could not imagine how--into the crowd outside the sanctuary in the body of the chapel, gave to those to the right and left of his route a similar opportunity. On another occasion, he went down again; but this time he turned to the right, and went along the line of "relatives." How their fervor increased, how their demonstrations became more energetic, their words more rapid, their chorus fuller, their voices louder and shriller! He came back; but still no change. The alternations continued as before.

At last, a little after ten o'clock, I saw a change. I think I was the very first to perceive it. On all the previous times and up to this, the _ampulla_ or vial was perfectly full, as I had seen it when first taken out of the armory. I now noticed a faint streak of light between the substance in the vial and the top, or, rather, the mass of solder into which the top of the vial entered. I was sure it had not been there before. I could scarcely see it now. This time, as on several other occasions, the chaplain came twice or thrice around the ring of immediate bystanders, those at first in front courteously giving way that others might in turn come forward. But I, of course, retained my place. As he came round the second time, and approached me again--I was within the line or semi-circle--I saw that the streak of light was now clear and unmistakable. It caught the eye of an earnest little Frenchman who, for the last half-hour, had been pressing against me, at times rather inconveniently. He burst right out: "Don't you see the light in it? It is changing! It is liquefying!" The chaplain now looked at it attentively, moved it from side to side a little, rubbed the glasses with his white handkerchief, looked again, but went round the circle of bystanders a third time. Again he examined it. By this time the streak of light had become half an inch broad. He moved the reliquary from side to side slowly. We saw the vacancy now left above yield and follow his motions, just as the air-bubble does in a spirit-level, clearly showing the contents of the vial to be _now perfectly liquid_. Some looked on in silent awe; some shed tears; some cried out, "_Miracolo! miracolo!_" The chaplain waved his white handkerchief in signal that it really was so. Rose-leaves in quantities were thrown up from the crowd outside the sanctuary, and rained down on us. A dozen little birds that had been held captive in the baskets with the roses were liberated, and rose circling upwards to the windows of the dome. The grand organ burst out in the _Te Deum_. The vast crowd with one voice took up the hymn, almost drowning the full tones of the instrument. The bells of the cathedral tower, in full chimes, sent the announcement over the city, and the hills and valleys around, and over the quiet waters of the beautiful bay. All the bells of the other churches of Naples chimed in, and quickly the cannons of the Castle of Sant' Elmo joined in the chorus with a grand national salute.

Meanwhile, hundreds were approaching the altar to see with their own eyes that the blood was liquid, and to venerate the relics. Another chaplain now relieved the first, and continued to present the reliquary to those who were crowding up. I still retained my position. The blood continued to diminish in volume, until it sank so as to be a full half-inch below the neck of the vial. It was perfectly liquid, and, when the reliquary was turned or inclined, it ran off the up-raised sides of the _ampulla_ at once leaving no more trace behind than would so much water.

After half an hour or so, the bust and the reliquary were carried in procession out from the chapel into the cathedral. The procession moved down the western aisle towards the doors of the church, turned into the grand nave, and advanced up to the sanctuary. The bust was placed on the high altar, and the canons of the cathedral replaced the chaplains of the _Tesoro_ chapel in the duty of presenting the reliquary to the people, as they approached in undiminished numbers to venerate and inspect it.

At eleven, I said Mass at the altar where I had witnessed the liquefaction. After the Mass, I went into the church, and spent another half-hour there. Thousands pouring in from the streets were still flowing in a constant stream towards the high altar. A little after twelve, I left....

Next morning, I said Mass again on the same altar at eight A.M., and before nine o'clock was again at the doors of the armories. Count C---- came punctually with his bag of keys. So did the little canon on the part of the archbishop. I was told that the sacred relics had remained exposed all day, after I left, on the high altar of the cathedral, the blood remaining liquid all the time; and that, about dark, they had, according to rule, been brought back to the _Tesoro_ chapel, and had been locked up, as usual, for the night, in the armories. This morning, they were to be again brought out. Count C---- and the canon used their keys just as yesterday. The bust was taken out, and carried in procession to the front of the altar, as before. Then the other armory was opened, and the reliquary was taken out by the chaplain. "It is hard, and at its ordinary level," he said, and showed it to us. The blood now stood in the _ampulla_, not, as yesterday, filling it, but reaching only to about an inch below the neck, leaving about one-fourth of the space within unoccupied. It was certainly solid and hard; for he turned the reliquary to one side and the other without its moving at all. He even held the reliquary upside down, and the blood remained a firm and unmoved mass, attached to the bottom of the now up-turned _ampulla_. It was carried to the altar. We stationed ourselves just as yesterday. The sanctuary was filled with visitors, but not so crowded as on the former occasion. The chapel, too, was not so densely jammed. None were forced to stand out in the church for want of room. The "relatives" were at their post, and prayed just as before; but the miracle having occurred on the feast itself, they were satisfied that it would occur, as a matter of course, each day of the exposition throughout the octave. At least, so I read their countenances, which were less nervously anxious than yesterday.

The chaplain commenced the _Miserere_, the _Deus tuorum militum_, and sundry prayers, the clergy joining in. Every five minutes or so, he turned to show the reliquary to the people, especially, of course, to those immediately around the altar.

In just sixteen minutes after we had reached the altar, the first symptom of the coming change showed itself. As the chaplain held the reliquary for a moment completely reversed, and steady in that position, I noticed that the surface of the blood within the _ampulla_, now, as he held it, underneath, showed a tendency to sag downwards, as if it were softening. Soon again, I saw that around the edge, where it touched the glass, it had changed color, and was of a brighter red than in the middle, and seemed very soft, almost liquid. In fact, as he would incline the reliquary to one side or another, the entire mass within began soon gradually to slide down and occupy the lowest position. Still, though soft, it was thick, and could scarcely be called liquid. Then, in two or three minutes more, it became still softer, until it was quite liquid, with a lump, nevertheless, which seemed to remain hard and to float in the liquid portion. To-day, as the glass was moved, the liquid would run off, of course. But, whereas yesterday it left the glass quite clear and clean, as water would do, now, on the contrary, it left a reddish thick tinge behind, which only slowly sank down into the general mass. After a while, too, the blood seemed to froth, or show bubbles on its surface--_to boil_, as the Italians say. I remained over half an hour more to see it, and I noticed that at the end of that time the lump had disappeared, and all was quite liquid. The frothing continued.

After this, I was invited to go into the sacristy, where they showed me the superb ecclesiastical vestments belonging to the chapel--the mitres, necklaces, chalices, ciboriums, ostensories, and other rich jewelry--in great part, the gifts of emperors, kings, and other nobles and wealthy ones, who, for centuries past, have given them as offerings to this sanctuary on occasion of their visits. Finally, I had to tear myself away. Returning for a few moments to the chapel, I found the crowds still approaching the altar to examine and to venerate the relics.

Reluctantly I left the cathedral, and in a few hours a railway-train was bearing me fast and far away from Naples.

I have thus, my dear S----, set forth minutely and at length what I saw. They say that in the liquid blood one may still sometimes see a small fragment of straw floating about. If so, it must have been taken up with the blood when it was gathered at the execution of the saint, and must have glided unperceived into the _ampulla_ when the blood was poured into it that day. A young friend with me thought he caught a glimpse of it. His eyesight is keen, which, you know, mine is not. Anyhow, I did not see it. I need not tell you of various other little points of which the Neapolitans speak, as I had no opportunity of testing them or verifying them myself. I have told you, simply and straightforwardly, what fell under my own experience.

Our readers will not regret the length of this account of the liquefaction, so full and minute in the details. The letter from which we extract it was written immediately after the visit of the writer to Naples, from notes made at the time, and while the impressions left on his memory were still fresh.

It was not necessary, in a letter like that we have made use of, to enter on the discussion of mooted points of archæology. The writer simply sets forth the opinions which, after more or less of examination, he felt inclined to adopt. We say here that there is a difference among writers as to the year in which the body of St. Januarius was transferred from the original sepulchre to the church of San Gennaro _extra muros_, and there is still a graver difference as to the precise place of the original tomb. Some have held that the execution took place on a more elevated spot on the same hill which the letter mentions--about a quarter of a mile distant from the church of the Capuchins--and that this church marks not the site of the execution, as the letter holds with the Neapolitan archæologists, but the site of the first temporary interment, from which the body was borne to Naples, twelve or fifteen years later than the year assigned above. These are minor points, on which we may let antiquaries argue at pleasure.

In another article, we purpose to examine the character of the fact of the liquefaction of the blood of St. Januarius, according to exact records of its history for several centuries back.

For the present, we close with the latest account of its occurrence which has fallen under our eye. The _Pall Mall Budget_, of May 26 last, has the following: "The blood of St. Januarius seems to have been lately in a more perturbed state, if possible, than ever. The _Libertà Cattolica_ of Naples gives an account of some unusual appearances presented by this relic, on the 6th inst., one of the annual occasions on which the holy martyr is honored in the cathedral of Naples. On the day in question, Saturday, May 6, at a quarter-past four P.M., the reliquary being brought out of its tabernacle, where it had remained since the 16th of last December--the feast of the patronage--it was found partly liquid, as when laid up. It continued in the same state during the procession (from the cathedral to the church of St. Clara), and, after thirteen minutes of prayers, the sign of the miracle was given, the portion which had remained hard being perceptibly still more dissolved, so as to show that the miracle had taken place. Gradually, during the kissing of the reliquary by the congregation at St. Clara, it became entirely dissolved. On its return to the cathedral, contrary to what had taken place during the last few years, it was found to be completely hardened. When carried into the chapel of the _Tesoro_, it dissolved anew, and now entirely, yet remaining thick and glutinous; and in that state was laid up, about ten P.M."

TO BE CONTINUED.

LUCAS GARCIA.

FROM THE SPANISH OF FERNAN CABALLERO.

"In an age when all impressions are effaced by the double hammer of civilization and incredulity, it is touching and beautiful to see a people preserve a stable character and immutable beliefs."

I.

Eastward from Jerez, in the direction of the Sierra de Ronda, which rises in a succession of terraces, as if to form a suitable pedestal for the rightly named San Cristóbal, lie the extensive Llanos de Caulina. A bare and uniform road drags itself for two leagues through the palmettoes, and makes a halt at the foot of the first elevation, where a lazy rivulet widens in the sun, and, stagnating in summer, changes its waters into mire.

On the right is seen the castle of Malgarejo, one of the few Moorish edifices that time and his faithful auxiliary in the work of destruction, ignorance, have left standing. Time makes ruins, groups them, crowns them with garlands, and adorns them with verdure, as if he desired to have them for places of recreation and rest; but the barbarian ignorance gives no quarter--his only delight is in dust; his place of repose, the desert waste; his end, nothingness.

The angles of the castle are flanked by four large towers. These, as well as the walls of the whole enclosure, are surmounted by well-formed turrets, perfect still, and without notch or break in their beautiful uniformity. The castle took its name of Malgarejo from a knight of Jerez, by whom its reduction was accomplished in a manner so curious, that we cannot resist the inclination to relate it, for the benefit of those who are unacquainted with the tales of partisan exploits that abound in the annals of Jerez.

In the beginning of the thirteenth century, a hundred and fifty Moors, with their families, occupied the castle. They went clothed in white, according to the custom of their nation, and mounted gray horses. Shut up as they were, they procured their subsistence by foraging the country at night, and carrying to their stronghold whatever booty they could seize.

Malgarejo resolved to get possession of this formidable place. It was surrounded, at that time, by a wide moat. This moat--opened by the Moors for their protection, and afterward serving them for a sepulchre--no longer exists.

The Christian cavalier had a slave that was a most accomplished horseman, and to him he promised liberty if he would swear to devote himself to the proposed undertaking. The slave, agreeing, was entrusted by his master with a mare of singular agility, and was directed to train her to leap a ditch, which was to be enlarged, by degrees, to the width of the one that surrounded the Saracen castle.

This being accomplished, Malgarejo called together his followers, disguised them as Moors, caused them to cover their horses with white cloths, and, one night, when the garrison had sallied out upon a raid, approached the fortress. Those within, taking his host for the one they were expecting, viewed its approach without suspicion. When the Christians came nearer, they saw their mistake, and would have raised the bridge, but the slave of Malgarejo had already leaped the moat, and cut the cords, so that it could not be lifted; and the _Jerezanos_ made themselves masters of the castle.

The sight of this stronghold, over which the destroyer Time has passed leaving as little trace as would the footstep of a bird, transports the beholder to the past with such vividness of illusion, that he is surprised not to see the pennon of the half-moon fluttering above its towers, and misses a snowy turban from behind every one of its turrets. No fitter place could be found for the representation of a fight or of a tournament between Moors and Christians.

The road to Arcos leaves on its left the sleeping stream and the dead fortress, within whose precinct, like ants in a skeleton, laborers plying the tools of peaceful husbandry are moving.

Ascending this first step of the mountain, the traveller crosses other plains, covered as far as the eye can see with rich harvests, and, finding no nearer inn or stopping-place, takes his siesta at the grange of La Peñuela, formerly the property of the Carthusian fathers--an order so pious, so severe, so worthy and respected, that the country folk still ask each other, "And was there indeed a power that could, and a hand that would dare to touch such men and such things?"

As the country rises, it covers itself with olive groves, as if it would shelter white and ancient Arcos in the pride with which she preserves her title of city, her venerable privileges, and her state parchments, in spite of decline, or, better said, in spite of her still life, in the midst of the progress that waits upon the march of time--a progress at once gentle, deliberate, and spontaneous.

True to the guerilla traits of her Moorish founders, Arcos appears to the traveller, wearied with the ascent, alternately advancing and retiring, until, passing between two high rocks, he enters unexpectedly into a city so beautiful for situation as to astonish and delight even those who are rarely moved by the charms of nature or the enchantments of the picturesque.

One afternoon, in the year 1840 or thereabout, a crowd of people might have been seen entering a poor-looking house in the barrier of San Francisco. From this house they had carried, on the previous day, the body of one who had been its mistress, and the neighbors were now uniting for the _condolement_ required by the rigorous etiquette which is observed by the people, and which manifests the instinctive courtesy and dignity that distinguish them. For all etiquette and all ceremonial are founded upon these bases, and are not the ridiculous and superficial things, either in public or private life, that the revolutionary spirit of the age, and the anxiety to escape from every rein, material and moral, would make us believe. Ceremonial and etiquette, in the right acceptation of the words, are external conduct, disposed so as to give worship to things divine, consideration and respect to things human.

On entering the house, the women assembled in the parlor of the mourner's _habitation_.[160] Opposite this room was another, which had been lent by a neighbor for the accommodation of the men.

Upon a mat in the middle of the apartment first mentioned was extended a handkerchief, into which each person, as he entered, threw one or two copper coins, destined for the stipend of the Mass of San Bernardino. This custom is observed not only among the poor, but also among those who are well-to-do, for this Mass must be owed to charity. Let sceptics and rationalists explain this as best suits them. We look upon it as an act of humility, joined to the desire of uniting many suffrages. And although we may be more impressed with terrestrial honors, such as a splendid funeral, a showy catafalque, and a proud mausoleum, the fervent petition of the heart, the coin given in charity, the prayers of the church, are better suffrages for heaven. In a corner of the room, upon a low chair, was the principal mourner, a little girl of eight years. Wearied with weeping for her mother, and with remaining so long in one position, she had leaned her head against the back of the chair, and fallen asleep--for sleep is a lover of children, and hastens to their relief whenever they suffer in body or spirit.

"Poor Lucia," said one of the mourners, a kinswoman of the deceased, glancing at the child, "how she will miss her mother!"

"This was the thorn that poor Ana carried to the grave fastened in her heart," observed a neighbor.

"But," asked another, "of what did she die?"

"Only the ground that covers her knows what ailed her," answered the relative, "for Ana did not complain. If she had not been so thin, you might have drunk her; as yellow as a waxen flower, and so weak that a shadow could have knocked her down, no one would have thought that she was on her way to Holyfield."

"She died of a broken heart!" exclaimed an energetic-looking young matron; "all the world knows it; and because we have an alcalde that is afraid to strap his breeches to the work and cast out of town with the devil's sling these trulls of strangers who come among us to set up drinking-houses, and chouse married men, to their perdition and the ruins of their families!"

"Yes, yes, the alcaldes have eyes of fishes for all these things," said the relative of the deceased, "just as they have owls' eyes for some others. But they'll get their pay, woman; for though God consents, 'tis not for ever!"

"Yes," answered the first--"consents to the death of the good, and lets the bad live, and crow on. God reserves the justice of heaven for himself. The rod of earthly justice he puts into the hands of men; and a fine account they'll have to give of the way they use it! I'd like to break the one our alcalde carries upon his shoulders!"

"Neighbor," said an old woman, "you are more hasty than a spark from the forge; you attack like the bulls, with eyes shut. Think whom you are speaking of; and bear in mind that 'evil wounds heal, but evil fame kills.' Poor Ana was never well after her last confinement. Death does not come without a pretext: the summer pulled her down, and September finished her; for 'from friar to friar,[161] God be our guard!'"

"Of course, Aunt Maria," retorted the young woman, "it's quite proper for you, because you are aunt to Juan Garcia, and cousin to the alcalde, to say so; for 'with reason or without it, aid us God and our kin.' But I tell you that my José is not to set his foot inside of _La Leona's_[162] gin-shop; and I'll see that he don't! A man may be as honest as Job, but in 'the house of the soap-maker he that doesn't fall slips.' And say what you please, you who are a widow, with the coolness of age in your veins, I shall not go back of what I have said. 'He that jumps straight, falls on his feet,' and I say, and resay it: they ought to flay alive the good-for-nothing calamary of a she-sergeant, with her sentry-box figure, and face darker than an oil-skin, so full of pock-marks that it looks as if she had fallen into a bed of chick-peas, and more hair on her lip than a grenadier! Remember the proverb, 'Salute the bearded woman at a distance!'"

"And her children," said the mourner--"little imps that she keeps so greasy and neglected! They look like a nest of calamaries."

"But she thinks them little suns," added another.

"Ya!" exclaimed the first who had spoken; "said the black beetle to her young ones, 'Come hither, my flowers!' and the owl calls hers 'drops of gold.' Who ever saw such a thing, sirs," she continued, growing excited--"who ever saw anything so wicked as to dupe a married man, the father of children, ruin him, pull down his house, and murder his wife by inches! And this is known and permitted! I tell you, such a thing sinks deep!"

"Yes, it is worse than stabbing with a knife," exclaimed one woman.

"It cries to God!" added another.

"It is a scandal of the monstrous kind," proceeded the first. "Poor Ana, though I did not see much of her, I loved her well. Almond-paste is not milder than she was, and as meek and free from malice as a sheep in the hands of the butcher. O men! men! There is a curse on them that pull their clothes on over their feet; and that is the reason our dear Lord would not wear breeches, but always dressed in a tunic."

"Come, daughter," said Aunt Maria, "nothing is mended by malediction, nor by spitting out the quinine. Let us pray for the soul of the departed, for that is what will really benefit her."

These words were the signal for complete silence. Aunt Maria took her rosary, the rest following her example, and, after saying the act of contrition and a solemn credo, proceeded to recite the rosary of souls, repeating three times after the Paternoster, and instead of the Hail Mary,

"O Lord, by thy infinite mercy,"

the others answering in chorus,

"Grant to the souls of the faithful departed peace and glory."

Nothing was now heard in the mourning room of the women but the grave murmur of the prayers and suppressed sighs of pity and sorrow.

The other parlor presented a very different spectacle. The widower, serene as a glass of water, and cool as a fresh lettuce, now that the day of the burial had passed, considered himself dispensed from the attitude of mourning, and smoked, listening and talking to all, just as usual, as if death had entered his house and departed without leaving either trace or impression of his awful presence.

The indifferent ones followed his example, so that, had not all worn cloaks, no one would have supposed that this was a condolement, a tribute of love and respect to a life that had ended, and of sympathy with an overwhelming sorrow. The only figure that appeared to be in harmony with the object of the reunion was that of a boy thirteen years old, the son of the deceased, who sat near his father with his elbows resting on his knees, and his face buried in his hands, weeping inconsolably.

"What kind of day has it been?" asked the widower.

"Unhealthy," answered one.

"And the sky?"

"Patched; I think the rain is not far off. There was fog this morning, and 'fog is the rain's sponsor and the sun's neighbor.'"

"The wind will soon sweep the cobwebs from the sky," said a third, "for it blows from sunset side. The rain is shyer than sixpences."

"No matter," answered the first, "last year it did not rain till All Saints; and a better year, or another of the same piece, hasn't been seen since the creation. Laborers, farmers, and tenants all got tired of gathering, and had more than enough--the barley, in particular, grew so thick that you couldn't set a spade between the blades."

"The month of January is the key of the year. If the sky does not open in January, there will be no harvest."

"Hola! Uncle Bartolo!" all exclaimed, as a small, vigorous old man entered the apartment. "Where do you hail from? where have you been ever since we missed you from here?"

Uncle Bartolo, after offering to the mourner the usual condolences, seated himself, and, turning toward his interrogators, replied:

"Where do I come from? The district of Doñana, without varying from the most direct line. Since the French war ended, and I took the road, I have been water-carrier[163] to the _You Sirs_.[164] They have them there in Doñana of all complexions--legitimate, grafted, cross-breed, and supposititious, even English. _Caballeros!_ Deliver us; but those Swiss of the French are the ones! Stout fellows; very white; very ruddy; very fair-haired, and very puffy. But as to spirit, they have no more than they drink; and grace, they have not any. They carry their arms like the sleeves of a capote, and set their feet down like pestles. Whenever I saw those feet that resembled _jabeques_,[165] I used to say to myself,

'A good foot and good ear Signs of a good beast are.'

For talking, they make use of a kind of jargon that, in my opinion, they themselves don't understand. These parleys that I don't comprehend displease me, for I never know whether I am being bought or sold.

"There was one--the size of a tunny-fish--they called Don 'Turo.[166] He fell to me. To see him blowing and sweating over those sands made one pity him, for a league finishes them; the sun offends them; the heat makes them weak, and dissolves them entirely. That platter face would persist in doing everything contrariwise, as they do it in his country. Once he took it into his head to use my clasp-knife to eat with, and cut himself. With that he got out a medicine-chest as big as a surgeon's. 'Go along!' said I to myself, 'a spider bit me, and I bound the wound up in a sheet.' He was as hard-headed as a corner. Another time he made up his mind that he ought to shoot a partridge, and, though I told him it was against the law to shoot partridges at that season, he fired, and would have fired if his father had stood before the mouth of his gun. He fired and killed an urraca.[167] 'Sir,' said I, 'what has your honor done?' Says he to me, 'Killed the partridge.' 'Why, sir, it isn't a partridge, it's an urraca.' 'It's all right,' said the big bungler, quite composedly. 'But it is not right,' answered I; 'the killing of urracas is prohibited.' 'And who prohibits it?' he asked, putting on his face of a lion. 'I have my license, that cost me three thousand reals.' 'But, sir, that is for large game--you understand? The urracas mustn't be killed. You comprehend?' Says he to me, 'In this country of _Santísima María_'--for, as I have told you already, he said everything reversed, as they do in his--'in this country there's no end of privileges, and do the very urracas have them?'

"That question was so foolish, or else meant to be ironical, that I didn't care to set him right; so I told him, 'Yes, privileges that were granted to them in very ancient times, by _Doña Urraca_ herself.' He took out a blank-book and wrote that down. 'Let the ball roll,' said I in my jacket, 'it isn't my business to stop it.'"

"But, Uncle Bartolo, why may they not kill urracas in the district?" asked a young man.

"Because they are the ones that planted the pine woods," answered Uncle Bartolo.

"Oh! none of that! you are not talking to platter-face," replied the youth.

"So I perceive, since his swallow for novelties was too big; and you--for a blockhead of those who believe only what they see--haven't any. Nevertheless, sir, that the urracas do plant the pines is a truth as evident as a house. They open the ripe cones, and pick out the seeds for food. Being very saving birds, they bury those that they can't eat; and, being very brainless ones, they forget all about it and never go back to look for them; and the seeds sprout. If it were not true, why would the dukes prohibit the killing of urracas, when they are thicker in the district than sparrows on a threshing-floor? Therefore, Alonso, no one may say, 'This camel can't enter the eye of my needle'; for, of two silly birds, the one that always keeps his bill shut is more silly than the one that has his always open. But you were a dunce from the beginning; and, as you grow older, you are gaining upon Blas, that ate horse-beans."

"And at night, uncle, what did those people do with themselves there in the province?" asked the listeners.

"The Englishmen ate and drank, for their honors are made hollow, in order that they may always be putting things into their mouths. That is the reason they are so fat and big. Platter-face told me one day--with an air as if God had just revealed it to him--that I was able to go so long without getting tired because I was lean; and that he would give a thousand dollars, or some such sum, to be as lean as I. I answered--shouting to make him understand better--'Your worship has only to eat _gazpacho_[168] to dry up your flesh, and raw onions and garlic to sharpen your senses."

"And the Spaniards--how did they pass the evenings, Uncle Bartolo?"

"The Spaniards? Talking through the very stitches of their garments; bawling till you would have thought they were echoes: and quarrelling about things of the government. For, nowadays, everybody wants to know everything himself, and to command: the very beetles set up their tails and complain of a cough. I tell you, sirs, there are no more such Spaniards as there were in the time of the French war. We were as one man then, and all of one mind. Now there are moderates and _extremists_. I, who am an _extremist_ only when it concerns my gun, my wife, and my children, could wish the devil would fly away with so much gab. It made me want to say to them: 'Gentlemen, where there is less tongue, count on more judgment,' and 'so much grass chokes the wheat.'"

"One night, one of the _You Sirs_ called me, and wanted to know if I was in the war against Napoleon. 'Yes, sir,' I answered, 'I was a guerilla.' 'Well, then,' said he, 'you just come here, for I am going to read you the will he made.'"

"What! did that man make a will, Uncle Bartolo?" asked some of the oldest of the listeners.

"Yes, and before he died, it is supposed.

"'But, your worship,' I asked, 'what had that kingdom-thief to give away? Did they not then make him throw up everything he had taken?'

"The _You Sir_ had an open book, and began to read. Gentlemen, that _soccarron_,[169] in his will, went on distributing everything, his goods, his arms, his body, and his heart. I was perplexed. 'Well, what do you think of it, uncle?' said his honor, when he had ended. 'Sir,' I answered, 'from what I can see, that unbeliever thought of everything; but neither in his life nor in his death did he remember his soul.'"

"Why did you join the guerillas, Uncle Bartolo?" asked one of the company.

"What a question!" exclaimed the guerilla, looking at the one who had asked it, and weaving himself backwards and forwards with much composure.

"'He that asks does not err,' Uncle Bartolo."

"Yes, but this is a case of 'He that asks does not err, and I ask if they bury the dead with the deceased?'"

"What I mean is, when did you leave your house, and how did you happen to fall in with the _partida_?"[170]

"Ya! those are other questions, Lopez. Some French horsemen came here--they call them _colaseros_ (cuirassiers)--my wife was more afraid of them than of a contagion, and every time she heard the clarionets, she would say to me, in a fright, 'They are sounding the charge.' 'No, wife,' I would tell her, 'they are sounding the _premonition_.' One day the cornet--they used to call him _Trompi_--came in tipsy, and insulted my wife. I, who was not afraid of any three that might come, and never stopped to think of consequences, said to him, 'Out of here, little soul of a pitcher, and Barabbas cut a slice from you!' With that he drew his sword, and would have cut me, but I snatched my knife, and finished him at once; and then, catching up mantle and blanket, took the wind for the mountains. I stopped in Benamahoma with the Padre Lovillo--and there you have it all."

"The Padre Lovillo was the captain of the partida?" questioned a youth.

"Yes, the Padre Lovillo. _Candela!_ That was a man you could call a man! No talker--not he; but the words he used were few and good. If any one wanted to brag of his doings, he would say, 'Let them be seen, not heard. You understand, cackler? Stabs with steel, not with the tongue; balls of lead, not of wind.' Sirs, that man was ready for everything, as you would have declared with two tongues if you had had them. When we were going to attack the French, he used to say, 'Listen, sons, our fathers died for their country, and we are not to be less than they.' Then, drawing his sword, he would shout, '_Now_ let us see who has pluck!' and charge like another Santiago,[171] and we after him, as if he had led us to Paris in France. We felt neither hunger nor weariness; it was a fight without drum or trumpet, but it made the Frenchmen shiver. They named us the '_Briganes_[172] of the Black Mountain,' and were more afraid of us than of the trained soldiery.

"Don 'Turo, who knew that I had been a _brigan_, called me into the parlor one evening, and, when he had squeezed himself into a chair, told me to sit down. I began to wonder where all these Masses were going to end.[173] Surely, I thought, he cannot want me to clean his gun! But I waited for the mountain to bring forth, and presently he asked me to explain the _trafica_[174] of guerilla fighting. When I saw him come out with that ladder, I got angry, and told him, 'No;' that my pronouncing was very bad, and his understanding worse. But all the others insisted, and, not to seem disobliging, I repeated a very good and well-versed poem, that was going the rounds then."

"And what was it about, Uncle Bartolo?"

"It relates a conversation between Malapart[175] and that Indian, _Munrá_, Duke of _Ver_."[176]

"Go on, uncle, say it," exclaimed all present.

The following romance, which the old guerilla recited, was very popular at that time among the people. It owes its humor to the fact that neither its unlettered composer, nor those who recited it, had any suspicion that they were giving a caricature. They considered it a simple and probable account of what would take place between Napoleon and Murat when they saw their last troops vanquished. Even the conclusion is in no way inconsistent with their ideas of the antecedents and characters of the personages:

_Nap._ How is this, friend _Munrá_! Why are you here again? Why have you left your capital? What sent you out of Spain? Speak on, and don't delay; We have no time to spare; Tell me, in terms exact, What has happened there.

_Mur._ Easy, sir, if you please; Sire, do not press me so; Only let me get breath, I'll tell you what I know. But, first, send for a chair, That some rest we may take While I tell you the tale, For, indeed, my legs ache.

_Nap._ Right, for you have grown fat, And glad am I to see Proof that the airs of Spain So well with you agree.

_Mur._ Sire, you are mistaken; But let the matter go, For things of more account Your majesty should know. And, come to what must come, Without any more ado-- For, believe me or not, sire, All I tell you is true.

_Nap._ Why, what has happened now? Good Heavens, man, speak out! What have you seen in Spain To put you so about?

_Mur._ Great Emperor of France, Your force has been in vain; Nor did flatteries avail-- You cannot conquer Spain. No notice will they take Of your promises of pay, And peace, and rank to all, And bull-fights every day.

_Nap._ But, my soldiers, do not they In the mountains still remain?

_Mur._ Yes, captives they remain With their general, _Dupon_, And the eagles of France; And every sword and gun Might as well be a distaff, For Castaños and his men Have settled their account.

_Nap._ _Peste!_ Because you tell it, The tale I must believe; From another I would not A word of it receive. No doubt, in Zaragoza Our cause has better speed, In humbling them at last We surely must succeed.

_Mur._ All your force is useless; The knaves will not submit. If you wish to lose France, And make an end of it, Send it to Zaragoza, It will find a bloody tomb, And remain there, buried, Until the Day of Doom.

_Nap._ Can nothing, then, be done With those troops of Arragon?

_Mur._ We have none that on them Will venture to advance.

_Nap._ But Moncey's triumphant In the kingdom of Valence?

_Mur._ Sire, he has dropped his ears, And slunk away, ashamed; Those Valencians have a way Their enemies to tame. They mount on swiftest steeds, And, running a swift career, Unhorse the astonished foe Before he is aware.

_Nap._ It seems, then, that maxims, And lying, and caution Have failed in that country; But who had a notion That Spain would be equal To France in a contest? We now can do nothing But send for Funest.[177]

_Mur._ And how can he get here, When the Portuguese men, With the Spaniards united, Have him closely shut in, With sentinels stationed? No help can avail him, For surrender he must, When eatables fail him. The best thing to do, is To yield to their clamor, And give back the king That Spaniards all honor. Perhaps, sire, if--with him Appeased and delighted-- They will let our troops go, Your throne may be righted; For upset it they will At the rate they are making, And cut off your head, And from me be taking My fine dukedom of _Ver_; Or, if we escape, sire, The fate I am dreading. We'll have to sweep chimneys Again for a living. I've forgotten the trade, And lost my dexterity; But you, who were master, Would mount with celerity.

_Nap._ Only a pitiful knave Such memories would renew.

_Mur._ Well, sire, if that don't suit, I've another thing in view; We'll seek a brighter sphere, And a foreign city find, Where through the streets we'll rove, Crying "Sci-i-issors to gri-ind."

"And which did he do, uncle?" asked one--"sweep chimneys or grind scissors?"

"_He sweep chimneys!_" exclaimed Uncle Bartolo. "Such people always fall into feather-beds! They carried him to St. Helena--beyond Gibraltar--where he had it quite comfortable till he died raving, after the devil had helped him to make that will."

"Here comes Uncle Cohete," said a man who sat by the window.

"Make him a sign to come in," said the person nearest him, in a low tone.

Uncle Cohete was a simple, good old man, who acted the merry-andrew for the purpose of obtaining alms for a religious house of which he was _demandante_.[178] He could mimic to perfection the songs of all birds; the near and distant barking of the dog, the mewing of the cat; and so excelled in imitating the peculiar hiss and crackling of a kite in the air, as to have obtained the nickname of _cohete_ (kite), by which he was known. He had, besides, a stock of simple verses, ballads, riddles, and odd scraps of humor, which he would repeat with inimitable expression and drollery. The sources from which he drew his supplies could not be told. This, he had learned in a town on the Llanura; that, in a village of the Sierra; another at the fireside of the manse. But, in his mimicry of the birds, they themselves had been the teachers, aided by unusual flexibility of organs, and great patience and perseverance on the part of the disciple. For, in all branches--whether important or insignificant--perseverance yields great results.

It having been intimated to Uncle Cohete that the company wished him to tell something diverting, he began by saying _The Commandments of the Rich Man and the Poor Man_--a collection of ironical precepts, which enjoyed great popularity at that time--as follows:

"The commandments of the rich man, nowadays, are five, namely:

"The first. Thou shalt have no end of money.

"The second. Thou shalt despise all the rest of the world.

"The third. Thou shalt eat good beef and good mutton.

"The fourth. Thou shalt eat flesh on Good Friday.

"The fifth. Thou shalt drink both white wine and red.

"These commandments are included in two: Let all be for me, and nothing for you.

"The commandments of the poor man are five, namely:

"The first. Thou shalt never have any money.

"The second. Thou shalt be despised by all the world.

"The third. Thou shalt eat neither beef nor mutton.

"The fourth. Thou shalt fast, even if it be not Good Friday.

"The fifth. Thou shalt taste neither the white wine nor the red.

"These commandments are included in two: Scratch thyself, and bear everything for the love of God."

"Uncle, did not the son of _Roba-Santos_[179] who is heaping money, give you an alms?" asked one.

"No, he gave me nothing," answered Uncle Cohete.

"Like father, like son," said Uncle Bartolo.

"Next year, uncle, you will get a pile, for 'when the fields have, the saints have.'"

"Uncle Cohete, take these two coppers, and tell us _The Commandments of the New Law_," said the man who had called him in:

"The commandments of the new law are ten, namely:

"The first. Let there be no money in Spain.

"The second. Let the world turn upside-down.

"The third. Let every one play gentleman.

"The fourth. Let not a single copper come from America.

"The fifth. Let there be no end of drafting.

"The sixth. Let the new law come from abroad.

"The seventh. Let there be fewer people that are not wanted.

"The eighth. Let them distribute biscuits in Navarra.

"The ninth. Let every one look out for himself.

"The tenth. Let all be at variance.

"These commandments are included in two: Some say yes, and others say no."

"Tell us a riddle, uncle."

"Fifty ladies and five gallants: the fifty ask fowl; the five ask bread," said the old man, of whom nature, and the kind of life he led, had made the personification of ready and good-humored obedience.

"The Rosary! I knew that," said a little boy. "Tell another."

"The mantle of Lady Leonor Sinks in the river, but covers the shore."

"We give it up, uncle."

"It is the snow, gentlemen."

At this moment they were interrupted by the ringing of the sunset bell, and, all rising, stood with uncovered heads.

"Will you recite the prayer, Uncle Bartolo," said the widower.

Uncle Bartolo repeated the Angelus, adding a Paternoster for the deceased. And now the grief of the sobbing child in the corner broke forth in bitter crying.

"Stop that, Lucas!" said his father. "You have been going on in that way, hic! hic! like an old woman, for two days. You ought to have gone into the women's room. Let me hear you crying again! You understand?"

"Let me tell _you_, Juan Garcia," said Uncle Bartolo, "that you are the first man I ever heard rebuke the tears of a son for his mother! You see me, with my years, my beard, and my guerilla life; well, I remember mine, and weep for her still!

"But, uncle, 'frown, and frown again, of a bad son makes a good one.' Lucas here is a regular _Marcia Fernandez_,[180] brought up in the folds of his mother's skirts. I must teach him that men resist, and do not allow themselves to be overcome by tribulations."

Uncle Bartolo shook his head. "Time and not ointment will cure the patient. If you had died, his mother would not have been the one to rebuke your son for the tears he shed over you."

* * * * *

Juan Garcia continued his former life, abandoning himself with more liberty to the wicked woman of whom the friends of his dead wife had spoken at the _condolement_. She was called _La Leona_ in allusion to her native island of Leon, where she had married a sergeant, who was afterward sent to serve in America. Like all bad women, _La Leona_ was much worse than men of the same class, inasmuch as, in the subtle organization of woman, the delicacy that is given to her for good turns into a refinement of evil, and her instinctive penetration into malignant sagacity. Not satisfied with having attracted to herself Juan Garcia, who possessed a small patrimony, _La Leona_, impelled by the bitter envy which a lost woman feels toward one who is honest, undertook to render him indifferent to his wife, and succeeded not only in this, but also in causing him to ill-treat and abandon her. Juan Garcia was a weak man, easily subjugated by those who knew how to obtain an influence over him, and, by way of compensating himself for this complaisance, very obstinate and overbearing in his treatment of others. By degrees, it came to pass that his mistress would not receive him with favor unless he brought her, as an offering, the relation of some act of coldness or cruelty to the victim whose only crime was that of affording, by her right, and by her silent and prudent endurance, the most patent condemnation of the conduct of these two, a condemnation all the more ignominious because of the great purity of manners which prevails in country places. And in order to gain our assertion credit with those who are disposed to accuse us of partiality for the country people, we hasten to say that this purity may naturally be attributed to the wholesome influence of labor, which, in putting indolence to flight, puts to flight with it the vices it generates, and to the blessed poverty, which, being without the means of satisfying them, hinders their birth. Having convinced utilitarians with these reasons, we will add to them others of our own; namely, the salutary ideas of morality and rooted principles of honor that many centuries of Catholicism have fixed in the hearts of these people--principles renewed, in each successive generation, by the unchanging zeal that is the property of religion, and that never wearies or grows lukewarm.

Like all other general rules, the above has its exceptions. Juan Garcia furnished one. His unkindness, united with the grief and shame his conduct caused her, had certainly hastened the death of poor Ana, whose last act of affection as a wife, and duty as a Christian, had been to forgive him. Alas! the soul of the husband was so deeply mired that even this saintly death could awaken in it neither pity nor remorse. Not that he was utterly perverse, but his eyes, like those of many another in this world of error, were covered by one of those veils which must fall on the day of God's judgment, when the light of truth will be the first punishment that awaits the willingly blind.

His boy and girl remained orphaned and neglected, and would have been entirely forsaken but for that active charity which makes women constitute themselves fervent protectors of the helpless and severe judges of the wrong-doer. The wives of Juan's neighbors took care of the children, and obliged him to feed and clothe them, freely casting in his face his evil conduct, while, with imperturbable coolness, they prescribed to him his obligations.

Ah charity!--some proclaim and others comprehend thee; some would guide thee, and thou guidest others! Why art thou not found in the palaces that philanthropy builds for thee? Why dost thou appear in all thy brightness in the dwellings of the poor, delighting thyself with the widow's farthing? It is because thou wilt be queen and not a slave!

The children could not be consoled for the death of their mother. Isolated as they were, all the sentiments of their hearts became converted into love for each other, and sorrow for their loss.

Lucas, however, who was five years older than his sister, did his best to enliven and distract her.

"Don't cry so, Lucia," he said to her one night, not long after the _condolement_. "Mother will not come back for crying, and you make me cry. What shall I do to amuse you?"

The child made no answer.

"Shall I sing you a romance?"

Lucia inclined her head in token of assent, and the boy sang in his clear, sweet voice the following ballad:

Holy Saviour of La Luz, Teach a child's tongue how to tell A thing that happened in Seville, Right, and worthily, and well. Of a mother who lived there, And two daughters that she had; One was humble, mild, and good, The other one was proud and bad. They marry with two brothers, Who are brothers but in name-- Under the same roof nurtured, But in nothing else the same. The younger sells his portion, And loses the whole in play; The elder follows the plough, And works in his field all day. Then the younger dies, and leaves His wife, all alone and poor; Her children weep for bread, And she seeks her sister's door, Praying, "In God's name, sister, And for his sweet Mother's sake, Give my little children bread, And his word in payment take." "Go, Mary," cries the sister, "Beggar, take yourself away! Was my lot better than yours Upon our wedding-day?" Weeping and broken-hearted, The poor mother turns again; To know her cause of sorrow The neighbors ask in vain. Of the parlor of her house She had made a room for prayer To our Lady of the Beads: And now she enters there, And, with her little children, Before the altar falls Of our sweet princess Mary, And on her name she calls. Now, homeward in the evening The good brother turns his feet; Finds table spread and waiting, And he sits him down to eat. He takes a loaf and breaks it, But throws it away again, For blood runs out of the bread, On his hand he sees the stain. Then he takes and breaks another, But still the red blood falls-- "Oh! what is this?" astonished, To his trembling wife he calls. "Tell me, I say! what is it?" For to tell she is afraid: "In vain to me, this morning. For bread my sister prayed!" "And she that, without pity, To a sister refuses bread, To God's Mother doth refuse it," Then the angry husband said. Six loaves the young man gathered, And in haste to the abode Of his sister and her children He straightway took the road. The window-shutters were closed, And locked were windows and doors; But the gleam of many lights Shone out through the apertures-- Shone on six angels of God, All kneeling upon the floor Round six bodies of mother and children That would never hunger more. "Farewell, my soul's dear sister, And sweet nephews of my heart! Though gold I have, and plenty, I would gladly give my part For yours in the blessed country Where sorrow is all forgot, And the labor of life exchanged For the eternal better lot!"

"And did she let her sister starve to death?" asked the child, her eyes refilling from her already surcharged heart.

"Yes, yes; she was a good-for-nothing; but don't cry, Lucia, a story isn't a thing that ever happened."

"If it had never happened, they would not have put it in the romance," said the little girl.

"They made it up," replied Lucas. "Don't you believe it, dear. When I am a man and can earn, the least piece of bread I may have, I must divide with my heart's little sister. You know that before mother died she put you in my care, and I made her a promise never to forsake you."

"And will you keep it?"

"So may God give me his glory!"

"And if you ever forget it, I am to sing you this romance, to put you in mind of what you say now."

"That is so; you must learn it." And the boy set himself to teach his sister the romance.

TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[160] A house sometimes contains two or three suites of apartments for distinct families. Each one forms a habitation.

[161] 28th of August, St. Augustine; 4th of October, St. Francis.

[162] _La Leona_, the lioness.

[163] _Azacan_, water-carrier, said of a servant or very laborious person.

[164] _Los Usias_, the You Sirs. That is to say, grand folks that must be treated to the _Usted_ (you), instead of the _tu_ (thou) of common people.

[165] _Jabeque_, a clumsy three-masted vessel used in the Mediterranean.

[166] Arturo.

[167] Magpie.

[168] A common dish on the tables of the country people.

[169] Offscouring.

[170] Partisans, or party.

[171] The patron of Spain.

[172] Brigands.

[173] To have misgivings as to the result of anything.

[174] _Tactica_, tactics.

[175] _Mala_, bad; _parte_, part; name given by the Spanish soldiers to Bonaparte.

[176] Murat, Duke of Berg.

[177] _Funesto._ Nickname given by the Spanish soldiers to Junot.

[178] One who asks alms for charitable purposes.

[179] Rob the saints.

[180] A girl-boy.

THE GOOD GERARD OF COLOGNE.

BY RUDOLF OF EMS, VASSAL AT MONTFORT (THIRTEENTH CENTURY).

COMPILED AFTER THE GERMAN OF CARL SIMROCK.

I.

In the new cathedral at Magdeburg the bells were ringing for the first time. A large crowd gathered to witness the consecration of the church, founded and richly endowed by the Emperor Otto the Great. He went up the aisle before all the people, not, as was then the custom, to lay down gifts at the new altar of God, but, with erect brow, he stood, and thus he spoke: "There is no gift in my hand for thee, O Lord; but when I lift up my eyes, whatever I behold around me is my gift to thee! This church I built for the glory of thy name, and I endowed it and made it so great that the sons of kings think it an honor to bow to its prince-bishop, and serve him. The heathen that troubled thy people, see I conquered them with my strong arm--the Wends, the Sarbs, and the Hungarians, they bowed their heads to my sword, and their knees to thy glory; and I made thy name great in all the pagan lands, and erected churches and bishoprics to thy honor. And now show me to-day, O my Lord, that thou hast seen my foot going in thy path, thou, who wilt give glory from heaven to him who spreads thy glory on earth." Thus the emperor spoke before all the people. And lo! a voice sounded from heaven as the voice of an angel in anger, and it spoke with a voice like thunder rolling in the mountains: "Otto, king on earth, see, the King in heaven had put a chair by his side for thee to sit upon it, and thou hast despised it in thy vanity; he had prepared for thee a crown of glory, and thou hast taken the crown of pride that made angels fall. He has heard with little pleasure the thoughts of thy heart, that asks for the highest place. Know, that place is for him who most serves God in humility and purity of heart; that is, for the good Gerard, the merchant in Cologne, whose name is written in the book of life. And now go and learn from him what is agreeable to God, and then confess that thy glory is vain and thy doing but little. But know, that not readily will he speak to thee; well would he lay down his life rather than let the fame of his righteousness sound up to God by words from his own mouth." When Otto had heard this, he bowed his head in shame and was humbled. He mounted his good horse, and with three of his knights rode over to Cologne. Among the citizens who came to greet their emperor in the vast hall, Otto saw one, a tall man with a long white beard and the step of a youth; and when he asked the bishop who sat by his side who that man was, he received in answer: "That is the good Gerard, the richest merchant in Cologne." Then the emperor spoke to all the assembled people: "I came here to ask your advice, as I am in great need of it. But I was counselled, and even commanded, not to speak but to one of you, and for that one I choose thee, O Gerard! Thou seemest to me rich in wisdom and experience." And Gerard answered, bowing before the emperor: "Shall I go alone to give my advice, while there are so many worthier ones here?" But all the people said: "O king! thy choice is good; there is no one in this hall his equal in wisdom." So the emperor took Gerard by the hand, and led him to a chamber near by, and locked the door after him, and they sat down on one couch, Gerard by Otto's side. Then Otto said: "Gerard, it was to see thee that I came here; pray tell me, how did it happen that the name 'Good' was given to thee? I would fain like to know." "O great king!" answered Gerard, "I do not know myself what that means; there are so many Gerards here; people only gave me that name to distinguish me from them." "Gerard, thou art deceiving me!" the emperor called out; but Gerard answered: "Oh! no, great king, I should deceive thee if I spoke otherwise. Never did I merit that name, and it was often a burden to me; because, while the world called me 'the Good,' it reminded me how seldom I did what pleased God. Often do I send the poor man away with a mean gift, whilst God gives me riches; I give him sour beer and black bread, I give him an old gown, whilst many a new one I had, and would not have missed them. I always have liked to go to church where the service was shortest, and when I had once prayed with my whole soul, I thought that would do for half a year. Therefore, O king! do not ask me what I have done to deserve that high name." The emperor said: "Gerard, thou must give me a better answer, for I have sure knowledge that thou hast done a great deed for God's sake, and I came to hear the account of it from thy own mouth; therefore speak!" "Oh! spare me," called out the good man, "spare me, most gracious king!" But Otto replied: "No, no! thou only awakenest my impatience, and I tell thee thou must yield to me at the end, if even much against thy will!" Then prayed the good man in his heart: "O God! look at thy servant! My king is angry with me, and I cannot resist him any longer. So if I reckon with thee, O Lord! and praise myself for the little good I ever did, do not thou turn away thy grace from me, for what I say, I do it much against my will." And presently he threw himself at the emperor's feet, saying: "Ten thousand pounds of silver I have in my cellar, take it and spare me the answer!" "Gerard," said the rich emperor, "I thought thou wert wiser. Such a speech only excites my curiosity. And I will tell thee, thou canst reveal me everything, and it will be no sin to thee--so I swear before God." Then the good Gerard said, arising from his knees, and sitting down: "God knows my heart; he knows that, when I do now as my king commands me to do, my heart is full of grief, and vanity is far from it."

II.

THE GOOD GERARD'S STORY.

"When my father died, he left no small fortune to me, his only heir. But as I was a merchant, I thought to double and double again my possessions, and cause my son to be called 'the rich Gerard,' as his fathers had been called before him. So I left him such fortune as would be full enough for him, and took all the rest, fifty thousand pounds of silver, and carried it to my ship, together with food for three years' voyage. Experienced sailors were in my pay, and my clerk was with me, to write my accounts and read my prayers. So I went to Russia, where I found sables in profusion, and to Prussia's rich amber strand, and from there, by the Sea of the Middle, to the East, and there I took in exchange silk and woven goods from Damax and Ninive; and well I thought a threefold gain should be mine. Then my heart began to long for wife and child, and with great joy I told the mariners to turn the ship homeward. But a storm arose, and water and wind were fighting for twelve days and twelve nights, and threw my ship to an unknown land, where a beach gave us shelter. When the sun shone again, and the sky looked clear, I saw villages and hamlets and fertile fields as far as my eyes could reach, and near the sea a large city with pinnacles and high walls. We went to the port, and I found it full of merchandise, a rich and stately place, not unlike the old Cologne. I went on land, for I saw the governor of the city coming to view the goods in the port, and many a knight and vassal rode by his side; and I thought to go up to him and ask his protection. But when I came near him, he approached me with a quick step, and, greeting me with his hand, he thus spake: 'Welcome the first one who comes to my market! Thou art my guest, stranger! I see thou comest from far off, perhaps from the land of the Christians, who seldom come here, in false fear that I would harm them. But be of good cheer! I do not harm the merchant, nor need I covet his goods, for my land is rich, and all the gold and precious stones that it has in its mountains are mine, and the pearls in the sea, and many a rich vessel that the storm throws on our coast.' Well was I astonished at such a greeting; but I accepted gladly; and the governor, Stranamur by name, gave me the best house, and took care of me that nothing might harm me. Again and again did he show me his love, and soon friendship and confidence reigned between us. Presently, he wanted me to show him the treasures of my ship, and I let it be done readily. I saw him wonder at their splendor, and with good cheer he said: 'Gerard, I tell thee, thou hast brought riches to this land so great that nobody can buy them. But I will show thee my treasure now, and then, if it so please thee, we will exchange; for in this land my treasure is of no value, while in the land of the Christians it might bring thee at least a twentyfold gain.' And I answered: 'To seek gain is the merchant's duty. I did show thee my treasure; now let me see thine.' Then my host led me by the hand to a hall, and as I entered with a cheerful mind, hoping to behold the riches of India, gold and spices, I found the place all empty of joy and filled with but misery. Twelve young knights were lying here in chains so heavy that their weight pulled them down to the low couches, and, though grief and want had disfigured their beauty, I saw they were of noble blood and sons of high lords, born to govern the world. Then my host beckoned me to the next hall, where I found again twelve knights in chains, but old and pale, with venerable figure, and hair and beard silver-white. Then my host led me away by the hand to the third hall, and said: 'Behold my most precious goods!' Well, I found there goods great in riches and beauty, for fifteen lovely maidens were what he called the precious merchandise. And my heart pained me as I beheld them, for their loveliness and gentle mind shone amid the prison walls like stars in the night; and I saw one like their queen, a moon among the stars. But Stranamur led me away and said: 'Thou didst behold my goods; shall we exchange? Thou mayest easily get a rich ransom for each of them, more than one hundred thousand pounds of silver. In England they were born; William, their king, sent them over to Norway to bring him home his bride, King Reinemund's daughter, Irene, whom thou hast seen. Coming home, a storm threw them on my coast, and so they were mine by right, for after the custom of this land the strand is mine. And I offer these knights to thee, together with the fifteen maidens, that thou mayest give me the treasures I saw on thy ship.' I had good reason to be astonished at such an offer, for I saw clearly it would be giving my goods for mere blanks, and so I asked the governor to let me please consider till the next morning. And when I came to my house I sat down thinking, and though my heart told me to help the prisoners in their misery, there was a voice in my mind saying: 'Do not give away the earnings of thy life for a mere idea'; and well would I have passed that night without coming to an end, if God in his goodness and grace had not given his advice in my heart. For I fell asleep, and in my sleep I heard a voice of God's angel, who spoke to me these words: 'Awake, Gerard, God's anger is calling thee! Did he not say in his mercy, "What thou givest to the poorest of my brethren, thou givest unto me"? What thou givest to the needy ones, thou lendest to the Lord; and doubt in him is great sin to thee!' Then I awoke and fell on my knees, and thanked God that he had given me shame and repentance in my heart, and humbled me so as to save me from sin. The next morning my host met me at the gate, and with anxiety he asked what it was my wish to do. And I answered: 'I am willing to make exchange with thee, O Stranamur! if thou allowest me one thing: give back to the prisoners their ship and all they brought on it, and give them food and mariners, and whatever they need to go home.' And the governor answered: 'Dost thou think me a thief, O Gerard? I thought, friend, thou knewest me better. Not one penny's worth will I keep from the prisoners, and theirs shall be whatever is needed for a safe and speedy voyage.' After that he gave me his hand, and we changed thus mine and thine. Then the prisoners were told of what had happened, and they were clothed as became them, and refreshed, and when they beheld me, their thanks and tears were such that my eyes overflowed, even against my will. And I saw the women's great beauty, and Irene their queen, and though the earthly crown was taken from her, there was the crown of beauty and loveliness on her brow. Then my clerk read prayers, and we went to sea; the right wind blew in our sails, and bore us quickly outward. When we came near the coast of England, I spoke to the knights: 'Tell me, who of you were born in England, that they may go on their way home now.' And they answered: 'From Norway only came Queen Irene with two of her maidens; all the rest of us were born in England.' I said to the knights: 'Go home, then, with my blessings, noble lords! and if I did what pleased you, think of me with a friendly heart. Let King William know, and also Reinemund of Norway, that Queen Irene is in my house and under my protection, and that I am ready and willing to give her up whenever they claim her. When I send my messengers to you, pay them back, O knights! what I left for your sake in the strange land of the heathen, if it so is convenient to you. Then they thanked me so that I had to hide from their embraces; and we parted with many tears; and they went their way, I mine.

"Soon I was home again. My wife and son welcomed me gladly and with thanksgivings, and after I had told them all, they led Irene to my house. And Queen Irene lived in my house like one of us for many a month, and my wife loved her, and all the women of my household and friendship, and she taught them many a fine art, such as to embroider with gold and thread of silver and pearl. And God gave his blessing to my trade, and I prospered. But every day, Irene's loveliness grew more lovely, and when I saw her so gentle and smiling, I forgot my losses, and my joy was greater than seventy-fold gain would have made it. So passed a year, and no message came from Reinemund, nor from William, the King of England, and I beheld with sorrow that my queen's mind was grieved, though she hid her tears from our eyes. That I took to my heart, and said to myself, 'I bought our sweet queen free from great pain, and now I must see her in greater grief. There is no one here kindred to her, and, when I am gone, who is there to be her friend and protector? King William is dead, and so is Reinemund, the King of Norway, and Irene, their queen, will die of grief for them! Therefore I spoke to her one day, and I asked her to listen graciously, and then I said thus: 'Thou must know, O queen! that there is nothing that gives me so much trouble than the thought what one day shall become of thee when I am no more. It is clear now, sorry as I am for it, that thy friends are dead, therefore, I think it our duty to counsel wisely what is best for thy future, O queen! As he is considered a wise man who tries to forget what fortune took from him, so I advise thee, O my daughter! to choose for a husband one from among my family, that is, my son, as whose wife honor and ample fortune will not be wanting to thee.' At that, Irene answered and spoke to me: 'O dear father! I know me no better adviser than thee in this world; so I will do whatever pleases thee. Only let me wait one year longer; if till then no tidings have come from any friends and kindred, thy wish shall be mine!' But the year was soon past, and no tidings had reached us, neither from England nor from Norway; and so Irene the queen was to be the merchant's wife. I ordered the wedding to be prepared with the greatest splendor, and my mind's only thought was to boast with my riches; and I asked to the feast many a rich merchant, and nobles and dukes, and our prince the bishop. So when Pentecost came, that was to be the day of the wedding, the bishop stood up before the altar, and eleven noble squires knelt down before him, and the twelfth one, who was Gerard my son, and the bishop blessed their swords, and they arose as noble lords and knights. My eye rested on him, and I saw he was happy; he broke his lance in honor of his bride; he watched for the bell that should call him again to the altar of God, there to receive Irene as his wife: what could there be to make his happiness greater and to hinder him from drinking the cup of bliss? But lo, I beheld one standing far aside, a stranger with a pale face and his eyes full of tears; he gazed at Irene, my daughter, and he shuddered, and his arm was around a column that he might not fall. He was a young man of great beauty, and his skin was fine and white, but his beard gray, and his dress that of a beggar. As I saw him so full of woe and tears, I went up to him, and I asked him the cause of his grief, that perhaps I might give help and make joy and happiness come back to his mind. But he would not speak. At last, as I pressed him very much, he said to me these words: 'Such as thou doest see me here with my hair gray before the time, I am William, King of England. I went to sea to meet my bride coming from Norway, where I had sent twelve maidens and twenty-four knights to escort her over to me. But a storm arose and threw my ship against the rocks while I was already in sight of them, the tempest carried me to the shore and I was thus saved, but not a word I ever heard of the knights, or the maidens, or of Irene my bride, the King of Norway's daughter. For years and years I have wandered about in search of her, with my heart full of despair and my hair and beard gray, till at last I found her to-day, the bride of another man. What shall I tell thee more? My soul and body are hers whom I love, and for her sake I will now give them up into death!' When I heard these words from my guest, him who destroyed all my joys, I said unto him: 'The Lord has done great things; honor and fortune he might still give thee back; wait here awhile, and be of good cheer!' And I sent my valet to him, to attend to all his needs and wants, but I went to my prince the bishop and told him the wonder God had shown to us, and asked him to help me with my son Gerard and teach him a Christian's duty. So I called my son away from the side of his bride, and after he had heard the tale, so full of marvel, the bishop asked him: 'Wilt thou then separate, Gerard, what before God is united?' Then he answered us, and he said: 'What do you think of me? Shall I give up my love and happiness and rest and peace?' But the bishop spoke: 'Yes, my son, thou shalt!' And my child began to cry at these words, and I cried with him, and he put his arms around my neck and said, 'My father, then let it be so!' and my heart felt joy at these words. Shall I tell thee what my heart felt when I saw King William greet his bride? I am old as thou art, O emperor! but I know not without jealousy thou wouldst have beheld it. And in my heart I thanked the God of goodness who had given so wise counsel in my mind that my blessings now were greater than what gold or silver could ever have bought for me. After that I filled my ship and took them over to England, and great was the joy of the four-and-twenty knights on beholding their king and queen, and of the whole people, and great were their thanks to me, and only with great pain could I hinder them from bestowing all their riches on me, and making me a prince and a great man among them. But I will not repeat to thee all they meant to do to me, and the praises they gave me; for God knows, in all my life I cannot deserve them. And when I came home, the people made much of me, and called me 'the good'; though thou knowest now, as well as I do, that I am not good. It was only by the angel's voice that my doubts were taken, from me; I was full of fear to lose my goods, and weak. Besides, I am a sinner and am proud and vain, so that I have been praising myself before thee, O emperor! while, couldst thou see my heart, many a fault thou wouldst observe within."

III.

Before Gerard had finished speaking, the emperor's heart grew large within him and made his eyes overflow; for tears are a blessing which God sends from heaven. He felt shame and repentance, and these two re-created his heart, and his mind was healed from all false glory. And he said: "Gerard, I tell thee, better a good deal than silence is what thou hast made known to me; for my heart was sick with vainglory, and pride overgrew the good deed. I had built a great house to the Lord, and the thought of that poisoned my heart, so that it asked for reward. But what I asked has turned against me as a punishment, for no heart is pure that seeks for glory only. When I then praised myself at my good deed, God sent me to thee to learn true humility and charity. Truly thou art good; for thy heart was not moved by the praise of this world. Thou hast given thy goods for poor prisoners, thou hast taken the wife from thy son, and refused the riches of England in humility and charity, only for the sake of the Lord thy God. Well, my ride to thee has brought me benefit. But thou, O Gerard! pray the Lord to have mercy upon him that prides in vainglory; pray for thy emperor to our God in heaven."

EGYPTIAN CIVILIZATION ACCORDING TO THE MOST RECENT DISCOVERIES.

FROM THE CORRESPONDANT.

PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS ON THE ANTIQUITY OF EGYPTIAN CIVILIZATION.

The most striking fact respecting the Egyptian monarchy is its antiquity. "Forty centuries look down upon you from these pyramids," were the sublime words of Bonaparte; but they do not express enough. The progress of archæological science shows that the reign of the Pharaohs began more than three thousand years before Christ. M. Bunsen gives the date as 4245 B.C., and M. Mariette 5004, but with some qualifications that should be mentioned. "Egyptian chronology," says he, "presents difficulties which no one, as yet, has surmounted.... To all dates before the time of Psammetichus I. (665 B.C.), it is impossible to give anything but approximations, which become more and more uncertain as we recede.... This uncertainty increases in proportion as we go back from the present age; so that, according to the methods of computation, there may be two thousand years' difference in assigning the date of the Egyptian monarchy."[181]

While fully admitting the reasonable qualifications of the learned director of the Egyptian antiquities, it is no less certain, from the discoveries already made, that the reign of the Pharaohs extends back about thirty centuries before the Christian era.

Another characteristic of this ancient nation, which is no less remarkable, is that it manifests all the signs of civilization from the beginning. "It is a phenomenon worthy of the most serious attention," says Champollion-Figeac, "that Egypt possessed in those remote ages all the civil, religious, and military institutions indispensable to the prosperity of a great nation, and all the enjoyments resulting from the perfection of the arts, the advantages assured by the authority of the civil and religious laws, the culture of the sciences, and a profound sentiment of the dignity and destination of man."[182]

"Egyptian civilization manifests itself to us fully developed from the earliest ages, and succeeding ones, however numerous, taught it little more,"[183] says M. Mariette.

"What is most extraordinary about this mysterious civilization is that it had no infancy.... Egypt, in this respect as in so many others, is an exception to the laws to which the Indo-European and Semitic races have accustomed us. It does not begin with myths, heroic exploits, and barbarism."[184] The author we have just quoted sought in vain, with all his mind and learning, for the cause of this strange phenomenon. "Egypt," says he, "is another China, mature and almost decrepit from its birth, and in its monuments and history there is something at once childlike and old."

This ingenious explanation excites a smile, but not conviction. Rather than admit revelation--that is to say, the intervention of the divine agency in the creation of man and the formation of primitive nations--many learned men of our day prefer to take refuge in the most singular and inadmissible theories. According to them, human society must "commence with myths and barbarism," and man himself with the savage nature of the brutes. But they are forced to acknowledge that Egypt is a decided exception to this theory.

"The gigantic labors of the Suez Canal in removing the immense accumulations of sand, so often amassed as if to preserve the past history of the world, have not revealed a single vestige of uncivilized men who, before the deluge, were scattered over the rest of the earth."[185]

To resolve the problem of ancient Egyptian civilization, we propose an explanation more conformable to the traditions and the dignity of the human race. It is true, this explanation is not new, for it was evident to the sages of pagan times a long time before it was fully unfolded by Christian philosophers. Socrates taught that "the ancients, better than we and nearer the gods, had transmitted by tradition the sublime knowledge they had received from them." Plato adds that "the earliest of mankind, issuing from the hands of the gods, must have known them as well as we know our own fathers, and that it is truly impossible not to believe the testimony of the children of the gods."

What the wise men of Greece perceived through the thick veil of paganism, we behold clearly by the light of Christianity and the Holy Scriptures. It seems to us a simple thing to believe that the Egyptian nation, the first founded, not many centuries after the deluge, must have been organized according to the principles of the national law of which the descendants of Noah had not yet lost the tradition. "If we believe in the truth of the Scriptural accounts," says an illustrious promoter of social reforms in England,[186] "we must also believe that when the families descended from Ham and Japheth began their long migrations, they bore with them the religious traditions they possessed in common with the children of Shem.

"As to those who will not accept the testimony of the book which, to give it the most unpretending of its august titles, is the most ancient and most venerable document of human history, we could reply that the reasoning still remains the same. The progress of ethnological and philological researches furnishes us with evident proofs of a continued migration of the Touranian and Aryan races towards the north and west from places necessarily undefined, but certainly from the vicinity of the nomad patriarchs. On the other hand, nothing shows that their traditions have a different source from that given in the Book of Genesis--the three divisions of Noah's family. If, then, everything seems to demonstrate the intimate connection of these primitive races with the Semitic tribes, how could the descendants of Ham and Japheth have left behind the irreligious traditions when, for the first time, they left their brethren?"

The descendants of Ham, ancestors of the first Egyptians, doubtless preserved, with their religious traditions, the moral principles that guarantee the existence and perpetuity of domestic life, and the notions of the arts indispensable to its comfort. "With the human race," says Bossuet, "Noah preserved the arts; not only those necessary to life which man knew from the beginning, but those subsequently invented. The first arts which man learned, apparently from his Creator, were agriculture, the duties of pastoral life, the fabrication of clothing, and perhaps the construction of habitations. Therefore we do not see the rudiments of these arts in the East, in those regions whence the human race was dispersed. This is why everything springs from those lands, always inhabited, where the fundamental arts remained. The knowledge of God and memories of creation are there preserved."[187]

The ruins of the Tower of Babel still show to what a degree of advancement the art of building had arrived, and the details given us in the Bible about the construction of the ark display an amount of nautical knowledge which must have been transmitted to the skilful boatmen of the Nile and the bold navigators of ancient Phœnicia.

We will not extend these preliminary observations, which we think throw sufficient light on the origin of Egyptian civilization, the incontestable antiquity of which is as enigmatical as that of the Sphynx to the astonished eyes of the modern Œdipus. A truly learned man, who shows himself by his _conférences_ in the Rue Bonaparte thoroughly conversant with the discoveries of contemporaneous Egyptology, and who is not ashamed to seek light from revelation as well as from science, has resolved the problem in the following terms: "There is not, in the first ages of the Egyptian monarchy, the least trace of the rude beginnings of a nation in its infancy. Indeed, we should not forget that this country never passed through the savage state, and that, if the truths revealed to the patriarchs were adulterated by the race of Ham, they still retained sufficient light not to remain satisfied with material enjoyments alone."[188]

Let us now endeavor to penetrate, by the light of these principles, as far as we can into the labyrinth of Egyptian antiquities.

* * * * *

BOOK FIRST.

THE SOCIAL ORGANIZATION.

I.

DOMESTIC REGULATIONS.

The institutions which are the safeguards of family life and of property are essential to society and the perpetuity of a nation, and these foundations of the social life seem to have been as firmly established among the ancient Egyptians as their own pyramids. The sacredness of the family tie was the result of unity of marriage and respect to parents, and its perpetuity was assured by the rights of primogeniture, which were universally admitted from the royal family down to that of the most humble laborer. This was the fundamental principle of family life and of society. Therefore we see Pharaoh in the Holy Scriptures resist all the plagues God sent upon Egypt for the deliverance of the Israelites; but when the first-born of the Egyptians were smitten in one night, the king yielded at once, for the whole nation felt that a blow had been given to the very source of its existence.

The Egyptian monuments of every age prove that the paternal authority was universally regarded with great respect. On a great number of stelæ collected by M. Mariette in the museum of Boulak are these words:

"Oblation in honor of the head of the house." (Here follows the name.)

"The religious laws of Egypt obliged families on certain days in the year to present offerings to deceased parents. One stela, consecrated to the memory of Entef, who lived at the beginning of the twelfth dynasty, is only a representation of one of these festivals. Entef is seated beside his wife. His sons and daughters present themselves before him. Some are saying the prescribed prayers; others bringing food and perfumes. The last scene depicted is interesting from the variety of representations. Besides parts of animals already sacrificed, the servants are bringing live animals."[189]

We may judge of the sentiments of the ancient Egyptians with regard to paternal authority by the following passages from an ancient document, the authenticity of which has never been contested:

"The son who receives his father's advice will live to be old. Beloved by God is obedience. Disobedience is hated by God. The obedience of a son to his father is a joy,... he is beloved by his father, and his renown is on the lips of the living who walk the earth. The rebellious son sees knowledge in ignorance, and virtue in vice; he daily commits all kinds of frauds with impunity, and lives thereby as if he were dead. What wise men consider death is his daily life. He keeps on his way laden with maledictions. A son docile in the service of God will be happy in consequence of his obedience...."[190]

We cannot help recognizing in this precious document the moral ideas of primitive times, the tradition of which is so faithfully preserved in the Bible. The fourth precept of the Decalogue is found here almost literally: "Honor thy father and thy mother, that thou mayest be long-lived upon the land."

Upon a mortuary stela described by M. Mariette in his _Notice du Musée de Boulaq_ (No. 44, p. 72), Maï, the defunct, is seen receiving the homage of the members of his family. "One of the sons of Maï is called Men-Nefer. For some unknown reason, his name is erased from the list of the family, and, in fact, his whole image is hammered down. Another son likewise incurred this mark of infamy, which is only given to the proper name of the personage."

Respect to parents naturally leads to that for the aged. "The Egyptians have this custom in common with the Lacedæmonians," says Herodotus; "young men, when they meet their elders, turn aside for them to pass; at their approach they rise from their seats."

The obligations of parents towards their children were strictly enjoined in ancient Egypt, as is evident from a curious passage from Diodorus, which, at the same time, shows how the manners and laws favored the fecundity of marriage, the only source of a robust and numerous population:

"Parents are obliged to rear all their offspring in order to increase the population, which is regarded as the chief source of the prosperity of a kingdom.... They provide for the support of their children at little expense, and with incredible frugality. They give them very simple food: the stems of the papyrus which can be roasted, roots and stems of palustrine plants, sometimes raw, sometimes boiled and roasted, and as all children go unshod in that temperate climate, the parents do not estimate the expense of a child before the age of puberty to be more than twenty drachmæ (a little less than twenty francs).

"The children of the common people are taught the trade of their parents, which they are to practise for life, as we have remarked. Those who are initiated into the arts are alone charged with teaching others to read."

So simple and natural a system of education must have singularly favored the fruitfulness of marriage among the masses, and the number of children was not less among the aristocracy. We see from the simplest monuments, where the funeral honors rendered to the head of a family by all his children are painted on a wood panel, or sculptured on a slab of calcareous stone, that their number, including both sexes, amounted to eight or a dozen, or even more, and the more elaborate monuments, indicating distinguished families and the upper classes, render the same testimony as to the large number of children in each family--as in the sculpture at Thebes, which gives a list of nine male children of Rameses Meiamoun, and a greater number of daughters. In this respect the ancient Egyptian nation differed from people of modern times.[191]

The inequality that weighed so heavily upon woman among ancient nations is not found in Egypt. "Women, on the contrary," says M. Mariette, "held a prominent position in a family. The rights they inherited were not absorbed in those of their husbands, and they were transmitted intact to their children. At certain epochs, the family monuments often named the mother to the exclusion of the father. In the inscriptions of the ancient empire, conjugal affection is frequently expressed in a delicate and touching manner." And it has been remarked, and with reason, that the women who played a great _rôle_ in the history of the ancient dynasties enjoyed in private life a liberty of action quite foreign to the manners of most Oriental nations.[192]

"It is by the social position of woman," says M. de Bonald, "that we can always determine the nature of the political institutions of a people. In Egypt, where we find the type of the social organization, the law submitted the husband to his wife in honor of Isis, which means that this dependence was inspired by religion and morals, rather than commanded by law. Neither divorce nor polygamy was known there."[193]

The elevated condition of woman in Egypt is attested by the monuments, which show her sharing with her husband in the direction of the family.[194]

Champollion-Figeac has given us curious details respecting the private customs of wealthy families, the garb and toilet of the women and children, and the peculiar characteristics of the Egyptian race:

"The head was habitually uncovered; the hair curled or plaited; a woollen mantle was sometimes worn over the tunic, and laid aside when they entered the temples. The women, besides the tunic, wore ample vestments of linen or cotton, with large sleeves, plain or striped, white, or of some uniform color. Their hair was artistically arranged. Their heads were ornamented with bandeaux, and their ears and hands with rings. A light slipper was worn on the feet. They went out with uncovered faces, accompanied by some of the numerous female servants of the house. Dressed also in ample robes of striped cloth, these servants had their hair braided and hanging down over the shoulders. They also wore a large apron, like their dress, with no jewels or other ornaments, and held themselves in a respectful posture in the presence of the lady of the house. Girls issuing from childhood were dressed like their mothers, with the exception of the ornaments of the head, and children of both sexes wore ear-rings as their only ornament (or dress) for the first five or six years.

"They were a fine race, tall in stature, generally somewhat slender, and long-lived, as is proved by the sepulchral inscriptions of those over eighty years of age. But exceptions to these general statements are found among the Egyptians as among other nations. We only make a general statement of the principal features of their physical nature, according to the monuments, in accord with historical accounts. Herodotus, who saw Egypt before its complete decadence, declares that, next to the Lybians, the Egyptians were the healthiest of people. The great number of mummies of men and women which have been opened corroborate this testimony."[195]

Bossuet, in his _Discours sur l'Histoire universelle_, gives a bold sketch of the physiognomy of the Egyptians, and shows the result of their manly training: "These wise Egyptians," says he, "studied the regimen that produces solid minds, robust bodies, fruitful women, and vigorous children. Consequently, the people increased in number and strength. The country was naturally healthy, but philosophy taught them that nature wishes to be aided. There is an art of forming the body as well as the mind.[196] This art, which we have lost through our indifference, was well known to the ancients, and Egypt acquired it. For this laudable end, the inhabitants had recourse to exercise and frugality.... Races on foot, horseback, and in chariots were practised with admirable skill in Egypt. There were not finer horsemen in the world than the Egyptians.

"When Diodorus tells us they rejected wrestling as giving a dangerous and factitious strength, he had reference to the excessive feats of the athletes, which Greece herself, though she crowned the victorious wrestler in her games, disapproved of as unsuitable for free persons; and Diodorus himself informs us that the Mercury of the Egyptians invented the rules as well as the art of forming the body.

"We must similarly modify the statement of the same author respecting music. That which the Egyptians despised, according to him, as tending to lessen courage, was doubtless soft, effeminate music, which only excites to pleasure and false tenderness. For the Egyptians, so far from despising music of an elevated character, whose noble accords exalt the mind and heart, ascribed its invention, according to Diodorus himself, to their Mercury, as well as the gravest of musical instruments.[197]

"Among the varied exercises which formed a part of the military education, and are sculptured on the numerous monuments, are found complete gymnastic rules. Nothing could be more varied than the attitudes and positions of the wrestlers, attacking, defending themselves, receding and advancing by turns, bending down or turning over, rising up again, and triumphing over the opponents by dint of strength, art, and skill. In these exercises the wrestlers only wore a large girdle, that supported and favored their efforts."

A fortunate discovery by M. Mariette enables us to complete the portrait of the Egyptian race. A statue found in the Necropolis of Sakkarah, near Memphis, represents a person standing wearing a plain wig,[198] the arms close to the body. He is walking, with the left leg advanced. "This fine monument," says M. Mariette, "is at once a perfect model of the Fellah of the middle provinces of Egypt and a specimen of the works of art in the ancient kingdom. The person represented is tall and slender, with a small hand, the eyes wide open, the nose short and full, the lips somewhat thick, but pleasant in expression, and the cheeks plump. The breadth of the shoulders is remarkable. The breast is full, but, like the race itself, the hips are small, and the lean and muscular limbs seem formed for racing."

II.

THE CLASSIFICATION OF THE PEOPLE.

The Egyptians, the first to organize a truly civilized society, were divided into distinct classes, in which the occupations of the different families were hereditary. The two dominant classes were the sacerdotal and military. Inferior to them were the agriculturists, shepherds, merchants, artisans, and boatmen, on whom devolved the cultivation of the land, the care of the flocks, commerce, the trades, the means of communication and transportation on the Nile, and the canals that covered the land.[199]

To understand the strength and permanence of this organization, we must revert to its origin. The social institutions of ancient nations in the beginning depended essentially on the family--the foundation of all society. The children were naturally inclined to follow the occupations of their parents. The necessity of providing for their own livelihood as soon as they were able, and the facility of working under the direction of their fathers, induced them to embrace the occupation to which they had been accustomed from infancy. It was thus that not only agriculture, but all the arts, trades, and sciences, became hereditary in the family. Once having a means of subsistence, it was natural to endeavor to preserve it. Identity of interests drew together those who followed the same trades, which led to the formation of corporations united by ties of blood and similarity of pursuits.

The Egyptians were probably the first nation to systematically apply these principles. "They were not allowed," says Bossuet, "to be useless to the country. The law assigned every one his employment, which was transmitted from father to son. They could not have two professions, or change the one they had; but then every employment was honored. There must be some pursuits and some people of a more elevated condition, as eyes are needed in the body, but their brilliancy does not make them despise the feet or the baser parts. Thus, among the Egyptians, the priests and warriors were particularly honored; but all trades, even the lowest, were esteemed. It was considered culpable to despise citizens whose labors, whatever they might be, contributed to the public welfare. By this means all the arts were brought to perfection. The honor which tended to develop them was everywhere manifested, and that was done better to which they had been accustomed and in which they had been experienced from childhood.

"But there was one pursuit common to all--the study of the civil laws and the requirements of religion. Ignorance of religion and of the regulations of the land was inexcusable in any rank. Each profession had its own district. No inconvenience resulted from this, as the country was not extensive, and with so much system the indolent had nowhere to hide themselves."[200]

We recognize the genius of Bossuet in the clear outlines he has drawn of the plan of organized labor, suited to the state of things, as well as the fundamental principles of all society. The respect for family life and tradition, the maintenance of social harmony and the grades of society, the protection of honored labor, are all remembered in this admirable sketch of the political economy of the ancient Egyptians.

But we must not, nevertheless, conclude that professions were rigorously hereditary and the castes unchangeable. Ampère proves the contrary by means of the sepulchral inscriptions discovered in the tombs contemporary with the ancient dynasties. They show, in fact, that a great number of marriages were contracted between persons of different classes. "What destroys the hypotheses of exclusive professions," says that learned academician, "to which each family, and consequently each caste, was supposed to be devoted, is, finding one member of a family in the sacerdotal state, another pursuing the military life, and the remainder engaged in some civil profession."[201]

It is true the monuments, a funereal distinction of the upper classes, never mention the laborer or the artisan; but it is reasonable to believe that, among a people so regularly organized, the different classes were governed by the same laws and customs. In large families, like those of primitive times generally, liberty of vocation easily harmonized with hereditary professions. One alone--that of the swineherd--was rigorously hereditary. Those who pursued this employment were obliged to marry among themselves, on account of the invincible repugnance felt for the unclean animals they had charge of. Herodotus says the Egyptian swineherd alone, of all the nation, could not enter into any temple in the country. No one would marry their daughters or give their children to them in marriage. They could only marry among themselves.

III.

DIVISION OF LANDED PROPERTY.

The law concerning the landed property contributed no less than the hereditary professions to preserve a distinction of classes and the social gradations. "All the land," says Diodorus, speaking of the institutions of ancient Egypt, "is divided into three parts. The first and largest belongs to the priesthood, who are greatly respected by the native population on account of their religious functions as well as for their thorough education. Their revenues are expended for the sacrifices, the maintenance of their subordinates, and their own wants. The Egyptians think the religious ceremonies should not be changed, that they should always be performed by the same functionaries, and that these sovereign counsellors should be above want. In fact, the priests are the chief counsellors of the king, whom they aid by their labors, their advice, and their knowledge. By means of astrology and the inspection of the sacrificial victims, they foretell the future, and they relate useful examples of deeds taken from the sacred books. It is not here as in Greece, where a single man or woman has charge of the sacerdotal functions. In Egypt, those who are occupied in the sacrifices and conduct the worship of the gods are numerous, and they transmit their profession to their descendants. They are exempted from taxes, and they rank next to the king in position and privileges.

"The second part of the land belongs to the king, the revenues of which are employed for the expenses of war and the maintenance of the court. The king rewards merit from his own income, without having recourse to the purse of any private individual.

"The remaining portion of the land belongs to the soldiers and all those who are under command of the military leaders. Strongly attached to their country, on account of the wealth they possess, they brave all the dangers of war to defend it. It is, in fact, absurd to entrust the safety of a nation to men who have no interest in the common welfare. What is especially remarkable, the soldiers, living thus at their ease, increase the population to such a degree that the government is able to dispense with foreign troops. And the children, encouraged by the example of their fathers, eagerly embrace the military life, and are invincible by their bravery and experience."[202]

Diodorus, as is known, was a contemporary of Julius Cæsar and Augustus.

In addition to what Diodorus says of the military class, we will add the following extracts from Herodotus: "Twelve acres of excellent land were given, under the first kings, to each head of a family." (He is speaking of the same class.) And a little further on: "Each soldier possesses twelve acres of land, exempt from taxation."

This distribution of the landed property is similar to that in France in feudal times, and which still exists, to a degree, in England, where the clergy and aristocracy possess the greater part of the land.

The two first classes were exempt from taxation, but the priests were at all the expense of public worship, and, although the royal treasury provided for the expenses of war, the soldiers evidently had to provide, not only their own supplies, and equipment, but also for the expenses of military organization; and, like our ancient noblesse, they alone had the glorious privilege of paying a tribute of blood.

We have not a sufficiently clear knowledge of Egyptian civilization to state the law of succession with certainty, or how the preservation of the patrimony of each family was preserved.

Modern publicists, confounding stability with immovableness, have thought the power of bequeathing property did not exist under the ancient laws of the East. This opinion seems incompatible with the nature of the paternal authority, which was carried to a sovereign degree in the families of primitive times. Does not the Bible represent the patriarch Jacob on his death-bed disinheriting Reuben, the oldest of his twelve sons, and giving his inheritance to Judah? And this scene, so well related in Holy Scripture, took place in Egypt itself. It is true, the descendants of Abraham had preserved the traditions of the patriarchal life more perfectly than the Egyptians, but the latter, as we have seen, also professed great respect for the paternal authority, the rights of which must have harmonized with the requirements of the principle of hereditary professions. A passage from Diodorus seems to decide the question in this sense: "The legislator regarded property as belonging to those who had acquired it by their labor, by _transmission_, or by gift." However this may be, it is certain that all the land, according to Herodotus and Diodorus, belonged originally to the king, the priesthood, and the military class. This division of the landed property must have greatly contributed to the stability which is so distinctive a characteristic of the Egyptian nation. The hereditary transmission of the land in the sacerdotal and military classes effectually assured a solid basis for their preponderance, and at the same time guaranteed the independence and dignity of the aristocratic classes. They were thus fully enabled to second the king in the government, administration, and defence of the country.

IV.

ORGANIZATION OF LABOR.

Ancient Egypt, from an agricultural point of view, is in some respects worthy of attention. Certain modern writers have supposed the members of the military class cultivated their own lands, as the legionaries of ancient Rome, but this supposition is irreconcilable with the testimony of the ancient historians who visited Egypt. Herodotus says they were "not allowed to practise any mechanical art, but were skilled in the art of war, which they transmit from father to son." This point is settled by the following passage from Diodorus: "The agriculturists pass their lives in cultivating the lands, which are leased them at a moderate price by the king, priests, and warriors."

As to the sacerdotal class, absorbed in the religious observances, the administration, the study of the laws and the sciences, it was impossible for its members to engage in the cultivation of the land, which, as we have seen, they leased. Notwithstanding great research, no information has been obtained about the economic condition of the agricultural class. We only know, from the extract quoted from Diodorus, that the land was leased at a moderate price. The stability which prevailed in Egypt, and the principle of hereditary professions, induce us to believe that private estates generally had a kind of entail, so the same family of husbandmen lived from generation to generation on the same land. This principle of stability was eminently favorable to the moral and material welfare of the family, as well as to the progress of agriculture. Reared from childhood amid rural occupations, they acquired more experience in them than any other nation. They perfectly understood the nature of the soil, the art of irrigation, and the time for sowing and harvesting, a knowledge they acquired partly from their ancestors and partly by their own experience. The same observation may be applied to the shepherds, who inherited the care of their flocks, and passed their whole lives in rearing them; thus perfecting the knowledge acquired from their fathers.

The other industrial classes were no less prosperous. They also inherited their occupations. A celebrated publicist states that "the Egyptian artisans held no property."[203]

To prove the truth of such an assertion, it must be shown that they were reduced to a state of slavery: which is formally contradicted by Diodorus, as we shall see presently, and it is not confirmed by any of the recently discovered monuments. It may be safely affirmed that the artisans of ancient Egypt, with the exception of those attached to the temples or public works, had a complete right over their trades and the fruit of their labors. The possession of land was denied them, but there is reason to believe they could own their dwellings and the little gardens that surrounded them.

Champollion-Figeac, who rivalled his brother in the sciences and the profound knowledge of the arts and pursuits of ancient Egypt, represents the people of that country with their "plates of glazed earthenware, their rush-baskets, and their shoes of papyrus." "The lower classes," says he in another place, "generally wore a short linen tunic called a calasiris, confined by a girdle around the hips, and sometimes with short sleeves trimmed with fringe at the end."

V.

SOCIAL CONDITION OF THE LABORING CLASSES.

Notwithstanding the light which the wonderful discoveries of modern science have thrown on the history of ancient Egypt, we still lack precise information respecting the internal organization of the corporations occupied in manual labor. We only know from Diodorus that they belonged to the class of citizens--that is, they were _free_ men. "There are in the kingdom," says he, after having spoken of the two dominant classes, "three classes of _citizens_: shepherds, husbandmen, and artisans."

Labor among the ancients was not always a mark of servitude. In retracing the origin of the ancient nations, as far as the light of history diffuses its rays, we find agriculture and the industrial pursuits carried on everywhere by free labor.

The monarchical and aristocratical government contributed not a little to the maintenance of stability in the artisan families, by preserving them from the fruitless agitations into which the working-classes are fatally drawn under democratic governments. Diodorus shows this admirably in the following passage, to which we invite the attention of the reader:

"It must be considered that the arts have greatly developed among the Egyptians, and arrived at a high degree of perfection. It is the only country in which a workman is not permitted to fill any public office, or employ himself in any other way than that assigned him by law or by inheritance. By this restriction, the workman is not diverted from his occupations either by the jealousy of his masters[204] or by political affairs. Among other nations, on the contrary, the artisan is almost wholly absorbed in the idea of making a fortune, some by agriculture, others through commerce, and some carry on several trades at once. And in democratic countries, most of them frequent the popular assemblies and increase disorder by selling their votes, whereas an Egyptian artisan who should take a part in public affairs, or worked at several trades at once, would incur a large fine. Such are the social divisions and political constitutions the ancient Egyptians transmitted from father to son."

What a contrast between the artisan of the old Greek republics, "frequenting public assemblies and extending disorder by selling their votes," and the workman of the Egyptian monarchy, peacefully pursuing the occupation of his fathers, happy and contented amid political agitations which must have been very rare under a _régime_ in which traditional customs were religiously observed! Thus, with the exception of enforced labor on the public works, we are not unwilling to admit the fidelity of the picture Champollion-Figeac has drawn of the condition of the laboring classes in ancient Egypt: "The extraordinary fertility of the soil, the beneficent climate, the wise laws perfected by experience and sanctioned by time, the active and benevolent administration, constantly occupied in promoting and sustaining public order in the country as well as the city, the inevitable influence of religion upon a people naturally religious and impressionable--the most religious of men, according to Herodotus--allow us to believe that the masses in ancient Egypt were happy, and that, occupied and laborious, modest in their manners and wishes, they found in labor a source of durable pleasure."

By this wise social organization, which kept each one in his place, the artisan remained faithfully devoted to his pursuits, as the husbandman to his labor. They both fully enjoyed the stability so necessary to success. But, as we shall see, the liberty and well-being of the workmen of all classes were affected by the frightful labors imposed on them in the public works.

* * * * *

BOOK SECOND.

THE POLITICAL, LEGAL, AND ADMINISTRATIVE INSTITUTIONS.

I.

ROYALTY.

The keystone of the social edifice in the ancient kingdom of Egypt may be regarded as royalty. The crown was hereditary in the male line in the order of primogeniture--brother succeeding to brother without surviving children. In case of no son, the daughter succeeded her father, and he whom she espoused was the queen's husband, but not the king.

The king, through the different members of his family, presided in all the branches of the government and public administration, thus giving perfect unity and complete monarchical power. "In fact," says Champollion, "the dignities of the different orders were reserved for the king's sons by the laws of the country. The oldest son of Sesostris bore the titles of Fan-bearer of the king's left hand, Royal Secretary, Basilico-grammatist, and Commander-in-chief of the Army. The second son was also Fan-bearer of the king's left hand, Royal Secretary, and Commander-in-chief of the Royal Guard. The third son added to the two first titles that of Commander-in-chief of the Cavalry. The same qualifications were also given to other princes, and seem to have belonged to all the royal generations, as well as several sacerdotal and civil titles, such as prophets (a class of priests) of different gods, high-priest of Ammon, and supreme head of different civil functions." Thus the king concentrated in his family the most important offices in the army, the civil administration, and the priesthood.

Finally, the better to consecrate the principle that all power and dignity had their source in the throne, the principal leaders in the army and administration received the title of the king's cousin, relative, or friend.[205]

Such was the real nature of the royal power in the eyes of ancient Egypt.

"The Egyptians were generally considered the most grateful of men toward their benefactors. They considered the best guarantee of society to be a reciprocal interchange of services and gratitude. It is true, men are more inclined to be useful to others when a real benefit is to be derived from the gratitude of the obliged. It was from these motives the Egyptians respected and adored their kings as if they were gods. The sovereign authority, divinely conferred, according to their belief, with will and power to diffuse benefits, was to them a godlike attribute."[206]

While giving the consecration of a divine character to the royal authority, the wise legislators of old Egypt did not the less take the precautions, suggested by a profound knowledge of human nature, of restricting the monarchical power within just limits, of inspiring the king with virtuous inclinations, and of preventing him from evil-doing. "In the first place, the kings of Egypt did not lead as free and independent a life as the kings of other nations. They could not act according to their own will. Everything was regulated by law, not only their public, but their daily private life. They were served, not by bondsmen or slaves, but by the sons of the chief priests, reared with the greatest care, and more than twenty years of age. The king, thus served day and night by real models of virtue, would never be countenanced in any blamable action. For a sovereign would not be worse than any other man if he had not around him those who flattered his desires. The precise duties of the king for every hour of the day and night were fixed by law, and not left to his own inclinations. His first act in the morning was to read the letters sent from every direction, that he might be thoroughly informed of all that had occurred in the kingdom, and act in consequence. Then, after bathing, putting on magnificent garments, and assuming the insignia of royalty, he offered a sacrifice to the gods. The victims were led to the altar; the high-priest, according to custom, stood near the king, and, in presence of the people, prayed the gods aloud to preserve the king in health and all other blessings as long as he fulfilled the laws. At the same time, the high-priest was obliged to enumerate the virtues of the king, and dwell on his piety towards the gods and his meekness towards man, representing him as temperate, just, magnanimous, opposed to lying, loving to do good, the complete master of his passions, inflicting on the guilty the least punishment merited, and recompensing good actions beyond their value. After the addition of similar praises, the priest ended by an imprecation against all faults committed through ignorance; for the king, being irresponsible, imputed all his faults to his ministers and counsellors, on whom was invoked the merited chastisement. The high-priest acted thus in order to inspire the king with a fear of the gods, and habituate him to a pious and exemplary life, not by a bitter exhortation, but by attractive praises of the practice of virtue. Finally, the king inspected the entrails of the victim, and declared the favorable auspices. The hierogrammatist read some sentences and useful accounts of celebrated men from the sacred books, that the sovereign might select an example by which to regulate his actions. There was a fixed time not only for audiences, but for exercise, the bath, and, in short, for every act of life. The king was accustomed to live on simple food. He was allowed veal and goose for meat. He could only drink a certain quantity of wine that would neither produce repletion nor intoxication. In a word, the prescribed regimen was so regular that it might be supposed ordained not by legislators, but by the best physicians, aiming only at the preservation of health.

"It seems strange for a king not to be at liberty to choose his daily food, and still more so that he could not pronounce a judgment or take a decision, or punish any one through passion or caprice, or any other unjust reason, but be forced to act according to the laws fixed for each particular case. As it was an established custom, the king could not take offence, and he was not discontented with his lot. On the contrary, he considered his a very happy life, while other men, abandoned without restraint to their natural passions, were exposed to many inconveniences and dangers. He thought himself fortunate in often seeing other men violate their consciences by persisting in bad designs, influenced by love, hatred, or some other passion, while he himself, emulous of living after the example of the wisest of men, could only fall into venial errors. Animated with such just sentiments, the king conciliated the affection of his people as that of his family. Not only the priesthood, but all the Egyptian nation were less solicitous about their own families and possessions than about the safety of the king.[207] All the kings mentioned followed this political _régime_ for a long time, and led a happy life under these laws. Besides, they conquered many nations, acquired great wealth, adorned the country with wonderful works and monuments, and the cities with rich and varied ornaments."[208]

We have thought proper to quote this long passage from Diodorus, because it clearly shows how the Egyptians regarded the duties and attributes of royalty. A limited knowledge of their sentiments makes us feel that Diodorus must have faithfully described the regulations maintained by the priests from the beginning of this ancient monarchy. Until the latest times, that is, till the Roman conquest, the prince, called to the throne by his birth, was enthroned and consecrated in a general assembly of the priesthood convoked at Memphis, "in order to observe the legal ceremonies prescribed for the coronation."[209]

When we examine the sacerdotal order, the influence it exercised over the king, in keeping him within the limits of moderation and justice, will be perceived.

The veneration of the Egyptians for their kings led them from the first to render them divine honors. "Egypt," says M. Mariette, "had a genuine worship for its kings, whom they styled beneficent gods, and regarded as the 'Sons of the Sun.'"

"The ureus (the asp) ornamented the brows of all the kings. It is also found adorning the foreheads of some of the gods. 'The asp does not grow old,' says Plutarch (Isis and Osiris), 'and, though without organs of locomotion, it moves with great facility.' The Egyptians considered it as the emblem of the eternal youth of the sun and its course in the heavens."

The sentiment of loyalty was carried so far among the Egyptians that it was considered a duty to obey their kings even in the caprices of their fantasy and pride. They respected those who were bad while they lived, reserving the right of judging them after their death.

"What took place at the death of their kings was not one of the least proofs of their attachment to them, for the honors rendered to the dead are an incontestable proof of sincerity of affection. When one of the kings died, all the inhabitants mourned, rent their garments, closed the temples, abstained from sacrifices, and celebrated no festivals for seventy-two days. Every one passed the prescribed number of days in affliction and mourning, as for the death of a cherished child. During this time preparations were made for a magnificent funeral, and on the last day they placed the chest containing the body of the deceased at the entrance of the tomb. They then proceeded, according to the law, to pass judgment on all the king had done during his life. Every one had the right of making his accusation. The priests pronounced a panegyric, relating the praiseworthy deeds of the king. Thousands of auditors applauded it if the king's life had been without reproach; if otherwise, they expressed their disapproval by murmurs. Many kings, through the opposition of the people, were deprived of suitable burial. This led their successors to deal justly, not only for reasons already mentioned, but for fear their bodies might be treated ignominiously after death, and their memory be for ever cursed."[210]

"There are still to be seen in Egypt," says Champollion-Figeac, "testimonies significant of this custom. The names of some sovereigns are carefully effaced from the monuments they had erected during their reign. They are carefully hammered down even on their tombs." Among the names of the kings thus condemned after death, Champollion mentions that of Pharaoh Mandouéi, of the eighteenth dynasty. Wherever this name stood, on all representations of the king, or on the edifices he had erected, it is carefully effaced and hammered, though expressed by the image of the god Mandou, whose name he bore. The systematic suppression of this king's name on all the public monuments can only be explained as the result of one of those severe judgments passed by the Egyptian nation upon wicked kings after their death.[211]

"There was in Egypt," says Bossuet, "a kind of judgment, quite extraordinary, which no one escaped.... This custom of judging kings after their death appeared so sacred to the people of God, that they always practised it. We see in the Scriptures that wicked kings were deprived of burial among their ancestors, and we learn from Josephus that this custom was still kept up in the time of the Asmoneans. It led kings to remember that, if above human judgment during their lives, they must be subjected thereto when death reduced them to the level of ordinary mortals."[212]

Notwithstanding so many wise precautions, the kings of Egypt did not always pursue the course so clearly marked out by the national traditions and the interests of the nation. More than one Pharaoh, intoxicated by sovereign authority, made his subjects experience the heavy hand of tyranny. The numerous changes of dynasties (thirty-one are reckoned before the conquest by Alexander the Great) also show that the nation more than once succeeded in overthrowing the despotic government of those that abused their power. But, through all changes of dynasties, and in spite of the struggles of rival families, the Egyptians always remained faithful to the monarchical principle, indissolubly attached to its institutions, customs, and manners. "At no time," says Herodotus, "have the Egyptians been able to live without kings."

FOOTNOTES:

[181] Mariette, _Notice des principaux Monuments exposés dans les Galeries provisoires du Musée d'Antiquités Egyptiennes de S. A. le Vice-Roi, à Boulaq_. Alexandrie. 1864. It may be well to remark here that the antiquity of the Egyptian nation is by no means irreconcilable with the Septuagint, as Mgr. Meignan shows in his learned work on _Le Monde primitif_, pp. 164 and 151. Paris. 1869. Palmé.

[182] _Egypt ancienne_, by Champollion-Figeac. Paris. 1859.

[183] _Aperçu de l'Histoire d'Egypte depuis les Temps les plus reculés jusqu'à la Conquête Musulmane._ By Auguste Mariette-Bey, Director of the Company for the Preservation of Egyptian Antiquities. Alexandria. 1864.

[184] E. Renan. _Les Antiquités et les Fouilles d'Egypte_ (_Revue des Deux Mondes_, for April 1, 1865).

[185] H. Dufresne, _Moniteur Officiel_ for July 2, 1867.

[186] Gladstone.

[187] Bossuet, _Discours sur l'Histoire universelle_.

[188] Robiau, _Histoire ancienne du Peuple de l'Orient_, p. 83.

[189] Mariette, _Notice des principaux Monuments du Musée d'Antiquités Egyptiennes à Boulaq_, P. 75.

[190] Little moral treatise by Phtah-Hotep, who lived in the reign of Assa-Tatkera, the last king but one of the fifth dynasty--partly translated by M. Chabas in the _Revue Archéol._, xxix., first series.

[191] Champollion-Figeac, _Egypte ancienne_, 173.

[192] Robiau, _Histoire anc. des Peuples de l'Orient_.

[193] De Bonald, _Thêorie du Pouvoir_, vol. i. p. 253.

[194] Champollion-Figeac.

[195] Champollion-Figeac, _Egypte ancienne_, p. 173.

[196] Diodorus.

[197] Bossuet, _Discours sur l'Histoire univ_. The passage from Diodorus which inspired the sagacious reflections of the illustrious Bishop of Meaux is this: "Wrestling and music are not allowed to be taught, for, according to the Egyptian belief, the daily exercise of the body gives young men not health, but a transient strength which is prejudicial. As to music, it is considered not only useless, but injurious, as rendering the mind of man effeminate."

[198] The large wigs so often found on the monuments of the ancient monarchy, worn by both sexes, like the turban, were a preservative against the ardor of the sun's rays.

[199] Herodotus; Diodorus Siculus.

[200] Bossuet, _Histoire universelle_.

[201] _Des Castes et de la Transmission héréditaire des Professions dans l'ancienne Egypte_: a memoir published in the _Journal général de l'Instruction publique_, and in Vol. X. of the _Revue Archéologique_. Ampère proves by this learned _étude_ that "there were no _castes_ among the ancient Egyptians in the strict sense of that word, as it is used in India, for example." He very satisfactorily explains how a slight inexactness in the histories of Herodotus and Diodorus respecting hereditary transmission in the class of priests and warriors, "sufficed to found on this inheritance of pursuits and the separation of classes in Egypt, a theory that ended by becoming completely erroneous." M. Egger, in speaking of hereditary professions, says: "It is known that every degree of the social scale in ancient Egypt rested on this foundation. It was for a long time believed, according to Herodotus and Diodorus, that the Egyptian castes were absolutely exclusive; but an interesting memoir by J. J. Ampère (1848) proves the contrary, and scientific discoveries daily confirm the truth of his observations." (_Bulletin de la Société d' Economie Sociale_, June, 1868.)

[202] Diodorus. With the exception of certain fabulous relations, easily recognized by their mythological character, we consider as perfectly credible the interesting details Diodorus has left concerning the manners, laws, and institutions of ancient Egypt. He had visited that country himself, and did not depend on the testimony of others. "We give," says he, "the facts we have carefully examined, which are preserved in the records of the Egyptian priesthood." After stating that he visited that country under Ptolemy, son of Lagus, during the 180th Olympiad, he adds: "During our travels in Egypt we had intercourse with many priests, and conversed with a great number of Ethiopian envoys. After carefully collecting all the information we could find on the subject, and examining the accounts of historians, we have only admitted into our narration facts generally received." Lib. iii.

[203] M. Troplong.

[204] Probably superintendents is meant.

[205] Champollion-Figeac.

[206] Diodorus.

[207] The ritual of the dead puts the following beautiful words into the mouth of the deceased, when he justifies himself before the tribunal of Osiris: "I have spoken ill neither of the king nor my own father."

[208] Diodorus.

[209] Decree of 196 B.C., found on the Rosetta Stone.

[210] Diodorus.

[211] It could also be explained as the effect of a reaction which often accompanies a change of dynasty. M. F. Lenormant regards this judgment of kings as a mere fable. "The king when dead," says he, "was as much of a god as when living." Doubtless, but the Cæsars were also during their lives raised to the rank of divinities, which did not prevent the Romans from killing several. We see no difficulty in admitting the explicit testimony of Diodorus, corroborated by the opinion of Champollion the Younger as well as his brother.

[212] Bossuet, _Histoire univ._, ii. 177. The Israelites probably borrowed this custom from the Egyptians.

MR. CARLYLE AND PÈRE BOUHOURS.

Crying injustice and endless heartburnings are caused in social life by the falsehoods which malicious or foolish people shelter under the familiar quotation rubric, "said he" or "said she." For these we may charitably and to some extent allow uncertainty of human memory to go in extenuation.

Rising above the circle of cackling gossip, we know that, out of a dozen witnesses solemnly adjured to testify as to words spoken in simultaneous hearing of all the twelve, it is rare to find any three of them agreeing as to the precise form of locution used, even where they accord as to meaning and signification of the phrase they report.

We pass from the spoken to the written word, and are struck with the fact that, even in literature and in history, the too common neglect of conscientious accuracy of citations, in accepting them at second hand or from a questionable source, is the fruitful cause of wrong judgment of events, false estimate of men, and uncharitableness without end.

If it is sought to hold a man responsible for opinions which he has deliberately written and printed, he is in justice to be held answerable solely by his own record, neither more nor less. No occasion is there here for conflicting testimony. If arraigned for those opinions, let the accusation run--_ipsissimis verbis_--with what he has written. Otherwise, flaw fatal will be found, and indictment sternly quashed. _Scripta manent_--his opinions are recorded, and no subsequent version may be heard from him to vary the obligation therein assumed. Neither, therefore, in justice, shall you admit adverse parol testimony in guise of unfriendly gloss or explanation to hold him responsible for more than he has advanced or assumed.

With swift instinct, we all mistrust reported verbal utterances made by a man whose prejudice or whose passion evidently colors his memory and stimulates his imagination. And, although the excuse of mistake or misunderstanding is not admissible where the repetition or citation of printed words is concerned, yet, when a writer is quoted in the spirit of ridicule, blame, or sarcasm, it should suffice to put the reader on inquiry. Before he adopts and thereby vouches for the attributed phrase, let him look well to it that the text is not tampered with, and that the passage, as given, be not modified--not to say changed--by omission or addition. A mere comma too much or too little, as we well know, may make sad havoc with a sentence, and turn truth into falsehood.

Old authors, and even some few careful writers down to the present day, show their appreciation of this responsibility in quotation by intrenching themselves behind an _apud_ in cases where, from any cause, they are unable to verify the correctness of the passage cited; thus throwing the burden of proof on the reporter named by them.

A remarkable instance of the neglect of some such precautions as are here mentioned may be found in a somewhat familiar citation made--and, we may add, made celebrated--by no less a literary authority than Mr. Carlyle.

It occurs in one of his most admirable productions, entitled _The State of German Literature_.

This essay, which originally appeared, in 1827, as an article in the _Edinburgh Review_, is rich in literary research and vigorous thought.

It is valuable not only for what it says concerning German literature, but concerning all literature, and is most generally enjoyed and best remembered by reason of its eloquent pillorying and remorseless flagellation of one Père Bouhours, who, as Mr. Carlyle informs us, propounded to himself the pregnant question: _Si un Allemand peut avoir de l'esprit?_ Indignantly the great Scotch essayist thus bursts out upon the unfortunate Frenchman: "Had the Père Bouhours bethought him of what country Kepler and Leibnitz were born, or who it was that gave to mankind the three great elements of modern civilization, gunpowder, printing, and the Protestant religion, it might have thrown light on his inquiry. Had he known the _Niebelungen-Lied_, and where _Reinecke-Fuchs_, and _Faust_, and the _Ship of Fools_, and four-fifths of all the popular mythology, humor, and romance to be found in Europe in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, took its rise; had he read a page or two of Ulrich Hutten, Opitz, Paul Flemming, Logan, or even Lobenstein and Hoffmanswaldau, all of whom had already lived and written even in his day; had the Père Bouhours taken this trouble, who knows but he might have found, with whatever amazement, that a German could actually have a little _esprit_, or, perhaps, even something better? No such trouble was requisite for the Père Bouhours. Motion _in vacuo_ is well known to be speedier and surer than through a resisting medium, especially to imponderable bodies; and so the light Jesuit, unimpeded by facts or principles of any kind, failed not to reach his conclusions; and, in a comfortable frame of mind, to decide negatively that a German could _not_ have any literary talent."

Now, if Père Bouhours really said what is here attributed to him, this fulmination, all obvious as it is, cannot be looked upon as unprovoked, and we may listen with sense of satisfied justice to the dreadful sentence pronounced upon him, which is substantially that, incarcerated in the immortal amber of this one untimely joke, the helpless Jesuit be doomed therein to live; "for the blessing of full oblivion is denied him, and so he hangs suspended to his own noose, over the dusky pool which he struggles toward, but for a great while will not reach." To these remarks Mr. Carlyle adds the very sensible reflection: "For surely the pleasure of despising, at all times and in itself a dangerous luxury, is much safer _after_ the toil of examining than before it."

This condemnation and sentence are based on a detached phrase separated from its contexts, and Mr. Carlyle fails to tell us in what connection or in what work was made the unfortunate speech for which the French writer is thus beaten with many stripes.

Might it not be that, read in its proper relation, his words signify something very different from the interpretation placed upon them as here severed? So true is this that what Père Bouhours really wrote has a very different signification. Investigation demonstrates this and more, and shows that Père Bouhours not only did not mean to express what is here attributed to him, but that he did not even use the words thus thrust upon him as his own.

Indeed, the ill-used Bouhours is introduced and dispatched so very summarily, that the reader of the Edinburgh essay scarcely obtains more than a glance of a literary criminal rapidly judged and sent to swift execution.

Let us see for a moment what manner of man this Bouhours appeared to the people of his day and generation. As then known, he was a writer of high reputation (_hors ligne_) and the author of several works, some of which are still read and republished. We find certain of his books on the shelves of our largest American libraries, and a few days since, in looking casually through a catalogue of publications made (1869) at the Armenian convent in Venice, an interesting spot well known to American travellers, we noted two editions of Bouhours's _Christian Meditations_, one in French and one in a Turkish translation.

Bouhours is also the author of a French translation of the entire New Testament, which is remarkable for its fidelity and its purity of diction.

It is the version adopted by Lallemant in his _Reflections on the New Testament_. He also wrote _Remarks and Doubts concerning the French Language_, and _Ingenious Thoughts of the Fathers_. His _Manière de bien Penser_ is held by the best critics to contain much that evinces acuteness and delicacy of discrimination. Bouhours was always quoted and referred to by his contemporaries with deference.

His _Life of St. Francis Xavier_ was found worthy of an English translation by no less a celebrity than the English poet Dryden; and La Harpe, who is openly unfriendly to Bouhours, says of him, "C'était un homme lettré qui savait l'Italien et l'Espagnol."

The passage incorrectly cited by Mr. Carlyle occurs in _Les Entretiens a'Ariste et d'Eugène_, a small duodecimo volume published in 1671.

These _Entretiens_ or conversations are supposed to be held by two gentlemen of literary taste, who discuss a variety of subjects pertaining to polite literature.

One of these topics is the French language, which is assumed to be the best of all modern languages, possessing, as it does, the secret of uniting conciseness with clearness, and purity with politeness. On this question of his native tongue, the patriotism of Père Bouhours hurries him into terms of excessive praise. The French language, in his opinion, combines every excellence. The Spanish he characterizes as a noisy torrent flooding its banks and overspreading the country; the Italian, as a gentle rivulet; the French, a majestic stream that never quits its level.

The Spanish, again, he compares to a proud beauty, bold in demeanor and splendid in attire; the Italian, to a painted coquette, ever ornamented for effect; the French, to a modest, agreeable lady, who, if apparently prudish, is neither uncivil nor repulsive. Then, he adds, our own pronunciation is the most natural and pleasing.

Patriotism of so warm a character as this, after elevating French language and literature so freely at the expense of the Spanish and Italian, would hardly be likely to rate the German very high.

Accordingly, in view of the great preponderance of heavy though learned disquisition over that branch of German literature which might be classed as polished and witty, Père Bouhours did really propose the question,

SI UN ALLEMAND PEUT ETRE BEL ESPRIT?

--a proposition very far from identical with that which is attributed to him by Mr. Carlyle, namely:

SI UN ALLEMAND PEUT AVOIR DE L'ESPRIT?

The variation simply being that Bouhours did not, as here alleged, decide negatively that a German could not have any literary talent, but queried if a German could be a wit.

Truly a distinction with a difference.

Hallam, seldom incorrect in such matters, presents the matter fairly in stating that the Père Bouhours "proposed the question whether a German can by the nature of things possess any wit."

The misrepresentation made is a serious one, and the citation as corrected deprives Mr. Carlyle's thunder of its noise, and extracts from his sarcasm all its sting.

We believe it was Thackeray who said that, notwithstanding his profound respect and deep veneration for the twelve apostles, they really were not the sort of persons he should care to invite to a festive dinner party.

Père Bouhours would doubtless, as readily as Mr. Carlyle, concede to Kepler and Leibnitz all the merit the most enthusiastic German could claim for these great men as shining lights of science, but would hardly credit them with the ability to write the _Xenien_ or edit the _Kladderadatsch_.

When Bouhours published his _Entretiens_, it is very certain that, if German literature shone in wit, the fact was not known west of the Rhine. Indeed, Mr. Carlyle himself, a few paragraphs further on, unconsciously records the fullest vindication of Père Bouhours. With a patriotism quite as fervent as that of his victim, he informs us that "centuries ago translations from the German were comparatively frequent in England," but to support this statement can only cite _Luther's Table Talk_ and _Jacob Boehme_. Enumeration most scant and melancholy! The essayist then goes on to say: "In the next century, indeed, translation ceased; but then it was, in a great measure, _because there was little worth translating_. The horrors of the Thirty Years' War had desolated the country; French influence, extending from the courts of princes to the closets of the learned, lay like a baleful incubus over the far nobler ruins of Germany; and all free nationality vanished from its literature, or was heard only in faint tones, which lived in the hearts of the people, _but could not reach with any effect to the ears of foreigners_."

But as though not satisfied with a general statement which should justify Père Bouhours, Mr. Carlyle continues until he makes the justification clear in terms and specific by dates, telling us: "From the time of Opitz and Flemming to that of Klopstock and Lessing, that is, from the early part of the seventeenth to the middle of the eighteenth century, they [the Germans] had scarcely any literature known abroad, _or deserving to be known_."

Now, Dominic Bouhours, born in Paris, 1628, asked the famous question, _Si un Allemand peut être bel esprit?_ in 1671, and died in 1702. Thus his earthly career was comprised precisely within the period specified by Mr. Carlyle as that during which the Germans were without not only _belles-lettres_, but any literature whatever deserving to be known.

But, going back to the middle ages, Mr. Carlyle, strangely enough holds Bouhours responsible, because of his want of familiarity with the _Niebelungen-Lied_, _Reinecke-Fuchs_, and other monuments of early German literature. "Had he known the _Niebelungen-Lied_" is asked mockingly. This is hardly just, when we reflect that no one better than Mr. Carlyle knows that Germany of the Bouhours period was itself, in the main, ignorant of and profoundly indifferent to the merits of these remarkable productions. Only long years afterward, following on ages of oblivion as to their very existence in their own country, were they brought to light, and it is principally owing to the exertions of the comparatively new Romantic school that modern Germany has been made acquainted with the _Niebelungen-Lied_ and other great middle-age poems.

It is true that Bodmer in Switzerland first put a portion of the _Niebelungen_ ("Chrimhilde's Revenge") in print, in 1757; but, as Mr. Carlyle has elsewhere informed us, it was August Wilhelm Schlegel who "succeeded in awakening something like a universal popular feeling on the subject," and he refers to this and the like poems as "manuscripts that for ages have lain dormant," and now come "from their archives into public view," "a phenomenon unexpected till of late"--stating that "the _Niebelungen_ is welcomed as a precious national possession--_recovered after six centuries of neglect_." From which it would appear that, at his peril, Bouhours, in 1671, must be familiar with "a precious national possession" of the Germans, which they themselves, before and after that period, treated with "centuries of neglect." Being a Jesuit, it is, of course, eminently proper, according to a time-honored custom in English literature, that he should be made responsible for everything--the Spanish Inquisition and Original Sin included.

Mr. Carlyle patriotically closes his eyes to English ignorance and indifference touching German literature, even when claiming for Great Britain only a lesser density of ignorance concerning it than afflicted France.

Writing as late as 1827, he fairly admits that the literature and character of Germany "are still very generally unknown to us, or, what is worse, misknown," that its "false and tawdry ware" reached England before "the chaste and truly excellent," and that "Kotzebue's insanity spread faster by some fifty years than Lessing's wisdom." And the British ignorance, it is admitted, is not confined to German literature. "For what more do we know"--thus Mr. Carlyle clinches the question--"of recent Spanish or Italian literature than of German; of Grossi and Manzoni, of Campomanos or Jovellanos, than of Tieck and Richter?"

Really, when we contemplate the enlightened Englishman of 1827 thus held up to our gaze, how can we withhold from the abused Frenchman of 1671 our profound admiration?

Now, if, on reflection, Mr. Carlyle estimates the imputation on German literature of a lack of wit and humor as a serious offence--if he considers actionable and punishable Father Bouhours's query,

SI UN ALLEMAND PEUT ETRE BEL ESPRIT?

he need not go back two centuries for a criminal of whom to make an example. We have in custody for him one of this century--of this decade--nay, of this very year. He is a living culprit, and, moreover, a distinguished one. Here is a copy of the words in which he offends, and, if we are not mistaken, he may be found in Mr. Carlyle's bailiwick: "There is, perhaps, no nation where the general standard of wit and humor is so low as with the Germans--no other people at least are so easily entertained with indifferent jokes" (_Saturday Review_, London, March 18, 1871).

OUR LADY OF LOURDES.

FROM THE FRENCH OF HENRI LASSERRE.