PART III.

ON THE BOULEVARDS.

Summer had come, and was nearly gone. Paris was deserted. As autumn approached, lifting its fiery finger over the city, the _flaneurs_ disappeared. All those who could flee, fled. The faubourg had fled long ago to its châteaux. The Chaussée d’Antin and the Champs Elysées were fleeing _aux eaux_ or _aux bains de mer_ and the boulevards, with their glittering shops and _cafés_ and theatres, were left to the mercy of the tourist. Perhaps the tourist would retort that he was left to the mercy of the boulevards. And, perhaps he would be right. _Chignoned_ sirens, who dwelt in glass cases surrounded by millions of glass vials ranged in rhythmic color from the ceiling to the floor, so as to make the sirens look as much as possible like the centre point of an elaborate kaleidoscope, smiled through their crystal shell at the reckless being who stood outside to peep and wonder. The door stood open. He might not hear the siren’s, “Entrez, monsieur!” but there was no being deaf to her smile; it drew him irresistibly.

“Would monsieur not like just to ‘gouter’ our last novelty, ‘cerise à la Victor Noir?’ Would he not very much like to take some little souvenir home to madame?”

Of course monsieur would. Weak mortal! He unbuttons his coat, and straightway the bees which had sipped abundantly of native porte-monnaies the rest of the year, alight on the purse of the tourist, and suck it, if not dry, as nearly dry as they can.

Busy “dead season,” when stale bonbons and faded finery are brought out, christened by new names, and sold to the barbarians across the Channel. Paris does not want any more of it, but Londres, that city which the English in their ignorance of the French language call Lon-don--Londres will find it charming!

Gaily, busily the bees were plying their task. The long white lines of Haussmann barracks glared shadowless in the fierce vertical sun; gilded railings and balconies flashed in gingerbread magnificence; the dome of the Invalides rose up against the cloudless blue and blazed like a burning mount; the red heat poured down from the zenith on the miles of _asphalte_ that meander through the city, and pelted it till it softened and gave under your foot like india-rubber. Even the lordly chestnuts of the Tuileries, so carefully tended, so abundantly watered, were burnt brown and red, and were shedding their leaves from exhaustion; not a vestige of green was anywhere visible. The fountains were playing, but even they had a tired, worn-out look, and the water seemed to go on splashing lazily from mere force of habit; the flag was still floating above the palace, the gray old palace blinking with its myriad glass eyes in the sultry noon; the broad walks were deserted, no little feet went pattering on the gravel, no merry child-laughter rang through the shade to scare the swallows from their cool siesta; the whole scene, lately so animated and bright, had a weary, day-after-the-ball look that was premature in the first days of July.

The bees of the boulevard were buzzing loud, and bestirring themselves to good purpose. But, hark! What noise is that? Not the cannon’s opening roar, nor “the car rattling o’er the stony street,” but a sound that jars upon the lively hum, and makes the hive suspend labor and hush itself to listen. It comes from the Corps Législatif, first a faint surging sound, then a clamor as of the waves rising and lashing themselves up for a tempest. Louder it grows, and nearer. It crosses the tepid waters of the Seine, lying low between its banks; it reaches the boulevards. At first the cries are indistinguishable, a torrent of human voice, rolling and heaving and rushing like the roar of a cataract, drowning all sense in its senseless frenzy. On it comes, gathering strength in its march, waking up the echoes of the _trottoir_, and making the crisp leaves quiver and drop, and fly along the dusty pavement before the vociferating multitude like straws before a bellows.

“What is it? Is it a revolution?” cried Berthe, as the horses, laying back their ears, threatened mischief, and obliged the footman to get down and hold them.

“I don’t know, madame,” said the man, looking up the Rue de la Paix at the stream that was pouring along the boulevards, to the sound of beating drums, and blaring trumpets, and all manner of Parisian excitableness in the shape of noise. “It’s more likely _une démonstration patriotique_; the horses don’t seem to like it, or else we might drive up close and see.”

But Berthe’s curiosity was not proof against a certain mistrust of the sovereign people. The noise might mean nothing more aggressive than a _démonstration patriotique_, but in Paris patriotism has many moods and phases, and innumerable modes of expressing itself, and its attitudes, if always effective from a dramatic point of view, are not always agreeable to come close to, and, whatever the character of this particular one might be, Berthe preferred admiring it from a respectful distance.

“Turn back, and drive home by the Champs Elysées,” she said.

But the tide had risen too rapidly. The Rue de Rivoli was flooded. It had caught the delirium of the boulevards, and was sending back their echoes with frantic exultation. Cabs and omnibuses were seized with the sudden insanity, private coaches caught it, foot-passengers, _gamins_, and _bourgeois_, and _messieurs les voyageurs_ careering on the top of omnibuses, all _en masse_ caught it, and shouted as one man: “Vive la France! vive la guerre! A Berlin! à Berlin!” Ladies and gentlemen, reclining in soft-cushioned carriages, started suddenly into effervescence, waved hats and handkerchiefs, and cried: “Vive la guerre! A Berlin!” Horses neighed, and dogs barked, and the very paving-stones shook to the popular passion. All Paris shouted and shrieked till the city, like a huge belfry, rang with thundering salvos: “Vive la guerre! A Berlin! à Berlin!”

Berthe’s horses, scared anew by the uproar that was now close upon them, played their part in the general row by plunging and prancing, and eliciting screams of terror from the adjacent women and children, while the coachman brandished his whip, and the footman whirled his hat in the air, and shouted with all their might: “A Berlin! à Berlin!” A troop of _gamins_ laid violent hands on a Savoyard who was grinding away “Non ti scordar di me,” to the delight of the _concierge_ in the nearest _porte-cochère_, and, dragging him to the fore, bade him at once strike up the _Marseillaise_. Luckily for his limbs, the despotic command was within the limits of the Savoyard’s instrument. He turned its handle, and began vigorously grinding out the Republican chant. Every man, woman, and child within ear-shot took up the chorus, “Marchons! marchons!” till the palpitating air throbbed and thrilled with the passionate voices of the multitude.

Berthe was not long proof against the magnetic current that was whirling round her. First terrified, then bewildered, then electrified, she caught the intoxication, and yielded to its impulse: “Vive la France! Vive la guerre!” And the fair hand waved its snowy little flag from the window as the carriage moved slowly past the Tuileries gardens.

Emerging into the broad space of the Place de la Concorde, the horses seemed to breathe more freely, and, quickening their step, tore at full speed up the Champs Elysées.

“What possessed me to shout and cheer with those madmen?” said Berthe, soliloquizing aloud, and laughing at the absurdity of her recent behavior. “I must have gone mad myself for the moment. Vive la guerre indeed! Heaven help us! We shall hear another cry by-and-by, when the widows and orphans and sisters of France hear at what price her new laurels have been bought. Thank God I have no brothers!”

“Madame la Marquise de Chassedot is waiting, madame,” said François, as Berthe entered.

“Has she been waiting?”

“A short half-hour, madame.”

“What can she have to say?” thought Berthe.

Madame de Chassedot rose to meet her “with eyes that had wept,” and extended her hands with an air that asked less for greeting than for sympathy.

“Vous ange de la peine, madame!” exclaimed Berthe, her ready kindness going forth at once to the sufferer.

The two ladies were not friends. They had met at Madame de Beaucœur’s and Madame de Galliac’s; but only once had there been a personal interchange of visits; Madame de Chassedot had called on Berthe to thank her for the kindness she had shown to their young kinswoman, Hélène de Karodel, “whom the family had indeed of late lost sight of, but with whom they were delighted to renew cousinship,” the marquise declared effusively, and as a proof of this she was carrying off Hélène to the country to spend the vacation with them. Berthe did not inform her that it had taken all her own influence to induce the high-spirited young lady to accept the hospitality so tardily offered. She returned Madame de Chassedot’s visit; the latter soon left for the country, and they had not met since.

“Oui, j’ai du chagrin,” said the marquise holding Berthe’s hand, as she sat down beside her.

Berthe’s first thought was of Edgar. But the mother was not in mourning. Whatever it was, the worst had not yet come.

“Your son is ill?” she said.

Madame de Chassedot shook her head. Then, after a pause, during which she gave battle to her emotion, she looked at Berthe, and said:

“He’s going to get married!”

“What! And is not that precisely what you wanted him to do!” exclaimed Berthe.

“I wanted to make the match myself; but now he goes and does it instead,” replied the marquise.

“Ah! It is a _mésalliance_, then!”

The fact was startling certainly, but less so than it might have been, owing to certain rumors that prepared the public to believe in any extravagance coupled with Edgar de Chassedot’s name.

“_Oh! mon Dieu, non!_ A thousand times no!” cried his mother with quick resentment. “Edgar _a fait des bêtises_, but he is incapable of dishonoring himself. Oh, no! The girl is of an excellent family, she is even our own cousin.”

“It is her principles, then, or her--character that you object to?” said Berthe with some hesitation.

“O dear! no. She is as pious as a seraph, and brought up like a lily!” exclaimed the marquise.

“Is she a hunch-back, then, or lame, or blind, or what?”

“She is a beggar! A beggar who has not a sou to buy her own trousseau. It is a beggar who has stolen the heart of my son!” And tears of bitter, disappointed motherhood flowed down the cheeks of the marquise.

“And her name is--?”

“Mademoiselle de Karodel!”

“What! Hélène? Hélène de Karodel, that brave, true, gentle creature is going to be your son’s wife! And you in tears, and not of joy! And you call her a beggar! A woman whose love, since your son has been lucky enough to win it--and Hélène is not a girl to marry him if he had not--would be a prize for a prince! And you, a Christian mother, weep over it, and expect to be pitied! Really, madame, if it were not laughable, it would be deplorable, not on your son’s account, but on your own!”

Madame de Chassedot was so staggered by this unexpected sortie that she was actually struck dumb. “Do you know,” she said, after a pause, looking steadily at Berthe, and bringing out her words with slow emphasis--“do you know, madame, that my son has four millions of patrimony, and that he could have married any girl in France?”

“As to his marrying any girl in France, admitting that they were one and all ready to marry Monsieur de Chassedot, was he ready to marry them?” demanded Berthe significantly; “and as to his four millions, they are the very reason why he should marry a girl who had none. A woman who is as well born as himself, who is, you admit, pure as a lily, and pious as an angel, and, moreover, quite graceful and beautiful enough to satisfy your pride and his, and to make her an ornament as well as a treasure in your son’s house--a wife who will rescue him from much that I should fancy would have given you greater cause for tears than his marriage with such a woman as Hélène de Karodel. Candidly, _chère marquise_, I am so far from sympathizing with you that, if I had heard this news in any other way, my first impulse would have been to fly to you with my congratulations.”

Madame de Chassedot’s tears were flowing still, but perhaps less bitterly; she was going to speak when a noise of steps in the ante-chamber made her rise hastily, and look round for a means of escape.

“Into my bedroom!” said Berthe, pulling aside the _portière_.

The marquise pressed her hand, and disappeared through the cloud of blue satin just as the drawing-room door opened, and Hélène de Karodel, holding out her arms with a cry of joy, rushed into Berthe’s.

It was something of a disappointment to Hélène to find that Berthe already knew her secret. But there was much left to tell still. Most of the tale was told with blushes and smiles, and tears that had no brine in them. Her marriage was to take place in a fortnight. Edgar, from family reasons, chose to precipitate the _dénouement_, and his young Bretonne _fiancée_ had come up to town to make the few bridal preparations that he could not possibly make for her.

It happened unluckily to be Berthe’s day, so the usual stream of visitors began soon to pour in, and broke up the _tête-à-tête_ of the two friends.

The war was the topic of every tongue; but there was no mistaking for enthusiasm the animation with which it was discussed. Some indignantly repudiated and denounced the government, and protested that, so far from being a popular war, it was universally condemned as senseless, iniquitous, and ill-timed, and that there were not ten men in France who would cry _Vive la guerre!_ unless they were paid for it. Others, who had been on the boulevards an hour ago, thought differently.

“There are madmen to be found in every city who are glad of an opportunity to bark, and bray, and howl, and demean themselves after the usual manner of madmen,” said the Austrian _habitué_, “and Paris can muster as good a roll of lunatics on as short notice as any city in Europe; but I don’t believe there were ten sane men on the boulevards this morning who cried _Vive la guerre!_”

“I can assure you,” said Berthe, “I saw hundreds of _comme-il-faut_-looking men, to all appearance in their right mind, who were crying it frantically; so much so that I got quite carried away, and actually shook my handkerchief, and shouted with the rest of them.”

“Why did you shout, madame?” inquired the Austrian.

“Because, I tell you, I was carried away, I could not help myself. The excitement was catching.”

“Of course it was. Most fevers are, especially malignant ones; and if you asked nine-tenths of the crowd _why_ they shouted, the answer, if they spoke the truth, would be precisely the same; they could not help themselves, the excitement was catching. If an arsenal blows up, who is to blame, the powder, the matches, or yourself who fired the train? You might just as logically blame the powder for blowing up, as the French people for marching and bugling and _Vive-la-guerring_ when they hear the sound of the trumpet.”

“Do you agree with monsieur?” asked Berthe addressing a quiet-looking military man who had been listening in silence to the conversation. “Are the people not really glad of the war?”

“It is difficult to say yet,” replied the soldier. “With the people, all depends on how it turns out; success alone is in the right.”

“But you do not contemplate such an absurd alternative as the non-victoriousness of the French arms?”

There was a prompt general protest from the company. The military man alone stroked his moustache with a meditative air, and was silent.

“Answer me, I pray you, commandant,” pursued Berthe. “You are not afraid of our troops being beaten?”

“Our troops are matches, if not masters, of the best troops in Europe,” replied the commandant proudly.

“And our generals? We have no lack of good ones surely?”

“Not of veterans,” was the evasive rejoinder.

“Oh! the young ones will rise up as soon as they are wanted. We shall have a new generation of heroes that will eclipse in glory the _vieux de la Vieille_ themselves. As for you, you will come back to us a marshal of France,” declared Berthe merrily.

The prophecy elicited gentle cheering and congratulations from the ladies, while the men approved in their own way, joking the commandant, and dubbing him _Monsieur le Maréchal_ on the spot.

“If it be not a futile or indiscreet question to put, may I ask what you are going to war for?” demanded Mr. Clifford, addressing himself to the company in general.

“For security of the dynasty,” replied a Legitimist.

“For the honor and security of France,” said the commandant.

“Do you separate them, M. le Commandant!” exclaimed the Legitimist with mock horror. “I arraign you, _de par l’Empereur_, for high treason against France!”

The circle laughed, and the Commandant, not caring to challenge the _persifleur_, laughed good-humoredly, too.

“Shall I tell you, monsieur, why we are going to war?” said the Deputy de la Gauche to Mr. Clifford. “We are going to war to _désennuyer_ Paris. If Paris goes on much longer _ennuying_ herself as she has done for the last six months, she will make a revolution!”

“That may be quite true,” returned his colleague of the Droite; “but the preventive is rather violent; some milder form of excitement might be invented for the _ennui_ of Paris than that of taking her to Berlin for a distraction. It is hardly a sufficient reason for plunging the whole nation into war. No, I prefer to think we are going to fight for the honor of France, and it may be for her aggrandizement.”

“Yes,” said Madame de Beaucœur, “M. le Maréchal will win his _bâton_ by taking the Rhine for us!”

“Bravo,” cried in chorus the Legitimist, the Droite, and the Gauche. “_Le Rhin! le Rhin! Vive le Rhin!_”

“I will be willing to shake hands with _ce gaillard lâ_, and to cry _Vive l’Empereur_ myself, if he comes back with the Rhine in his pocket,” declared the Legitimist with desperate patriotism.

And the sentiment was echoed by every one present. Orleanist, Bourbonist, Bonapartist, and Republican all united in a common thirst for the blue waters of the Rhine, and avowed themselves ready to vote the war, whatever its motive, a wise war and a righteous, if it gave the Rhine to France. All with one exception: the old academician shook his head, and muttered some broken sentences in which the words, _démence_, _fanfaronnade_, _ruine du commerce_, _feu follet de la gloire_, _décadence des mœurs_, _jour de rétribution_, etc., were audible through the general hubbub.

“What a people, _mon Dieu_!” murmured the philosopher to himself, as, descending the softly carpeted stairs, cries of “A Berlin! A Berlin dans six semaines! Vive le Rhin! Vive la guerre!” followed him through the open door of Berthe’s apartment; “fitful as the wind, passing from reason to madness, from heroism to absurdity, as the weathercock turns with the breeze.” The word that touches our vanity, touches every chord in our nature, and sets us in a blaze, just as the spark fires the powder-flask. _Quel peuple? Mon Dieu, quel peuple!_

REVIEW OF DR. STÖCKL’S PHILOSOPHY.[74]

We have already called attention to the necessity of providing sound philosophical text-books and manuals in the vernacular tongues, particularly the English, with which we are specially concerned. We have also expressed our conviction that the only philosophy which has any claim or fitness to be adopted in our places of education is the scholastic philosophy. Those who are capable of studying this philosophy in the more extensive and elaborate works of our great Catholic authors, have all they need for prosecuting their studies to any degree they please. More elementary treatises and compendiums in the Latin language are also at hand for those who can make use of them with facility. But those who cannot do so need to have books in their own language, and made level to their mental capacity and actual knowledge. And even those who are able to study in Latin text-books may derive great assistance from a good manual written in their own vernacular, for many reasons which are obvious, especially if they are not perfect in their knowledge of Latin. Besides this, there are many persons whose education is already completed, who would derive great pleasure and profit from a book of this kind. The English and American educated world is so unfamiliar with the ancient philosophy of the Catholic schools, that there is need of an interpreter who can make it intelligible, and domesticate it in our vernacular scientific literature. Numbers of educated persons, and even clergymen, who are converts and have received a Protestant collegiate education, or, if old Catholics, have not been thoroughly taught philosophy according to the scholastic method, have derived their information on the subject mostly from the miscellaneous philosophical literature of England and America, and perhaps, also, of France and Germany. In this miscellaneous literature there is much that is valuable, and even of great value, the product of highly gifted and cultivated minds imbued with sound and elevated principles, containing a vast amount of truth and conclusive argument. There is wanting, however, the scientific precision, definiteness and fixedness of terminology, and completeness, which are found only in the masters and disciples of the scholastic method. Protestants, and to a great extent Catholics also, have been at sea in philosophy ever since the unfortunate epoch of the Lutheran schism. The evil began in that fresh outbreak of paganism, miscalled _renaissance_; a revolt against the science and the civilization founded by the Holy See, the hierarchy, and the monastic orders, the only truly Christian science and civilization; a retrograde movement of the most fatal sort under the name of progression. The vain and frivolous scholars of that period brought St. Thomas and the scholastic theology and philosophy into contempt among the crowd of their followers. They affected to be Platonists, because the philosophy of Plato was at that time something strange and novel, and afforded them the chance of displaying their knowledge of Greek. The leaders of the religious revolt of the age of Leo X., at which time the disorder culminated, pretended to go back to the Hebrew and Greek Scriptures and the Fathers; where they could evade the contest with scholastic theology, and make a show of learning and pure Biblical and patristic doctrine for a considerable time. The scholastic theology has, however, fully avenged itself. It has defeated the enemies of the church who have attacked the Catholic faith from without. Within the church, it has established its supremacy, and subdued all those who have professed and endeavored to substitute a new system of theology for the old, while retaining the dogmas of faith. The pitiable and abortive effort to produce a new _renaissance_, which occasioned so much both of scandal and ridicule during the time of the Vatican Council, was marked by a specially violent assault on St. Thomas and St. Alphonsus, the two great doctors of the church in dogmatic and moral theology respectively. The result has been the triumph of both. The Angel of the Schools has gone up to a pinnacle of honor and glory above that which he had ever before attained, and it is safe to predict that his supremacy as the master of sacred science will never more be seriously questioned. The great champion of the thoroughly Roman teaching in doctrine, piety and morals, has been crowned with the doctorate at the petition of a vast body of the men highest in learning and office in the church. The great theological controversies are substantially finished and settled, and Catholic theology is very nearly complete. Philosophy is now the great field for intellectual activity, and that consolidated union in philosophical teaching which has been secured in theology is the end toward which the efforts of all the ardent and loyal lovers of the divine Truth should be directed.

This end can be secured only by following the same principles and methods in philosophy which have effected and secured unity and uniformity in theological doctrine. The scholastic philosophy must accompany the scholastic theology. This is obvious, without entering into the intrinsic merits of the question. No other system has that authority, that general prevalence, that scientific precision and completeness, that sanction of the rulers of the church, the great teaching orders, and the body of directors and professors of seminaries and strictly Catholic colleges, which are requisite for producing unity and uniformity in instruction. Those who do not follow the scholastic philosophy are divided into small parties holding the most opposite opinions and mutually hostile to each other; and these parties are again subdivided into smaller sections. The subject matter of this difference is not the mere corollaries and remote conclusions, or the high speculative questions of philosophy, not essentially affecting its substance; as is the case with the differences among strict adherents to scholastic theology and philosophy; but the very substance, the first principles, the guiding rules of philosophy itself. What likelihood is there that any one of these systems will ever conquer for itself sufficient territory or unite a sufficient number of suffrages to become the reigning doctrine? The history of the disputes which have gone on within and without the church during three centuries, since the decay of the influence of scholastic philosophy, may answer the question. Either we must give up the hope of attaining unity, and let philosophy degenerate into a mere theme of endless discussion among rival parties, like doctrine among the Protestants, or we must range ourselves under the banner of the ancient and still numerous and powerful school of the Angelic Doctor.

The first of these alternatives we must decidedly reprobate, as contrary to the Catholic sense, and incompatible with the respect which is due to the judgment and authority of the church. It is evident that philosophical instruction is regarded in the church as highly important and necessary, and as an essential part of Catholic education, more especially for those who are preparing for the study of theology. The sense of its importance is increasing instead of diminishing. Everywhere longer time and greater pains are bestowed upon it, and we have been told that it is the desire of the Sovereign Pontiff that the theological course should rather be shortened if necessary, than that philosophy should fail to receive its adequate proportion of the time allotted to the curriculum of the ecclesiastical seminary. All this implies that philosophy, like theology, is a true science, having its certain principles, methods, and doctrines. And if this is so, we are to look for it where the queen of sciences, whose herald and prime minister it is--Catholic theology--announces her magisterial teaching, and not in any particular school set up by private authority. In fact, the scholastic philosophy is an intimate and essential part of scholastic theology, which would be decomposed if its other elements were separated from this one, and be resolved into a mere collection of dogmas and doctrines without logical coherence. We may infer, therefore, from the express sanction which the church has given to scholastic theology, her approbation of scholastic philosophy. This tacit and implied approbation is also manifested in her practical action. The Holy See, the greater number of bishops, and the body of those ecclesiastics in high positions of authority who have control over strictly Catholic colleges, sanction and establish the teaching of scholastic philosophy, encourage works and authors professing to follow it, and in many ways repress and discourage whatever is contrary to it. More than this, the Holy See, during the reigns of our present Sovereign Pontiff and his illustrious predecessor, Gregory XVI., has repeatedly intervened by acts of supreme authority, in which books, authors, systems, and propositions have been censured and condemned on account of their teaching philosophical errors contrary to the received doctrine, and either subversive of or dangerous to the faith. The Fathers of the Council of the Vatican were occupied during several months with discussions upon fundamental questions of philosophy, the result of which is visible in the decrees of the Council. The doctrines which all Catholics are obliged to hold and teach have thus been to a certain extent defined and declared, and the limits marked beyond which they are forbidden to stray. We have occasion, at present, to specify only two of the erroneous doctrines which have been thus condemned, viz.: that which is called Traditionalism, and another commonly known under the name of Ontologism. We notice these, because both errors arose among sincere Catholics, and were the chief cause of dissension concerning philosophical doctrines in our own ranks, so that their condemnation has had a direct effect towards unity in teaching, especially as most of the principal persons concerned submitted obediently to the decision of authority. The first of these errors was an extreme anti-rationalism, tending to subvert and sweep away all philosophy, and upon this we have no need to enlarge. The second was of far greater import, as it professed to be a new and perfect philosophy, and was the most formidable antagonist which the scholastic philosophy has ever had to encounter. The question is still a living one, and the discussion of it is not yet over. Moreover, it relates to the very foundation of philosophy and theology, and has the most wide-reaching relations, wherefore we feel it to be necessary to be very careful and exact in what we say on the subject. That ontologism which we call an error is a certain ideological doctrine professing to be a true _scientia entis_, or science of being, and to be, therefore, the true and only real metaphysic. It has received its name from this profession of its advocates, and from common usage, for the want of one more specific and definite. It must not be supposed, however, that it is called an error on account of its being ontological, as if there were no true ontology, since this latter is the most essential part of philosophy itself. Nor is it correct to say that the doctrine of all those who call themselves ontologists by way of distinction from those whom they call psychologists, but whom we prefer to designate rather as Platonists in distinction from Peripatetics or Aristotelians, is a condemned error. The condemned error, as we understand it, after carefully examining and reflecting upon the matter for several years, is a false and heterodox ontological doctrine, which radically and principally consists in the affirmation of _a natural power in the created intellect to know God in himself_, as infinite and necessary being, or in any other ideal aspect. The essence of the error consists in that part of the affirmation which is expressed by the term _in himself_, denoting that the very idea which is the object of the divine intelligence and is identical with it, and is really the divine essence itself considered as intelligible, is the idea of the created, and specifically of the human, intellect. The falsity of the doctrine consists in this, that it substitutes an imaginary intuition of God, which has no existence, for the real intuition of the connatural object of the created intellect; and an explicit cognition of God explicated from this intuition for that cognition which human reason is actually capable of attaining, by discursion from self-evident truths which the developed intellect possesses as its first principles. It therefore overturns true philosophy and natural theology, and destroys the very cause which its advocates are most anxious to promote. It is heterodox, because its logical consequences annihilate the distinction between the natural light of reason and the supernatural lights of faith and glory, and, by ascribing to the natural condition of the creature that which belongs only to its deific condition, tend to annihilate the essential difference between the Word of God and the creatures of God, the Only Begotten Son of God and his adopted sons; thus introducing pantheism by a covert road, into which Platonists and mystics have always been in danger of straying unawares. The authors and advocates of this doctrine have been, at least in many cases, holy men of orthodox faith, who have strenuously denied its logical consequences. Wherefore, the condemnation of their opinions has been made in a very gentle and considerate manner, and their personal character as Catholics has not been compromised, unless they have shown a spirit of contumacious resistance to the authority of the Holy See. They have not fallen into heresy, but into philosophical error, and that in good faith, and before the authority of the church had given judgment. Several of the most distinguished among them have made a formal recantation of their doctrine, others have done the same tacitly, and we may take it as a settled fact that the ontologism condemned at Rome is banished for ever from the Catholic schools.

It is equally certain, however, that there is an ideology, distinct from that of the Thomist school, and frequently called ontologism, which is not condemned. Its advocates profess to find it in St. Augustine. It is probably contained in the doctrine of St. Bonaventura. It is the doctrine taught in the later and more mature works of the great and saintly Cardinal Gerdil, who was in his youth a disciple of Malebranche the author of the theory of the vision in God. And it is still maintained, under various forms, by a considerable number of most respectable persons in the church. Rosmini is well known as the author of a system which bears an affinity to it, and, in a general sense, it may be said to include all those Catholic teachers and disciples of philosophy who are Platonists rather than Aristotelians. It is certain, we say, that this ideology, distinct alike from that of the Thomists and the pure ontologists, is not condemned. This is proved by the answers given to queries on the subject by persons connected with the Roman congregations, by the fact that the doctrines in question are openly advocated in lectures and published works under the eye of the Sovereign Pontiff, and by the express or tacit admission of the opponents of ontologism. We have been informed also by a distinguished prelate who was present at the discussions of the Vatican Council, that such was the general understanding of the bishops there assembled.

This ideology gives the human intellect an idea created by an immediate illumination of God, and preceding all apprehension and perception of particular, finite objects. It may be an idea of God, of the infinite, of being, of the necessary and universal, under any aspect, or under many distinct aspects; or it may be an assemblage of ideas representing both the infinite, and finite exterior objects. According to St. Bonaventura, it is an idea representing God; according to Rosmini it is idea of _ens in genere_. But in whatever way this theory of innate ideas may be expressed, the intellectual object is always an image, something created with and in the mind, and even where it represents God, or the archetypal ideas of God, it is not identified with the uncreated _ens_ of which it is the created image. The theory is therefore free from the censures of the church. It is necessary, however, for those who still adhere to the Platonic ideology to be very careful and accurate in their expressions, in order to avoid the likelihood of being understood by their readers to teach condemned propositions. The looseness of language which is more or less found in the more ancient authors; in all authors not familiar with the scholastic method, unless they have a precise terminology of their own, which is another difficulty in the way of understanding them; and the abstruseness of the subject itself, produce a great deal of misunderstanding. There is a great deal of obscurity in the writings of Plato whenever he speaks of ideology, and his disciples have inherited the same. It has been quite possible, therefore, for writers whose doctrine is sound to use the language and adopt many of the ideas of the celebrated authors of the ontologistic party, without really apprehending the nature and bearings of that erroneous doctrine which was at the bottom of their whole system. These authors have frequently expressed their ideas under terms and forms of expression borrowed from St. Augustine, St. Bonaventura, Gerdil, Fénelon, and other well-known doctors, prelates, and theologians. Very few of them have elaborated their doctrine with sufficient completeness and precision to make it easy to be understood. Those who have done so have been the occasion of its precise formulation and condemnation in the famous seven propositions. But, now that the supreme authority in the church has distinctly specified what errors of ontologism must be rejected as dangerous to faith, it is specially important that every Catholic writer should be precise, accurate, and clear in his language, so that he may not be misunderstood even by the ordinary student or reader of philosophical essays. The supreme, infallible authority of the Holy See has not, in condemning certain errors, prescribed or defined what precisely is the true ideological doctrine. Catholic philosophers must therefore seek to come to as close an agreement as possible by the way of reason. In order to do this, it is necessary that the method and terminology sanctioned by ancient and general usage should be strictly adhered to, since, otherwise, endless discussion will be the only result. We think, moreover, as we have already said, that this agreement can only be effected by means of the ideology of St. Thomas. The church has not, indeed, formally approved it, but, in our opinion, she has condemned that which is its only logical alternative. Therefore, we trust in the power of reason and logic to bring all master-minds into agreement with St. Thomas, and in the authority of these teachers and leaders to secure the adhesion of the great majority, who must ever be their disciples. It is, we believe, ignorance or misapprehension of the scholastic philosophy, as taught in the school of St. Thomas, which has been the occasion of the attempt made by so many highly gifted and noble-hearted men to fabricate out of Platonism a better ideology. Disgust at nominalism, sensism, and psychologism, abhorrence of the scepticism into which Hume and Kant sought to resolve all knowledge and belief, have driven them to seek for a self-subsisting, objective foundation of the ideal, separate from and independent of the sensible. Irresistible logic has impelled them by degrees toward the ultimatum which the pure ontologists have reached; and which is simply the affirmation of God existing in his attribute of absolute being, the infinite, or archetypal truth, beauty, and goodness, to which Gioberti adds in the creative act; as the immediate ideal object of the intellect. They have supposed that this is the only alternative of the opposite extreme, and have put aside the scholastic ideology as halting between the two upon untenable ground. The opinion which they have of its inconsistency and insufficiency is distinctly expressed in the oft-repeated assertion that it is mere psychologism. This term properly denotes any system which makes ideas mere subjective modes of the mind. It is obvious that every species of semi-ontologism, every theory of innate ideas, every system shaped out of Platonic elements, which separates ideas from the sensible as the centre of their concretion and their focus of visibility to the human intellect, without locating them in God, is psychologism. But it is not true of the philosophy of Aristotle and St. Thomas, that it reduces ideas to this condition of subjectivity, no better than that of the phantoms which arise in the imagination of the sleeper or the day-dreamer. In this philosophy, the intelligible object has a reality exterior to the mind, which it directly perceives, and by which as a medium it attains self-evident and demonstrated truths, having their foundation in the eternal truth, in the infinite, in absolute being, in the Word, in God; who is the object of the mediate intellectual vision of the mind, as the apostle declares. _Invisibilia ipsius; per ea quæ facta sunt, intellecta, conspiciuntur._ His invisible perfections are disclosed to our sight, being perceived by the intellect through those things which are made. _Videmus nunc per speculum._ We see even now, although only in a mirror. The scholastic philosophy is not identical with any merely sensistic, conceptualistic, or empirical system. It does not reduce ideas to mere abstractions, make philosophy a mere induction from the results of experience, or the knowledge of God by reason the sum of an aggregate mass of probabilities. It is not in any wise a system of subjectivism. On the contrary, it is objective in the highest sense of the term, and truly ontological, the real _scientia entis_, and not an imaginary one like that of the so-called ontologists. If this be so, the whole ground of the prejudice against the Catholic peripatetic philosophy falls away, and there is no reason to desert the common teaching of the schools for any other doctrine, either ancient or modern.

The four great masters in philosophy are Plato, Aristotle, St. Augustine, and St. Thomas. Plato is rather a teacher of theology and ethics than of metaphysics. His doctrine concerning God, the immortality of the soul, and the moral ideal, is in many respects purer and more sublime than that of his pupil. Yet Aristotle deserves _par excellence_ the title of the heathen philosopher. The name of _the dæmon_ given to him by his fellow-pupils on account of his wonderful intellect well expresses what he really was--the greatest intellectual prodigy that has appeared in human history, the real creator of logical and metaphysical science. St. Augustine followed Plato rather than any other heathen philosopher, and does not appear to have been acquainted with the works of Aristotle. Yet his philosophy as a whole was original; it was chiefly his theology under a rational aspect; it was by no means a complete and distinct system. St. Thomas, with the Aristotelian system as a plan and basis, built the vast and sublime structure of a Catholic philosophy. Although it may be true that he derived his knowledge of Plato chiefly from Aristotle, and the latter may have misrepresented his master; yet, through St. Augustine, he obtained all that was really valuable in Plato purified and improved; and has thus incorporated into his system everything, whether pagan or Christian, which tradition had brought down to his time. As Aristotle is the dæmon, St. Thomas is the angel of philosophy. It is difficult to compare his natural gifts with those of Aristotle in such a way as to make a relative estimate of the genius of the two men. But in actual wisdom, enlightened as he was by revelation and the Christian luminaries of the ages which preceded him, and elevated above the natural capacities of man by the gifts of the Holy Ghost, he is like the bright mid-day sun compared to the pale orb of night. All other stars in the firmament must be content to shine as lesser lights, and the brightest among them are only his planets. Metaphysical genius of the highest order is the rarest of gifts. Clement of Alexandria thought that the Greek philosophy had not arisen without a special act of the divine providence which was preparing the way for Christian theology. When we consider the wonderful work accomplished by Aristotle, and the manner in which his philosophy has become blended with the theology of the church, we cannot fail to recognize the hand of God making use of the human intellect in its most consummate perfection as the servant of the Eternal Word in his mission as the teacher of divine truth. Much more must we recognize the same divine hand in the genius and work of St. Thomas. God does his work once for all. The apostles finished their special work, the fathers finished theirs, and we can have no more apostles or fathers of the church. The doctors have done their work, and, although they may have left room for successors, yet this is not in the sense that their work is to be done over again. We do not believe there can ever arise another St. Thomas to reconstruct more perfectly the edifice of theology and philosophy in those parts which he has built, and these are its essential and principal parts. Of theology we need not speak particularly. Of philosophy, the principal parts are those which give a scientific exposition of the rational basis of theology; that is, which treat scientifically of the objective reality of the intelligible which the human intellect perceives by its natural power; of the first principles of reason; of self-evident and demonstrable truth; of the process by which the mind ascends from the knowledge of things to the knowledge of their highest and creative cause, from the creature to the Creator, from the visible and ideal world to God, from the knowledge of God through the creation to the knowledge of God through revelation. It is precisely here, as we have shown, that the dispute lies between scholastic philosophy and ontologism. And it is precisely what we claim for scholastic philosophy, that it gives us the true science of ideology and theodicy, which satisfies reason and accords with faith, and is really that which is implicitly and confusedly possessed by the common sense of all men, especially of all Christians, in proportion to the degree in which reason is developed and instructed. This has been proved in the most thorough and ample manner by F. Liberatore in his great work _Della Conoscenza Intelletuale_, F. Kleutgen in his _Philosophie der Vorzeit_, and F. Ramière in his _Unité de l’Enseignement Philosophique_, as well as in other recent works of the same kind.

We will endeavor to give a statement as succinct and clear as possible of the scholastic theory, in order that its opposition to every form of sensism, idealism, and ontologism may be apparent.

In thought or cognition, we find by analysis these three, the subject, the object, and the intellectual light; as in vision we have the visual faculty, light, and the visible object. The subject is the human intellect; the primary, immediate object is the intelligible in the sensible, or the essences of sensible things; the light is intelligence. It is a primary maxim that nothing is in the intellect which was not first in the sense. Sensible experience is therefore the starting point of thought. The thought itself is the result of an active operation of the intellect upon a passive impression which it receives from the object. This active operation produces a similitude of the object (species) in the mind, by which it becomes cognizant of the object itself as distinct from and extrinsic to the subject. The intelligible essence which is in the sensible object is distinguished and made the object of apprehension by the process of abstraction. In this intelligible essence, or what is called in common parlance “the nature of things,” are contained the fundamental notions which are the first germs of all intellectual processes, the first product of the act of abstraction which is the beginning of intellectual activity in the infant. In these notions are given the first principles, the self-evident principles, the axioms of reason; and with these reason is able to start the discursive process, by which it demonstrates conclusions from premises, which in the last analysis are intellections _a priori_ and self-evident. By this reasoning process, the existence and attributes of God are proved from the rational and material universe by the principle of causality, which is one of the self-evident principles. Self-consciousness begins as soon as the mind takes note of itself as acting, and thus the subject becomes objective to itself without any need of a species or impressed similitude of itself, because it is itself, and present to itself, and more vividly cognizant of itself in acting than of anything exterior to itself. The notions derived from reflection on its own operations are thus added to those which are derived by abstraction from sensible objects. The immediate perception terminates only on particular individual objects, but the notions obtained by abstraction are universal, whence it is necessary to define in what consists the objective reality of these universals. The universal is defined by Aristotle as that which is one, but having aptitude to be contained in many. That is, it is _genus_, with whatever is included under genus, to wit, species, differentia, essential and accidental propriety. For instance, the notion of man is the notion of a nature which is one, but apt to be contained in an indefinite number of men. It includes the genus animal, the species rational animal, the differentia rationality, the essential propriety, or the entire human constitution, mental and physical, and, in respect to the varieties of race, the accidental proprieties which distinguish each one from the others. All particular and individual objects of cognition can be classed under these five predicaments of the universal. The universal itself has its formal existence and reality, as universal, only in the intellect. It is a conception of the mind, formed by abstraction from the concrete and particular. It is not, however, a mere abstract conception, but an abstractive conception. An abstract conception is one in which a quality is considered as separated by thought from any particular subject in which it has residence, as goodness or sweetness. An abstractive conception, as that of the human species, is one formed from the consideration of men actually existing, in whom the species is actually individualized. The conception has, therefore, its foundation in the real object of mental intuition, the individual man, and in him the whole that is contained in the universal conception really exists. The conception is universal, because the intellect perceives the intrinsic possibility of an indefinite multitude of men in the very essence of man, as made known by the existence of any one man in particular. This possibility is something necessarily and eternally true, which is disclosed to the intellect by means of its outward expression and realization in the human race. That is to say, it is a thought which has been expressed and communicated, by an intelligence in which the possibility eternally and essentially subsists, to the human intelligence. The foundation of the universal conception is therefore in God. It is in God as archetype of man, as the reason of the possibility of man’s nature, and the cause of his existence. But the idea in God is totally different from the conception in the mind of man. God understands the possibility of the existence of man in the vision of his own essence, as imitable in this particular form, and of his own creative power. But man cannot see this idea as it is in God; he cannot compare the human type with its archetype. He can only produce an afterthought of the divine thought itself, a copy or imitation of the divine idea, which is wholly inaccessible to his immediate vision, and is only known to him inasmuch as it is manifested through the created type.

Let us take another example, that of a triangle. The figure drawn on the blackboard is the sensible object. The conception of a triangle is the intelligible object formed by abstraction, and universal. In this conception are contained the general notions of a point, a line, an angle; and in these notions are involved several self-evident principles or axioms. From these are demonstrated the various mathematical propositions of trigonometry. It is easy to see that, in the intellectual process of the pupil’s mind, the genesis and development of the act of cognition of mathematical truth is precisely what has been above described. In an intelligent and well-developed mind, many of the steps of the process may be made with such ease and rapidity that they appear to be instantaneous, and the conceptions gained are so clear and evident that they appear like innate or intuitive ideas. But they are not so, and this is made manifest enough in the case of dull or slow-minded pupils. The conception of the triangle, with all the mathematical truth which it contains, is necessary, universal, and eternal. It has, therefore, its foundation in necessary being, or in the divine intelligence. But it is in God in an eminent mode, and formally only in the human intellect. Geometrical truth is founded in the essence of God, who is the archetype of the triangle and of every other geometrical figure. But that which the triangle imitates the human intellect cannot see; the divine idea in which mathematical truth as apprehended by us is eminently contained is inapprehensible by any created mind; and the procession of the divine thoughts expressed in quantity and its relations in a manner intelligible to us, from the divine essence, is as much above our understanding as the procession of the Holy Spirit from the Father and the Son. It is impossible to think of mathematical conceptions except as having objective verity, and equally impossible to think of them as identical with the ideal being of God; they must be, therefore, as St. Thomas teaches, concrete only in particular quantities, but in their universality, _conceptus mentis cum fundamento in re_.

It is the same with the conceptions of time and space. These conceptions come from the apprehension of things which succeed or coexist with each other. Real time and space are relations of real and finite things. Ideal time and space are necessarily conceived as illimitable. It is equally evident that these conceptions of illimitable time and space are not purely subjective categories of the mind, and that they are not, in the formality which they have in our mind, either eternal realities in themselves or identical with God. They have a foundation in the divine essence, which we can demonstrate to be nothing else than the infinite possibility of being imitated in created existences. But this is a conclusion of reason, and not an intuition of the divine essence as infinite archetype. In our minds, the conceptions represent space and time as boundless extended locality and boundless successive duration, as Locke and Clarke have so clearly set forth, and as every one knows by his own reflections. As conceptions of the universal, they have their existence, therefore, only in the mind, while their foundation is in reality. They presuppose and demand an eternal thinker and an eternal thought; we can see immediately neither the thought nor the thinker as they are in themselves, but we behold both mediately by the conceptions of the universal and the necessary; which reflect in our minds the eternal thought of the eternal thinker, the eternal idea of the eternal God.

In point of fact, ontologists are obliged to admit that the process of the act of the cognition of the infinite is historically the same in substance with that which we have just explained. Their immediate ideal intuition is something involute and out of the reach of consciousness, until contact with sensible objects, reflection, experience and instruction bring it into the state of evolution. On the one hand, this proves that it has no existence, except in their own imagination. An innate or intuitive idea of God would make his infinite splendor to shine on the mind with such incessant and dazzling splendor, that the sunlight would appear as darkness, and finite things as nonentities, before it. It would be impossible to doubt or to forget it, if it existed. On the other hand, this shows that the scholastic theory of the origin of ideas and knowledge adequately expresses everything which they can reasonably desire in respect to the relation of the intellect to the infinite, or real and necessary being, as the object of cognition. The idea of the infinite and the knowledge of God are _virtually_ in the intellect, because the light of reason, a participation of the divine light, gives it the potentiality which can be reduced to act by union with the intelligible object. The theory which ascribes to the newly created soul something besides its rational capacity, which it brings with it as a kind of form to vivify the sensible object, or keeps as a distinct ideal object within itself, is wholly unnecessary and superfluous. It is, moreover, not in accordance with the true doctrine respecting the human soul as _forma corporis_. It belongs rather to that imperfect philosophy which ascribes to the soul in this life a separate and independent subsistence, into which the body does not enter as an integral part of the personality, but which it merely serves as a machine. The scholastic doctrine preserves the unity of the essence and the operation of man, as a rational animal. That an intellectual operation should begin from our senses, and the mind commence its existence in its rudimental body as a _tabula rasa_, is in accordance with our humble position in the natural order. The capacity for gaining knowledge by the slow process of experience and discursion is all that we have any right to claim for ourselves. It is enough for us that we are rational, that “the light of God’s countenance is signed upon us” by the impress of an image of his intelligence upon our souls; and that we are enlightened by “that light which enlighteneth every man coming into this world” by receiving the power to know God as manifested in his works. We are certainly a “little lower than the angels,” who have no natural vision of God in his essence, and how are we essentially inferior to them, except in the necessity of beginning the process of intellectual cognition from the apprehension of sensible objects? It still remains true that God is both the author and the object of knowledge even in the natural order, and that we naturally tend to the contemplation of his being and perfections. But this process carried on for eternity could never bring us to a point where we could obtain the faintest glimpse of an intuitive vision of the divine essence. The capacity to attain to this vision is wholly gratuitous and supernatural, a gift of grace, an elevation of our nature above itself, and above the angelic nature to a similitude with the divine nature. The actual vision is reserved for the state of glory in which the blessed see God in himself and all things in God. The scholastic philosophy is therefore in conformity with Catholic theology, and a proper preparation for studying and understanding this sublime science. Every other system is either in discord with it, or deficient in the perfect logical concord which ought to make the inferior harmonize completely with the superior science.

The revival of scholastic philosophy, and the general consent with which, in all parts of the world, those who lead in the great work of Catholic education and instruction are uniting together in promoting its study and exposition, are a most hopeful sign for the coming age. It is especially encouraging to witness this revival in Germany; and to see the powerful and heavily panoplied champions of orthodox theology and sound philosophy coming forth from the German schools, to meet and overthrow the boastful giants of that land of colossal intelligence and learning; who defy the armies of the living God and aim at an imperial domination over the world of science, as its statesmen and warriors do over the political world. They are but giants of condensed cloud, like the genii of Arabian fable who escaped from the bottles of King Solomon. The wisdom of Solomon subdued these genii, and it is the true wisdom, _sapientia_, which must subdue the cloudy giants of critical, historical, and philosophical sophistry; the Bruno Bauers, Strausses, Döllingers, Kants, Hegels, and Büchners, who make war on the old Bible, the old church, the old religion, the old philosophy, the old God of Germany and Christendom. A nephew of Hegel and pupil of Feuerbach asked the latter what was to be done next, since the Kantian philosophy had ended in the complete dissolution of all science. The reply was, that we must return to common sense. The pupil followed the advice by returning to the old God and the old religion. To bring back the next generation to this old religion, and to educate in it the youth who have received it by their baptism in the church, is the great task of Catholic teachers. This can be done only by the aid of the old philosophy. The attempts made everywhere, but especially in Germany, to do this by a new philosophy and a new theology are all failures, and end only in betraying the whole cause of the church to the enemy. Those Catholic scholars of Germany who are sound and strong alike in their faith and in their science are beginning to see this, and are returning to the philosophy of the Angelic Doctor as the only fit companion to theology, the true wisdom in the rational order. Those who become the interpreters and teachers of this wisdom to the young are the most valuable and efficient of all laborers in the field of divine philosophy. They need to be thoroughly learned both in theology and philosophy, and at the same time to have a special gift for teaching and explaining doctrine in a condensed, lucid, and attractive manner.

In all these respects, Dr. Stöckl is pre-eminent. He has the vast and solid erudition of the great German scholars. He has, moreover, an intellect which is remarkable both for strength and clearness, a masterly reasoning faculty, great talent cultivated by long experience for instructing young students, and a style which represents his thoughts with the precision of a photograph. The German language is, moreover, of such a nature that, while it reproduces exactly the Latin terminology of scholastic writers, it brings out the idea in a new and fresh form, in which it becomes more intelligible to those who belong to the Teutonic race than it is in the Latin dress. We have never yet met with a manual of philosophy which seems to us so perfectly satisfactory as the _Manual_ of Dr. Stöckl; and the speedy call for a second edition which followed its publication, as well as the praise given to it by competent authorities, proves that it has met the want which has been felt in Germany as in Great Britain and America. Besides the ordinary topics which are treated in our text-books, it contains also treatises on political and social morals, and has a companion volume of small size which contains a masterly treatise on “Æsthetics.” We have noticed it especially for the purpose of recommending it to the examination of those who are engaged in promoting the study of the scholastic philosophy, as a suitable work to be translated into English for the use of students. It is perhaps too large for a college text-book. It contains about one thousand pages octavo, and would require two years’ study, with an ordinary class, to be properly mastered, in connection with the _Manual of the History of Philosophy_, which is a volume of equal size. Nevertheless, although a smaller text-book is needed for the majority of pupils, this one would make an admirable work of reference for more advanced scholars, and supply the other needs which we have pointed out in the earlier part of our article as calling for a book of this kind in the English language. The great cost of translation and publication, coupled with the risk of a small sale, makes it somewhat difficult to undertake the task we have suggested as desirable. It cannot be done, of course, without the author’s permission, which, we suppose, he will readily grant to those who can give the proper guarantee for the faithful and scholarly performance of the work. We intended, when sitting down to begin this article, to make only a brief introduction of our own to a translation of the author’s chapter on the “Origin of Ideas,” as a specimen of the work. But we have not done so, as the reader knows, and have been unwittingly led on over such a length of space that we have left no room for any citations from the author, or minute review of the different parts of his philosophy. We trust that he will become speedily known to all lovers of the philosophy of St. Thomas, which he has so ably presented and defended, and we are sure that he needs only to be known to be most highly appreciated.

FOOTNOTE:

[74] _Lehrbuch der Philosophie._ Von Dr. Albert Stöckl, ord. Professor der Philosophie an der Akademie Münster. Mainz: F. Kirchheim. 1869.

FLEURANGE.

BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF “A SISTER’S STORY.”

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION.

PART SECOND.

THE TRIAL.

XVI.

“The princess begs Mademoiselle Gabrielle to descend.” This message was brought Fleurange by one of the servants of the princess, whose attendants were a German valet de chambre, an Italian courier, and a Russian waiting-maid. The latter, named Varinka, literally belonged to the princess, being her slave. But Varinka, skilful and intelligent like all the Russians of her class, kindly treated by her mistress, to whom she was faithfully attached, and clothed in her cast-off garments, did not look upon her condition as in the least humiliating. In French she was called Mademoiselle Barbe, in Italian the Signora Barbara, and she considered herself, and indeed was regarded, as one of the most accomplished of servants. Extremely exacting of all who were beneath her, and inclined to be jealous of those she considered her equals, she at first wished to class the princess’ new _demoiselle de compagnie_ among the latter. But Fleurange, without even observing this, knew how to take the place that belonged to her, and oblige Mademoiselle Barbe to maintain a respectful deportment towards her. Barbara was consequently inclined to dislike her, but, after some attentive observation, she had sufficient wit to refrain. The fact was, Fleurange’s activity relieved her from a part of her cares without increasing them in the least (for the young girl never required any one’s assistance), and used her influence in a way which every one else profited by as well as Barbara. When the Princess was recovering from one of the attacks of physical suffering that all at once showed how unavailing were the comforts, luxuries, and attentions that surrounded her, she dwelt constantly on her illness, its cause, duration, and probable or improbable cure, and under the influence of this preoccupation she became capricious, whimsical, and almost impossible to satisfy. No one had ever succeeded so well as Fleurange. Mademoiselle Barbe could not help acknowledging, “She really has all the trouble of keeping madame in a good humor, and we the benefit of it,” and this plain reasoning made her decide to live at peace with the new-comer, and take all possible advantage of the accommodating turn she noticed in Fleurange, who thus unwittingly disarmed her enemy and converted her into an ally, and almost a friend.

The princess’ message, which put an end to the young girl’s pleasant dreams, was, it must be acknowledged, merely an invention of Mademoiselle Barbe’s, who, being told by the courier it was very delightful on deck, was suddenly seized with the desire of a walk by moonlight. With this end in view, she sent the courier for Fleurange. As before stated, she was sure Mademoiselle Gabrielle would come down immediately without making any objections or asking any questions, which was one of her meritorious qualities in the eyes of this sagacious servant. “That young lady does not meddle with what does not concern her, which, I must acknowledge, is very agreeable,” she said.

As she had foreseen, Fleurange left her seat in the open air without any objection, and went down to the ladies’ cabin, of which the princess had exclusive possession. She found the invalid asleep, and quietly took a seat beside her without questioning the exactness of the message she had just received. Throwing off the cloak she wore, she said: “Here, Barbara, put on this, if you like, and go up and take the air. It is delightful on deck.”

It was by such pleasing good humor she had unintentionally made a conquest of one who naturally regarded Fleurange as a rival, and this, above all the qualities she possessed, was the charm that had most power over the princess, and changed the sudden infatuation to which she was liable (like most of the ladies of her country) into something deeper and more permanent.

The Princess Catherine was lying on a couch, her head propped up by several cushions, and her feet covered with a cashmere shawl. In spite of her age and ill health, which had changed the outlines of her face and form, beauty and grace had not disappeared without leaving on her person traces much less fleeting than beauty itself. Fleurange, looking at her face by the light of a lamp suspended from the ceiling, could not help admiring her noble brow, and the expressiveness as well as the still remarkable delicacy of her features. Suddenly, as she thus sat contemplating her with more attention than ever before, it seemed as if the face before her awoke some indistinct remembrance--but before she could grasp the idea that suddenly came into her mind, the princess opened her eyes. Seeing Fleurange beside her, she smiled, and extended her beautiful hand.

“You here, Gabrielle?” she said. “So much the better.”

“I was told you wanted me.”

“No; but I am very glad you are here.”

Fleurange bent down, and kissed the hand she held with an impulse more affectionate than she had ever felt towards her before. The princess seemed touched, and pressed her hand in return without speaking. Then she went to sleep again. Fleurange remained with her eyes fastened on her a long time, then she too lay down on a couch at the other end of the cabin, to pass away the few hours that yet remained before their arrival at Leghorn, which would be about daybreak.

At that time, long before the era of railways, the route from Leghorn to Florence, a long and dusty one, was not always traversed in a single day, and our travellers stopped at Pisa for the night. The princess no longer felt any interest in the places she had visited so many times. She had only one wish, and that was--to rest, and, once rested, to resume the journey. But it was quite otherwise with Fleurange. Pisa was her birthplace. In Pisa lay buried the mother she never knew. Here her father brought her during the few happy days they passed together. How many vicissitudes her young life had passed through since that time! How many sorrows and joys she had experienced! How many ties she had formed and broken! And with what interest she already dwelt on the past at an age when others are only thinking of the future! As soon as it was light, long before the princess awoke, Fleurange went to pray beside her mother’s grave. Then she directed her steps towards the Campo Santo, around which she slowly walked. Of all the places she visited with her father, this was the one of which she retained the most vivid recollection. The paintings of the Campo Santo are like a poem which it is impossible to understand if ignorant of the language in which it is written. This language she learned from her father, and had not been allowed to forget it in her uncle’s house. She remembered that her cousin, without ever having visited this spot, was as familiar with all the paintings as herself. “How much poor Clement would enjoy all these beauties of nature and art, and these scenes of historic interest!” she said to herself. “How much he would enjoy Italy!”

She might have added that, like many of his countrymen, he already knew and loved

“The land where the lemon-trees bloom,”

without ever having seen it. Many Germans have loved it with a profound and material passion, fatal when satisfied by violent possession, but reciprocated and fruitful when the forced and hated union was broken and gave place to voluntary and acceptable alliance.

Leaving the Campo Santo, Fleurange went into the church, the wonderful Cathedral of Pisa, which cannot be compared to any other; for, if there are any finer, it is doubted or forgotten as soon as this is entered. Here Fleurange heard Mass, after which she remained a long time on her knees, praying, thinking of all those she loved, and looking around: and all this without losing her spirit of devotion. This may appear strange to those who wish to confine the soul’s impulse towards God within narrow and rigid limits. It is nevertheless certain that, in a simple and upright heart, a good will, a more ardent love of the eternal goodness, the resolutions so properly called a firm purpose of amendment, all these effects of prayer often spring from what does not naturally seem destined to produce them. In those lands where religion and the arts go hand in hand, and where the inspiration which guides the painter and the architect is the same that draws the believer to the foot of the altar, it often happens that a glance at a fresco or painting aids the soul more than a sermon in its upward flight, and in accomplishing the very act for which it is prostrate before God.

It was thus Fleurange, kneeling on the pavement, holding her closed book in her hand, meditated, looked around, and prayed. Among the thoughts floating in her mind, there was one especially which seemed to harmonize with everything around her: it was the remembrance of the cloister of Santa Maria, and the friend of her early childhood, whose features at this moment seemed to beam out of some of the holy faces on the walls around her. She was once more beneath the same sky, and sufficiently near to cherish a hope of seeing her. At this thought her eyes overflowed with tears. The remembrance of her childhood prevailed over all others, and rendered her prayer more concentrated and more fervent.

Mild and saintly Madre Maddalena!--perhaps at this same hour you, too, were praying--praying for the child that was still dear to you: perhaps, afar off, you echoed her prayer and made it more efficacious--the oft-recurring prayer now on Fleurange’s lips as she was about to leave the church: “Our Father, ... lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil!”

XVII.

For the first time since her illness, the princess rose above her languor, and resumed the faculty of talking of something besides herself. As they drew near the end of their journey, Fleurange perceived she knew how to converse, and that the indifference she sometimes manifested to what seemed most worthy of interest was not the result of ignorance, but simply a preference for something else. Like other people, she admired monuments, galleries, splendid churches, and museums, but she preferred the shops where she could procure the rarities she had a taste for, and liked to adorn her house with for the admiration of others. She enjoyed the brilliant sky of Italy and the comfort of its mild climate, so necessary to her health; but, if these advantages had not been accompanied by a sumptuous palace and a large circle of fashionable acquaintances, she would have regarded her expatriation as an exile, and found it but slightly mitigated by all the wonders of nature and art by which she was surrounded.

Their journey at last came to an end. The princess descended from her carriage at the foot of the magnificent entrance to her palace, so overjoyed at finding herself once more at home that the last traces of her recent malady disappeared as if by enchantment.

Numerous servants relieved Fleurange from the care of the light baggage with which the princess’ carriage was always encumbered, and she hastily followed her protectress up the broad steps of white marble that led to the first story. Here a vast hall ornamented with statues opened into apartments whose splendor surprised the young girl. She had already visited more than one palace in Italy with a similar display of grand proportions, frescoes, ceilings richly painted and gilded, but she had never seen anything comparable to the luxury of the furniture and the richness of the long suite of rooms through which they passed. When the princess came to the last, she stopped. This salon, smaller than the others, opened, as well as the one next it, upon a large covered terrace with frescoed arches, which, filled with flowers, rare plants, and seats of all forms and sizes, resembled a garden screened from the sun, and formed an appendage to the elegant apartment they had just entered, which was the princess’ private sitting-room. A table loaded with fruit-cake and ices stood in the centre of the room. The princess threw herself on a _chaise longue_. “We dine late,” said she. “I will take a biscuit and an ice. Eat something also yourself. But first take off your hat, lay down your satchel, and rest yourself. It is exceedingly warm.”

Fleurange attended to the princess’ wants, and then very willingly took a slight repast, which the heat of the mid-day hour made quite acceptable. While she stood taking an ice, the princess opened the pile of notes and letters on a small table near her. She read the notes first.

“Well, there are more people here than I expected. So much the better! Let me look over my cards.”

She read out a succession of names of people from various countries, with a running commentary on each which would have given the impression that these people she was so glad to find again were individually perfectly indifferent to her. Then she took up her letters.

“Ah! at last!” she exclaimed, tearing open a large envelope. “Let me see the date.--Now I am relieved!--Thank heaven, he is still there!” She read about a page, and then suddenly cried: “In less than a month? What, in less than a month?” Then she finished the letter in silence, and afterward remained a long time without speaking, but with an anxious and thoughtful look.

“Ah! Gabrielle, are you still here?” she said, rousing at last from her reverie. “I beg your pardon.” She rang. “You must be shown to your room. I advise you to take some repose. I shall do the same. We shall see each other again at seven o’clock, which is my hour. I expect hardly any one to-day, and shall wear my morning dress.”

Fleurange, thus dismissed, gladly followed the valet de chambre, who answered the bell, through the salons and up the grand staircase to the second story where her chamber was. There he left her with a respectful bow, after pointing out the corridor that gave access to the princess’ apartments without the necessity of passing through any of the rooms.

The chamber to which she was taken was handsome and spacious, but it seemed rather ornamented than furnished. Its size, its painting and gilding would have allowed much more and much richer furniture. But such as it was, it pleased the young girl’s fancy. The broad and lofty window in a deep embrasure admitted floods of light, but would have afforded no other view than the sky, if three stone steps had not made it accessible. From the upper step the eye looked down upon the interior court of the palace, which resembled a cloister with its light colonnade. A limpid stream flowed from a white marble fountain in the midst of velvet-like turf and surrounded by rhododendrons. Birds were warbling in a large aviary. All these things combined to make up a soft, pleasing picture, crowned by the azure vault of heaven--a picture singularly quiet and dreamy, and Fleurange remained a long time seated on a stone seat within the embrasure, allowing her thoughts to wander, as often happened, in vague regions, until a servant with her trunk reminded her it was time to descend in more than one sense from her elevation, and proceed to the matter-of-fact task of unpacking and arranging her effects. About to commence, she found she had left her satchel in the salon. As it contained her keys, she was obliged to go for it, and she took the short passage which led directly to the princess’ sitting-room; but, instead of returning the same way, she could not resist the desire of examining again, alone and at leisure, the sumptuous rooms she had only passed through before. She went leisurely through them, admiring as she went, with a mixture of childlike curiosity and an innate perception of the beautiful, all the objects that were collected here in uncommon profusion; but, notwithstanding the exquisite taste displayed, she could not help observing the ostentation, which by contrast vividly recalled the remembrance of the Old Mansion--the dear Old Mansion! where simplicity was so happily combined with the magnificence of art, where everything that charmed the eye appealed to the soul, inspired serenity and peace, and inclined one to application and study; whereas here, what met the eye and struck the attention spoke of amusement, luxury, and pride.

This comparison made Fleurange melancholy. She ceased looking around with interest, and was about to return to her chamber by the grand stairway without continuing her explorations, when, in crossing the hall, a large half-opened door opposite attracted her attention, and she yielded to the curiosity of glancing into the only apartment she had not seen. She pushed the door open, and entered a room equally as large as the others, but which seemed rather a study-room than a salon. The half-open shutters allowed the volumes in Russia leather that lined the walls to be seen, as well as the ebony book-cases on all sides. Furniture systematically arranged and protected by coverings, tables loaded with books placed in order as if no one had touched them for a long time, everything showed this room was unoccupied, and had not, like the rest, been prepared for the return of the mistress of the house; but a certain atmosphere of studious repose pervaded it which was more in conformity with Fleurange’s real tastes than all the magnificence she had just beheld. She therefore advanced some steps, looking around, and, the better to see the objects scarcely to be distinguished in the obscurity, she went to one of the windows and ventured to throw the shutters entirely open. The strong light which at once filled the room revealed a picture before her which she had not previously noticed. She glanced at it, and--it is impossible to describe her feelings!--She could not herself have found words to express her extreme astonishment and the overpowering emotion that made her turn pale and then red as she almost fell.--The picture thus suddenly revealed to her was that which had played so important a part in her life--her father’s last work--in a word, the Cordelia for which she had sat so long ago, and which she had never heard mentioned since without agitation!

For some moments she was overpowered by a thousand thoughts rushing over her--thoughts similar to those she had so successfully banished some months before by a supreme effort. It is not astonishing they should be involuntarily reawakened now. The lively curiosity with which she was filled was excusable, as well as her impatience to know how this picture came here, and whose room it was.--She felt she should soon know, and, with a heart still throbbing, she closed the shutters, and softly left the room in which she had just beheld this unexpected apparition, as it were.

She crossed the hall, and was at the foot of the stairs when she met Mademoiselle Barbe in a great hurry, and in that stage of fatigue bordering on ill-humor which, on a day of departure or arrival, is to be seen (and not wholly without reason) in those on whom rests the weight of packing and unpacking. Fleurange stopped her nevertheless, having resolved to ask an explanation of the first person she met.

“Barbara,” she said, “I have been examining all the rooms.”

These words brought a smile to the servant’s face, for she prided herself on the splendor of her mistress’ palace.

“We are well quartered, aren’t we?” she said, with an air of satisfaction.

“Yes, quite. Does the whole palace belong to the princess?”

“Certainly, from the garret to the cellar.”

“And she lives here alone?”

“Alone, of course, with Monsieur le Comte.”

“The count?”

“Yes; her son, who always lives with her when here. There--in that room,” said she, pointing towards the door Fleurange had just closed.

“Her son! What is his name?”

“Count George de Walden.”

“Count George de Walden?” echoed Fleurange, as if in a dream.

“Why, yes; that was the name of the princess’ first husband. Did you not know it?”

“No, I did not.”

“He died young--that one. Madame, too, was young. She mourned for him a long time, and then married again, but had no more children. The prince is dead also, but--”

Just at that moment a servant appeared with an armful of packages of all sizes, one of which fell from his hand. Barbara left Fleurange abruptly, and sought relief from her fatigue in a severe reprimand to the awkward man, more tired than herself.

XVIII.

Fleurange returned to her seat on the top of the three steps that led to her window, and was again looking down on the quiet and secluded court. But what a change had been wrought in her feelings since she sat there half an hour before! What contrast between this tranquil scene, which then harmonized so perfectly with the serenity of her thoughts, and her present agitation of mind! She endeavored to be calm, but for some time could not succeed. Was the emotion caused by this unexpected discovery surprise and joy, or regret and fear? She could not clearly decide, but it was a mixture of all these different sensations; and she gave herself up for a time to be buffeted by a whirlwind of contradictory thoughts. By degrees they at last became clearer and more distinct. Fleurange recalled the last time she heard Count George’s name mentioned, as well as the resolution she made that day. That resolution had been easily kept, thanks to all that had since happened to divert and absorb her attention. She must still remain faithful to it under entirely different circumstances. It was, however, no longer a question of forgetting the very name of Count George, as she was doubtless to see him, know him, and live under the same roof. But what she must impress most seriously on her mind was--that he would be as widely separated from her here in his mother’s house as when he only lived in the world of her dreams. This of course would be extremely difficult, but it was evidently a duty she owed to herself. This point once established, her course was plain.

The gentle hand that guided her childhood did not try to extinguish the exquisite though somewhat dangerous qualities with which she was gifted. She did not stifle the liveliness of her imagination, or the ardent tenderness of her heart, or the tendency of her sentiments to extremes.

Madre Maddalena considered these precious gifts only dangerous in the absence of two other qualities which she sought to develop in Fleurange, with a care only comparable to that which is used (in an inferior sense) in developing the human voice, and transforming it into an instrument at once powerful, harmonious, and almost divine. However musical a voice may be, one cannot sing without correctness of ear, and the power of sustaining its clearness for a long time without faltering. The divine harmony of the human faculties also depends on the correctness with which the word _duty_ is echoed in the soul, and the strength of character to act upon it unhesitatingly and unfalteringly. These were the two qualities that overruled all others in Fleurange’s nature, and had hitherto preserved her from the dangers to which the others exposed her.

More than two hours passed away: the shadows of the columns grew longer beneath the portico: the evening star, herald of holy thoughts in Fleurange’s soul, came out clear and brilliant in the cloudless sky, reminding her of her accustomed prayer. She had hardly finished it when the clock struck and abruptly recalled the young girl to herself. She hastily opened her trunk, changed her dress, and entered the dining-room the very moment the Princess Catherine appeared.

Fleurange wore a plain dress of black silk. In the present state of her wardrobe, she would have been embarrassed if required to increase the elegance of her toilet, but she had not thought of it on the present occasion, after hearing the princess say she intended dining in her morning dress. She was, therefore, somewhat surprised to see the garment thus designated was a flowing robe of white cashmere richly embroidered with gold. Her coiffure was a tissue of lace and gold, and she wore on her neck six strings of magnificent pearls which hung down over her waist. But what surprised and disconcerted the young girl more was the dissatisfied look the princess gave her when she appeared. It was the first time the kind and cordial greeting to which she had become accustomed was wanting.

But it was no time to give or receive any explanations, for the princess was not alone. There were two or three guests whose names Fleurange afterwards learned: an old _savant_ named Dom Pomponio; Signor Livio, a young artist: and the Marquis Trombelli, who was somewhat of a bore. To tell the truth, they occupied an inferior rank among the _habitués_ of the palace, but they preserved the mistress of the house from the mortification of seeing the products of her cook’s skill waste their sweetness on the desert air, as well as the danger of dining without a sufficient number of guests in a vast room, where a _tête-à-tête_ with Fleurange would have been unsatisfactory. Not that she was by any means indifferent to the quality of those she received in her drawing-rooms, but with respect to her _convives_ she attached almost as much importance to their number as to their worth, and only required in return the ability of appreciating the exquisite dishes placed before them.

Notwithstanding the simplicity of her dress, Fleurange did not escape notice. The man of letters talked a little more than usual with the hope of dazzling her; the marquis directed his eye-glass towards her several times; and the young artist ventured on some words complimentary in their tone, but as she only replied in monosyllables the conversation languished. The evening seemed long, and the princess had yawned more than once, when she was suddenly roused at hearing announced--the Marquis Adelardi! She made a joyful exclamation.

The gentleman who appeared was about forty years of age. Fleurange afterwards learned he was a Milanais. She immediately perceived he was one of those men who converse well on every subject, and know how to excite an interest in what they are talking about, whether it be fashionable gossip, a political novelty, or a social and literary question, and who have no other fault than that of treating these subjects as if they were all of equal interest!

The atmosphere of the room at once changed. The Marquis Adelardi had not been there a quarter of an hour before he found means of setting off the indifferent elements of the circle to the best advantage, making each one talk of what he knew the best. He passed from politics to history, from the sciences to the arts, showing himself capable of conversing on all these subjects, if not of sounding their depths.

Fleurange silently listened to this conversation, which amused her, but her interest redoubled and changed its nature when the new-comer, drawing near the princess’ arm-chair, said:

“And when are we to see our George again?”

The princess replied in a pleased and yet half-anxious tone: “We shall see him again soon, for the letter I received from him this morning, written at St. Petersburg, announced his return at the end of this month.”

“So much the better, I miss him everywhere, and every way, here.”

“And I assure you I do also, as you may imagine,” said the princess, with a thoughtful air, as she played with her necklace of pearls. “Nevertheless, Adelardi, you know as well as I it would be better for him to remain where he is till the end of the year.”

“Come, my dear princess, give it up. I advise you to abandon the idea of making a courtier of George.”

“That is not the only point.”

“Yes, I understand. You think the fair Vera--” Here the marquis leaned forward, and exchanged some words with the princess in a low tone. Fleurange only heard these: “And you know this is my only wish.” It was the princess who spoke.

“And he?” said the marquis.

“He! You know him well.”

“But that is precisely the reason I should not have supposed him insensible to such attractions as hers.”

“Yes, indeed, but it is never sure he is not absorbed by some fancy not to be foreseen. Moreover, I believe if she had not been at court--” Here the princess again lowered her voice.

“Do not worry. He will yield at last.”

“I truly hope so, but meanwhile acknowledge it would be better for him not to return.”

“Yes and no. I am not sure it is very judicious to expose him to compromise himself, as he is always tempted to do.”

The princess looked very grave. “You are right from that point of view,” said she. “He really terrifies me often. But I think he would become more prudent if obliged to be so. It is a necessity of which one is at last convinced by living in Russia.”

The conversation was continued for some time in a low tone. Then the princess declared herself fatigued, and an exception was made to her custom of prolonging the evening to a late hour, and they all retired.

Fleurange was about to do the same when the princess stopped her and asked the reason of her simplicity of dress. “I am particularly desirous,” she said, “that they who in some sort aid me in doing the honors of my salon should be dressed stylishly--and I pay them accordingly,” she added with the want of delicacy sometimes to be remarked even in well-bred ladies with regard to their dependents. It was a fault the princess was not often guilty of, but this side of her nature became apparent when she was in a bad humor.

Fleurange blushed. “I beg your pardon, princess,” said she, “but I cannot comply with your request--I cannot,” she repeated, her eyes filling with great tears.

“What does all this mean?”

Fleurange hesitated an instant, but, obedient to her impulses, always frank and simple, she related what the princess had hitherto been ignorant of--the ruin of her family, and the motive that had induced her to accept the place she now occupied.

“If I am obliged to expend the money I receive from you in adorning my person; if I can only aid my relatives at the risk of displeasing you, then--then--” And her voice faltered. “Alas! madame, I should be obliged to seek elsewhere the means of--”

The princess did not allow her to finish. The young girl’s accent, as she gave her simple account, excited her sympathies; her dissatisfaction vanished, and the result of this little scene was that Fleurange was allowed not only to dispose of a part of her salary as she pleased, but the whole, on one condition, which the princess insisted upon, and to which Fleurange was at length forced to consent--that the princess, and she alone, should have the direction of her young companion’s dress and ornaments.

From that time Fleurange was profusely provided with all that could satisfy the singular requirement of her protectress, and at the same time gratify her generosity, keenly stimulated by her interest in the account she had just heard. Fleurange yielded with a mixture of gratitude and repugnance, endeavoring to reconcile the simplicity of her tastes with the elegant taste of the princess. The result, however, was that, when she appeared for the first time in public, the effect she produced far surpassed the expectations of her who seemed to attach so much importance to enhancing her beauty.

Elegance and luxury seemed really to be necessary elements of the Princess Catherine’s existence, and as an inferior article of furniture or hangings of any plainness would have been considered out of place in her apartments, so Fleurange’s simple black dress would have marred the prevailing harmony, and she regarded it as a matter of importance to change what injured the general effect. But she was by no means disposed Fleurange should cease to be her _protégée_, which gratified her pride as well as her kind heart.

If the somewhat too enthusiastic homage paid the young girl at her first appearance had been sought or even welcomed by her, the princess’ humor would doubtless have been affected by it; but the dignified modesty of Fleurange’s deportment soon modified the admiration whose incense would only have troubled the purity and elevation of her heart had vanity given it entrance.

Fleurange was not vain. This was one of her charms, and at the same time a safeguard.

The princess’ observant eye soon assured her there was no cause for fear. This increased her confidence in Fleurange, which soon became boundless. It was the height of her wishes to be attended by one whose beauty added to the attractions of her salon and gave her no anxiety as to the consequences; to enjoy, herself, the charm of Fleurange’s presence, her activity, and a thousand little talents which made her useful at every turn; and this without requiring the least vigilance on the part of herself, which would have greatly annoyed her. She was glad she could now be indolent at her ease. Fleurange wrote her notes, arranged her flowers, and completed work she zealously commenced and then abandoned, and afterwards complacently showed as her own. Fleurange was also ready to read to her, with her harmonious voice and expression only the more rare because perfectly natural, sometimes Italian or German poetry, and sometimes articles in the reviews and journals; then, at the hour of receiving visits, she was glad to absent herself, unless the princess invited her to remain or sent for her. By thus following her own judgment, she unwittingly fulfilled the secret wishes of the princess, who was perhaps better pleased with the tact with which she knew how to anticipate her desires than the promptness of her obedience.

Meanwhile the days passed away, and it was more than a month since their arrival at Florence. During this time Count George’s name was mentioned a thousand times in Fleurange’s presence, but it ceased to produce the effect she once wisely resolved to resist. Sometimes she smiled to herself as she thought it possible, after knowing him, she might be greatly astonished at his ever having occupied her thoughts to such an extent. “Phantoms always vanish, they say, when we approach and look them in the face.”

Such was the thought that crossed her mind, one morning, as she sat alone in the small salon. The princess had gone out, and Fleurange was seated at an embroidery frame completing some work. The thought just mentioned was suggested by the news received that morning of the certain arrival of Count George by the end of the week.

“Yes, reality puts all fancies to flight; and it is very probable,” she continued, pursuing the course of her reflections, “when I know him better--” She was suddenly interrupted by the noise of hasty steps in the next apartment. Generally, no one came that way without being announced. Surprised, Fleurange hastily rose to leave the room according to her custom, but had scarcely started when she found herself face to face with the person who entered.

It was he--yes, _he_--Count George!

She had not time to define her sensations. The effect she herself produced surprised her, or, to speak more correctly, terrified her so much that she remained motionless, silent, and astonished.

“Fleurange!--Great God! is it possible! Is it true? Fleurange!” repeated he with an emotion more profound than that of joy. His voice, no less than his features, was graven on the memory of her who heard it. The name, the almost forgotten name of her childhood, uttered in such a tone; the hand that grasped her own as that of a friend he had found again, but with a look that made Fleurange instinctively withdraw her eyes; his rapid questions, incoherent replies, the eager, tender, passionate tone of his words--everything in this meeting was sudden, ardent, and dangerous as lightning!

A carriage was now heard; but, before the Princess Catherine entered the salon, Fleurange had reached her chamber, pale and ready to faint.

All the unreasonableness, the madness almost, of her former thoughts, all that had seemed impossible, was in an instant transformed into a sudden, unforeseen, and dangerous reality! What had she just heard? What did he say? What! The thought of her had followed him for a year; he had endeavored to banish it, but had not succeeded; and now he had returned decided to make every effort to find her again--to behold her once more whose image had been constantly present in his mind!

Yes, he said all this!--And what she heard was the counterpart of what she herself had felt and struggled against.--Poor Fleurange! was it joy her pale and troubled face expressed? Was it a transport of pride, or of tenderness, that caused her heart to beat so painfully? Was it happiness that made her shed such a torrent of tears?

Oh! no, the words so sweet to hear when it is lawful to listen; the happiness of being loved when one loves--one of the greatest in the world; the words so readily understood because they express what one has so deeply felt; all that sometimes suddenly illumines a life like the light of the sun, had just fallen on hers with the brightness, instantaneousness, and danger of a thunderbolt!

XIX.

Count George de Walden possessed every exterior quality that could please or fascinate, and, though it would not have been wise to regard his chivalric air and the nobleness of his features and manners as the sure indices of a soul exempt from egoism, it was impossible not to be struck by his appearance, and difficult to forget him after he was once seen. The lively impression he made on Fleurange’s memory was not therefore so strange as might appear, and there were more excuses for it than she found herself. What was much more surprising was that, notwithstanding the charm with which she was endowed, the impression was reciprocal, and, at the end of a year, was not effaced.

We must not, of course, compare the simple, confused, and involuntary feelings of a young girl with those of such a man as Count George. Under the semblance of Cordelia, Fleurange had been constantly before his eyes as well as in his imagination. He passionately desired to behold her again. He resolved to find her without examining his intentions as to the project, and this tenacious preoccupation influenced more than he would have acknowledged the decision he recently made in spite of his almost pledged word.

Nevertheless, without being very scrupulous, the Count de Walden would have thought twice before allowing himself to make such a declaration to his mother’s companion as that with which he greeted her. But he by no means expected to find in the Gabrielle sometimes mentioned in his mother’s letters her whose singular name had remained imprinted on his memory, as well as her wonderful beauty, and the first moment of surprise deprived him of the faculty of reflection. Then, seeing the young girl’s sweet face blush and turn pale, seeing her charming eyes full of alarm, he uttered in spite of himself the words he would perhaps have been better able to suppress if she herself had been more successful at concealment.

But, as we have said, all this was quicker than thought. Five minutes had not elapsed from the moment of his sudden appearance before the princess, breathless with joy and haste, fell pale with emotion into her son’s arms. George led her to her _chaise longue_, and knelt beside her, and, while she was asking him--embracing him at every word--sometimes why he had returned so soon, and sometimes why he had kept them waiting for him so long, by degrees he entirely regained his self-control. When, after a long hour’s conversation, he found himself once more alone, he asked himself if the vision he beheld at his arrival was a reality or a dream of his imagination, and then, if he were pleased or not, that it had appeared to him beneath his mother’s roof.

During this time Fleurange also regained her self-possession, though slowly, and her first sensation was a kind of terror. “O dear friends! why did I leave you?” she cried, with a feeling analogous to that of one in the midst of a tempest, longing for the security of land. She felt the need of protection even more than at Paris with want staring her in the face, and more than ever did her isolation and weakness make her afraid. She wiped away her tears, folded her hands, and endeavored to reflect calmly, but it was beyond her power to be calmed yet. Her surprise and agitation had been, this time, too violent. In spite of all her efforts, the accents still ringing in her ears filled her with an acute, almost painful joy, which pierced her heart like a sword.

“No, no, I must not dwell on it,” she said, clasping her forehead with her hands as if to stay the current of her thoughts.

All at once a new idea occurred to her: “What will he tell his mother? What would she think? Would she be proud, haughty, and disdainful as she sometimes knew how to be? Would she order her new companion to leave her at once? What was to be the result?”

She was taking this new view of her position when Barbara, without the usual formality of knocking, came rushing in with the eager air of a person who brings news and a message.

“Mademoiselle Gabrielle,” she said, “the princess has sent me to inform you of the count’s arrival, and that there will be a great many at dinner. She wishes you to look your best.”

This message, in the midst of Fleurange’s reflections, was like cold water on a furnace, causing a kind of effervescence, and the confusion of her thoughts became more inextricable than ever. She looked at Barbara as if she did not comprehend her.

“You were asleep, perhaps,” said she, noticing the young girl’s pallor and bewildered look. “Are you ill?”

This question suggested an affirmative reply, and she told the servant she would be obliged to remain in her room. She was congratulating herself on this happy means of escape, when Barbara explained:

“Remain in your room! Sick! Well, what an idea! And on a day like this!--Madame would be pleased!--Come, mademoiselle, you know well she would never consent to it!”

“But if my head aches so I can hardly raise it?” said Fleurange.

Barbara looked at her. Fleurange was not deceiving her. She had a headache; she was very pale, and there was an unusual expression in her eyes and face, but she was no less beautiful than usual; rather the contrary.

“Come, Mademoiselle Gabrielle, you are not very ill, I know,” said Barbara. “Make an effort, otherwise you may be sure the princess will be up here, and then you will have to yield.”

This perspective reduced Fleurange to immediate submission.

“Then, Barbara,” she said, in a tone half plaintive and half impatient, “let her tell me what to wear! Dress!--If she only knew how I detest it!”

“Come, mademoiselle, there are many others who would be glad to be in your place,” said Barbara in an ill humored tone.

At first she was very much opposed to all her mistress’ generosity to Fleurange, but she soon softened, for the latter had a means of conciliating her which she often made use of, and always at a seasonable time.

“Here, Barbara, take this shawl. You may keep it. Come back in an hour, and tell me what the princess wishes me to wear. That is always the shortest way, and saves me the trouble of deciding.”

Barbara went away, but reappeared in an hour, bringing a dress of sky-blue gauze and some silver pins.

“Here, mademoiselle, is your toilet for to-day. Dress yourself quick; I am going to help you. Let me arrange your hair.--There!--These bright pins have a fine effect in your black hair. Now your dress, quick. The princess is already in the salon. Monsieur le Comte also, and a great many others. You will be late.--Come, what are you thinking of, Mademoiselle Gabrielle, to sit down instead of completing your toilet?”

Fleurange was indeed at once agitated and confused. She walked to and fro in her chamber, sat down, and rose up without any attention to the appeals addressed her. At length she resigned herself to let Barbara dress her as she pleased, and the latter, with a natural taste for the art, acquitted herself so well that, when the young girl, with a trembling hand, opened the door of the salon, hoping to glide in unperceived among the numerous guests already assembled, there was a general murmur of admiration. This added a mortal embarrassment to her trouble.

If any one had asked her the color of her dress she could not have told; but the idea suddenly occurred to her that Barbara had perhaps arranged her hair and dress in a different and more becoming way than usual, and she blushed, wondering what the princess would think of her unaccustomed display.

But the princess did not appear to take any notice of her. Standing in the centre of the room in the richest of dresses, she was doing the honors of the house with her usual ease. All at once Fleurange heard her name called: “Gabrielle!” It was the princess who beckoned to her. Fleurange approached, but a mist veiled her eyes, for she had seen from the first that Count George was beside his mother.

“My bracelet is unclasped. Fasten it, Gabrielle,” said the princess in her usual tone, at once kind and patronizing. Fleurange bent down and clasped the bracelet.

“George,” said the princess, “this is Gabrielle of whom I have often spoken to you. Gabrielle, this is my son.”

George bowed without attempting to speak. Fleurange did the same, but a painful sensation made the blood rush to her face. For the first time in her life, she felt tacitly guilty of a falsehood, or at least of deception, and, though comforted by the certainty the princess had no suspicion of what had taken place two hours before, a flash of haughty displeasure escaped from her eyes as she raised them and turned away her head.

Count George looked at her attentively for an instant, then became thoughtful, and it was only with an effort he took any part in the conversation at table. But in the evening, thanks to the Marquis Adelardi, whose friendship he valued and whose mind was in sympathy with his, he became more animated, and in his turn shone almost as much as his brilliant interlocutor; but he did not approach Fleurange, and did not even seem once to look towards her.

TO BE CONTINUED.

ART AND RELIGION.

God reveals himself to all the faculties of the soul. We not only know him as truth; we also love him as beauty. As he is infinite truth, so is he perfect beauty. Without the existence of God as absolute truth, science is impossible. Science, which is co-ordinated knowledge, can never be well grounded unless it rest upon the eternal and first cause, which is God. God as truth is at the bottom of all knowledge; as beauty, he is the ideal present to the soul in every conception of art.

Art is the expression of ideal beauty under a created form. The philosopher, in his meditations, seeks the true, which he translates into formulas; the artist in his impassioned love seeks the beautiful, which he makes to live on canvas, to breathe in marble, to speak from the living page.

The end of art is not to imitate nature. On the contrary, in the presence of natural beauty it looks beyond to the type, the idea of a still higher beauty. Hence the artist is not a mere copier of nature; for he is enamored of an ideal that disgusts him with all that he beholds in the real world. The aim and despair of his life is to give to this ideal a form and a sensible expression. Ideal beauty is that which disenchants the soul of the love of every created thing, and which in the presence of reality lifts it up to a higher love. It is a gleam from the face of God reflected through the blue heavens, the starry sky, or whatever in nature is grand or beautiful. It is the eternal allurement and eternal disenchantment of the noblest souls. True beauty is ideal beauty, and ideal beauty is a reflection of the infinite. Hence art, which aims to give expression to this beauty, is essentially religious, and tends to elevate the soul from earth to heaven, and bear it away toward the infinite.

It is the ideal side of natural beauty that gives to it its religious power.

The view of the beautiful in nature creates in us a longing for heaven, because the image of God is reflected from all those objects which so inspire the soul. When, in the spring-time we seat ourselves on the border of a lake in whose tranquil waters, as in a vast mirror, are reflected the green woods and the laughing meadows, the trees and the plants and the flowers; into whose bosom the rippling waters of rill and rivulet are flowing, all joyous like children that run to meet their gentle mother, whilst the quiet winds whisper to one another from leaf to leaf, as if afraid to dispel the enchantment of the spot--does not, in such an hour, a mysterious solitude creep over the soul, and free it from the distracting thoughts of life, giving it power to raise itself on the wings of contemplation to the very throne of God? The sight of true beauty always reminds us of heaven. Seated on the border of that enchanted lake, man grows sad and thoughtful, a sweet melancholy takes hold of him, because he has caught a glimpse of home, but is still an exile. When, on a summer’s evening, the sun has sunk to rest, and not a breath creeps through the rosy air, but all nature is bowed in silent prayer, and the stars come out one by one, the guardians of the night--in this heavenliest hour, who has not been impressed by a sense of the infinite, the unmistakable presence of God, before whom heaven and earth, “from the high host of stars to the lulled lake and mountain coast,” grow still, absorbed in adoration?

There is also in the grand and rugged scenes of nature an immense religious power.

The ocean, the desert, high mountains and mighty rivers, storm and darkness, with the voice of thunder and the lightning flash, all speak of God, and in their presence man bows in homage to the omnipotence of his Creator. Hence the child of nature, however rude and imperfect his idea of God, is essentially religious in his aspirations.

Man must isolate himself and become absorbed in his own abstract and empty thoughts before he can lose consciousness of the ever-abiding presence of the Creator. For every creature is a revelation of heaven to the human soul, reminding it of its origin and high destiny. If nature leads us to God, why may not art have the same power, since both are expressions of the same eternal beauty?

Before considering this question, we wish to advert to the immense power and universal influence of art.

Few can enter into the sanctuary of science--even the rudest mind when brought in contact with ideal beauty by the creative power of art--but feel its force and its inspiration. Art is the most lasting of national glories. Indeed, we may say that without art there is no glory either national or individual.

The greatest deeds and the proudest names sink back in death unless art embalm them in poetry or in song, give them immortality on the speaking canvas or in the breathing marble.

Brave men lived before Agamemnon, but they are forgotten, for their names never shone on the poet’s page. Those nations are most glorious in which art attained its highest development.

The muse of Homer, the eloquence of Demosthenes, and the chisel of Phidias, have done more to immortalize Greece than the deeds of her proud heroes. The greatest human actions are in themselves but little removed from the commonplace affairs of everyday life; but the creative power of art transforms them and invests them with a charm which the reality never possessed. The primeval forests of Kentucky, in the day when its name was the “dark and bloody ground,” witnessed many a deed of human daring and of warlike prowess equal to those of Achilles and Hector under the walls of Troy; but art with its celestial wand never transfigured those deeds on the poet’s page, and they are forgotten, buried with the leaves that overshadowed them. The life of man is short, even that of a nation is not long; but art dies not, and has moreover the divine power of conferring immortality upon all that it touches. Shakespeare is worth more to the glory of England than all the victories of all her generals. Dante, Raphael, and Michael Angelo, with innumerable other names which represent the highest artistic power, have made Italy the consecrated land of poetry and of song, the home of beauty and of all loveliness--the native country of the soul.

Time alone, which is the approver of all things, can give to art its full power, and it is only when we consider it in the past that we become aware of its great influence in the history of the human race. The present is always a vulgar time; too real to be beautiful. The present is the slave of power and wealth, but these soon disappear, and art remains for ever. The first impulse in the movement which has carried the European mind to its present state of enlightenment was given by art in conjunction with religion. The study of the Grecian and Roman models, in poetry, in eloquence, and in architecture, fired the nations of Europe with a love of artistic perfection, and consequently greatly contributed to our present civilization. The historic power of art is in some respects greater than that of history itself. Few men know history as a science--the masses are brought into contact with the heroes of the past by poetry and by song.

Has God, who has given to art a universal mission in the development of man’s moral and intellectual nature, banished its elevating influence from the sphere of religion? It would be foreign to our present scope to discuss the actual and possible perversions of art. There is naught on earth so holy that the free will of man may not turn it to evil. The fact that a thing may be abused simply proves that it has a right and proper use. The abuse comes from the free agency of man; the use is the mission given by God, which is always holy and elevated.

The direct aim of art is the expression of infinite beauty under a created form, and hence a true work of art should elevate the soul to the contemplation of heavenly beauty. This contemplation of the divine ideal disenchants us of the things of earth; which truth is expressed by the old proverb, that there is no great genius without melancholy.

He whose soul habitually contemplates the ideal world is necessarily saddened by the reality of life, which is so infinitely beneath the elevation of his thoughts.

There is nothing sensuous in the idea of true beauty. Its property is to purify and moderate desire, not to inflame it. Hence art addresses itself less to the sense than to the soul. It seeks to awaken not desire, but sentiment. Chastity and beauty seek each other. Chastity is beautiful, and beauty is chaste.

These considerations go to show that art, the end of which is the expression of beauty, is in its tendency moral and elevating, and consequently religious.

There can, then, be no just cause of antagonism between religion and true art, as there can be no contradiction between theology and real science.

Far from being enemies, religion and art are allies. This truth the Catholic Church has ever proclaimed. She has stigmatized no one of the arts. In her universal life, she has a mission for each and every one of them. Her churches are not alone the temples of the living God--they are also the home of the arts which point heavenward.

The Christian religion in its dogmas and aspirations is essentially spiritual. The Catholic Church is the great and only successful defender of the distinction between spirit and matter. By her teachings and practices, she has rendered man more spiritual, and consequently more beautiful. By awakening him to the consciousness of the diviner and more ethereal part of his nature, she has developed in him the instinct of art, which is essentially spiritual because its soul is the ideal.

The more we meditate upon the nature of art, the more thoroughly are we convinced that true art is the sister of true religion. Protestantism, protesting against many truths, also protested against the alliance of religion and art. We speak of the Protestantism of the past; for no man knows what Protestantism is to-day. It is anything and everything, from semi-Catholicism down to naked infidelity. It has become mere individualism, and may consequently no longer be spoken of as an organization. The Protestantism which is dead objected to the alliance of religion and art because it conceived them to be of opposite nature and contrary tendency. Religion is the worship of God in spirit and in truth, and Protestantism looked upon art as purely material.

But in this as in other matters, the Protestant view was based upon a misconception both of religion and of human nature. If man were wholly spiritual, his religion would also be purely spiritual. But matter forms part of his nature. Even that which in him is most spiritual--thought--has its sensible element. An idea is an image, whence it follows that we cannot even think without forming to ourselves a mental representation of the thing thought of. No human act can be purely spiritual. The law of our being is that we rise from the visible to the invisible, from the sensible to the supersensible. An invisible and purely spiritual religion would be to us an unreal and intangible religion. An invisible church is a contradiction in terms, and without a church there can be amongst men no authoritative religious teaching. Neither religious nor intellectual life, in our present state, can exist without language, and language addresses itself directly and primarily to the senses. It is therefore impossible for man to express the spiritual without making use of the material. Hence art, which seeks to adumbrate the infinite under a finite form, in this simply conforms to the universal law of man’s nature, which in all things, even in thought, subjects him to matter.

Is not Christianity based upon this fact? Did not God take unto himself a visible and material nature in order to manifest to the world his invisible power, and beauty, and holiness? Is not the Christian religion a system of things invisible, visibly manifested? The end of religion is spiritual, but in order to attain this end it must possess a visible and material element. This fact of itself gives to art a religious mission of the highest order.

This mission is to proclaim to the world Jesus Christ and him crucified and glorified--by poetry, by song, by painting, by architecture, in a word, by every artistic creation of which genius is capable.

Jesus Christ is the beau ideal of art--the most lovely and beautiful conception of the divine mind itself. He is the visible manifestation of God, the all-beautiful.

Purity, and gentleness, and grace, with power and majesty, all combine to make him the most beautiful of the sons of woman, the fairest and the loveliest figure in all history, to whom the whole world bows in instinctive love and homage. There is a shadow on the countenance of Jesus which gives to it its artistic completeness. It is sorrow. There is something trivial in gaiety and joy which deprives them of artistic effect. The cheek of beauty is not divine except the tear of sorrow trickle down it. Hence to preach Jesus Christ and him crucified is not to preach perfect religion alone, but also the perfect ideal of art.

Christian science, which is theology, has as its object the dogmas of the church. Christian art relates directly to religious worship, but it has incidentally a doctrinal significance. If we consider eloquence an art, which we may do, for true eloquence is always artistic, we must concede that it holds a most important place in the church of Jesus Christ. He blessed eloquence and bade it convert the world when he spoke to the apostles these memorable words: “Go ye therefore, and teach all nations.” The divine command was to preach the Gospel, not to write it. The living word spoken by the divinely commissioned teacher has alone borne fruit in the world, converted the nations, and changed the face of the earth. Eloquence must be spoken. If you take from it its voice, you take away its soul. It is the cry of an impassioned nature, in which love, and faith, and deep-abiding conviction are enrooted. Add to this purity and holiness of life in him who speaks, and let him be in earnest, and he will be eloquent. Eloquence in the mouth of a consecrated teacher has a sacramental power. It is one of the divinely established ordinances for the propagation of religious truth, and for the conversion of a soul to God.

Poetry, too, is consecrated to the service of religion. The muse never soars her loftiest flight except when lifted up on the wings of religious inspiration. The most poetic word in language is that brief, immense word--God. It is the sublimest, the profoundest, the holiest word that human tongue can utter. It forms the instinctive cry of the soul in the hour of every deep emotion. In the hour of victory, in the hour of death, in the ecstasy of joy, in the agony of woe, that sacred word bursts spontaneously from the human heart. It is the first word that our mother taught our infant lips to lisp, when, pointing to heaven, she told us that there was God our Father, and bade us look above this base, contagious earth. When the mother for the first time feels her first-born’s breath, in tenderness of gratitude she pronounces the name of God; when in utter helplessness of woe she bends over the grave of her only child, and her heart is breaking, she can find no relief for her agonizing soul, until, raising her tearful eyes to heaven, she breathes in prayer the name of God.

When two young hearts that are one vow eternal love and fealty, it is in the name of God they do it; and the union of love loses half its poetry and half its charm except it be contracted before the altar of God and in his holy name.

When the mother sends her son to do battle for his country, she says, “God be with thee, my boy!”

When nations are marshalled in deadly array of arms, and the alarming drum foretells the danger nigh, and the trumpet’s clanguor sounds the charge, and contending armies meet in the death grapple, amid fire and smoke and the cannon’s awful roar, until victory crowns them that win; those banners that were borne proudly on till they floated in triumph over the field of glory are gathered together in some vast temple of religion, and there an assembled nation sings aloud in thanksgiving: “We praise thee, O God! we glorify thee, O Lord!” How often has not God chosen the muse of poetry in order to convey to the world his divine doctrines! The Bible contains much of the sublimest poetry ever written. Some of the Psalms of David, portions of Job and Isaias, equal in deep and lofty poetic feeling anything that Dante or Milton wrote. And did not these privileged minds also receive their highest inspirations from religion?

We may not separate poetry from music. Music is poetry in tones. It is the language of feeling, the universal language of man. The cry of joy and of sorrow, of triumph and of despair, of ecstasy and of agony, is understood by every human being because it is the language of nature. All the deep emotions of the soul seek expression in modulation of sound.

Cousin says: “There is physically and morally a marvellous relation between a sound and the soul. It seems as though the soul were an echo in which the sound takes a new power.”

Byron, too, seems to have felt this:

“Oh! that I were The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, A living voice, a breathing harmony; A bodiless enjoyment, born and dying With the blest Tone that made me!”

At the awakening call of music, the universal harmonies of nature stir within the soul. The ancients were wont to say that he who cultivates music imitates the divinity, and St. Augustine tells us that it was the sweet sound of psalmody which made the lives of the monks of old so beautiful and harmonious. God is eternal harmony, and the works of his hand are harmonious, and his great precept to men is that they live in harmony. Did not Jesus Christ come into the world amid the choral song of angels? Would you, then, banish music from the church of Jesus? No art has such power as music to draw the soul toward the infinite. It would seem as though the sounds of melody were the viewless spirits of heaven, calling us away from earth to our true home in the mansion of our Father. Whosoever has enjoyed the rare privilege of being present in the Sistine Chapel, during Holy Week, when the melodies of Leo, Durante, and Pergolesi, on the _Miserere_, are sung, has felt the immense power of religious music. For a moment, at least, he has quitted this earth, and the voice of song has borne his soul in ineffable ecstasy to the very throne of God. As music develops religious sentiment, so religion gives to music its sublimest themes. To her, Haydn, Beethoven, and Mozart owe their divinest inspirations.

Painting, too, asks to be received into the temple of religion. What sentiment is there that the painter cannot express? All nature is subject to his command--the physical world and the moral world. His muse soars from earth to heaven, and contemplates all that lies between them. Above all, the human countenance divine, that mirror of the soul, belongs to the painter. His brush, dipped in the light of heaven, gives to virtue its own celestial hue; to vice, its inborn hideousness. He expresses every emotion of the human heart, every noble love, every lofty aspiration, every dark and baneful passion. Aristotle, the most comprehensive mind of the pagan world, affirms that painting teaches the same precepts of moral conduct as philosophy, with this advantage, that it employs a shorter method. Christian painting began in the Catacombs. In the rude pictures of that subterranean world we find the chief doctrines of Christianity reduced to their most simple expression under forms the most touching.

Painting there represents the Phœnix rising from its ashes, emblem of the immortality of the soul and of the resurrection of the body; the good shepherd bearing upon his shoulders the lost sheep, which teaches with touching simplicity one of the most beautiful of our Lord’s parables; the three youths in the fiery furnace, signifying the providence of God for those who fear and love him; Pharao and his hosts engulfed in the Red Sea, proclaiming to the faithful that God is the avenger of those who put their trust in him. These and similar subjects were peculiarly adapted to inspire courage in the hearts of the Christians of the first ages, when to be a follower of the cross was to be a hero.

As men of genius and learning by their life-long labors show us the divine beauties and perfections in the character of Jesus in new bearings, so the art of painting throws around his history an intenser light. His divinity is as manifest in the “Transfiguration” of Raphael as in the famous sermon of Massillon. His ineffable sufferings on Mount Calvary and the Godlike power which consented to death, but conquered agony, are as vividly and feelingly portrayed on the canvas of Rubens as in the unequalled and inimitable discourse of Bourdaloue. No one can look upon the “Last Supper” by Leonardo da Vinci without being inspired with a most sublime conception of that holiest event. Can we think of the passion and death of the Saviour without forming to ourselves a mental image corresponding to the scene? If, after all, we must have a picture, why not take that of genius rather than trust to our own tame plebeian fancy? And then, for those who cannot read or meditate profoundly, for the poor whom Jesus loved, what master is like painting?

St. Basil declares that painters accomplish as much by their pictures as orators by their eloquence.

The church as a lecture-room will interest only the cultivated few; the church as the temple of art sanctified by religion is the home of worship for the multitude.

Religion, if it be anything, must be popular, which science can never be, and which art always is. Then, in the name of the religion of the poor, let architecture advance to raise to God the temple of majesty and beauty, the democratic palace of the people, where the prince and the beggar sit side by side as brothers, a basilica prouder and loftier than that of the sceptred monarch.

A FETE-DAY AT LYONS.

Some writer has remarked that “there is no purgatory in France,” meaning thereby to illustrate the great extremes of piety and irreligion in the national character; and, although on a broad ground this assertion is by no means orthodox, yet it is practically true to a certain extent, and nowhere perhaps are these traits more noticeable to a stranger than in the time-honored city of Lyons. Here faith and disbelief walk side by side through all grades of society, each stronger and more resolute from its very proximity to the other; and when the tide of revolution swept over France, nowhere have the excesses been greater or religion more monstrously profaned than here; and yet nowhere has faith been more profound, more edifying, and more uncompromising. The blood of its early Christian martyrs has been a wonderful leaven and has worked well, and the thousands of pilgrims who yearly tread the heights of Fourrière, the extraordinary solemnity and fervor of the exterior devotions and religious ceremonies, show that there is a countercurrent stronger and more powerful than any opposing force that infidelity can bring to bear against it.

It is to give a few impressions made by these latter characteristics of this old city that we now recall some reminiscences of a visit there several years ago. The antiquity of Lyons, and its many monuments of interest, are quite sufficient to induce a traveller to linger on his route, and a week can be easily filled in exploring the city proper and its environs.

Like many of the European cities, its streets are narrow, and the houses high and badly ventilated; but a great change has taken place in regard to these defects within the last ten years, and a renovation without mutilation has opened its thoroughfares, adorned it with beautiful squares, fine bridges, broad and handsome quays, and placed it on an equal footing with any city in Europe in regard to its sanitary advantages.

Dating as far back as the Christian era and beyond, there are many remnants of its Roman origin yet to be seen, which have been carefully preserved through its various vicissitudes. Christianity was here planted in blood; and under the Roman emperors, three persecutions of Christians took place, which numbered forty-five thousand martyrs on their crimson pages; and this is why faith has taken such deep root, and why it opposes itself so firmly to those subtle influences of the day which threaten to endanger a birthright so dearly bought.

To us Americans who are only familiar with Lyons in its commercial bearings, and from the superior quality of its manufactures which find their way into our market, the fact that its inhabitants are a lettered as well as a business people is rather a matter of surprise; and we gaze in wonder at its magnificent buildings, devoted to the fine arts, its lyceums, colleges, academies of science, schools and institutions of every kind for instruction and the development of the finer tastes; and the riddle is solved by knowing that their manufactures, their commerce, their business, occupy only a part of their lives, and by no means constitute the sum total, as is so nearly the case in this country. This repose is very attractive to us Cisatlantic people, who lead such restless lives; and the lovely summer days that we spent in the old city enjoying this tranquillity are never to be forgotten.

We were awaiting the celebration of the _Fête du Saint Sacrament_,[75] which is usually kept with so much solemnity in the provinces. On the eve of the feast we made the ascent of Mont Fourrière, though not in the garb of humble pilgrims, “with sandal shoon and scallop-shell,” but in the more commonplace character of sightseers from the Western World, attracted to this height by the far-famed shrine which crowns its summit, and by the many historic associations that cluster round it.

On our way up we visited a cemetery which almost hangs by the mountain-side, and from which there are lovely views in every direction. It made a strange impression, this city of the dead, so far above the noise and clatter of the busy world below. It was so still, nothing broke the silence except our footsteps along the gravelled walks. One tomb especially attracted our attention: it was fairly buried and hidden by the quantity of fresh flowers, and the crosses and wreaths of immortelles which covered it. While wondering who could be the silent occupant of a grave so much loved, a lady approached in deep widow’s mourning, leading two little children, clad in the same sombre hue. They came and knelt at the tomb. Our question was answered, and we moved silently away, sorry for even the momentary intrusion we had been guilty of. Near the cemetery is the church of St. Irenée, which contains the bones of 18,500 Christians, martyred by order of Septimius Severus, 193 A.C. The remains of its ancient crypt are also shown, which dates back to the second century. There is also a well in this crypt, in which it is said these bones were found. The roughly paved road then leads up to the Chapel,[76] and Terrace of Notre Dame de Fourrière. We found we were just in time for the Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament, which was given here every afternoon during the Triduum which preceded the feast.

This little chapel was not remarkable either for its architectural finish nor for the richness and perfection of its ornamentation; it is plain, very plain indeed, but the marvellous number of its _ex-votos_, the gilt and silver hearts which actually burnish its walls, the crutches and other instruments suggestive of disease which hang around, tell of the moral and physical burdens which have been brought here and left, and of the weary, sorrowing souls who have wandered up this rocky height, who have made their deposit, and returned singing alleluias.

“There is one far shrine I remember In the years that have fled away, Where the grand old mountains are guarding The glories of night and day.

* * * * *

“It is one of Our Lady’s chapels, And though poorer than all the rest Just because of the sin and the sorrow, I think she loved it the best.

“There are no rich gifts on the altar, The shrine is humble and bare, Yet the poor, and the sick, and the tempted Think their home and their haven is there.”[77]

A fine terrace is just at the side of the chapel, and the view magnificent from the parapet which guards its eastern face. Just beneath lies Lyons in all its stateliness, traversed by two superb rivers from north to south, and prominent among its most striking points is the grand old Cathedral of St. Jean, which stands directly at the base of the mountain.

The surrounding country is a succession of lovely landscapes, and beyond, looking far away, a hundred miles off into Switzerland, the glorious Alps, with Mont Blanc’s snowy peak towering far above all, bound the horizon. We were fortunate in getting this view in perfection, for frequently a veil of mist and fog shuts out entirely this latter part of the tableau. On ascending the belfry of the chapel, we found the panorama yet more extended and enchanting. In every direction the views were entirely unbroken and uninterrupted. Seven rich provinces of France unfolded their scenery before our delighted eyes. At the extreme edge of the southern horizon rose Mont Pilat; at the west, the mountains of Forey and Auvergne; toward the north, Mont d’Or; and on the east, the Alps, in their eternal mantle of snow, completed a picture that could not be surpassed. Every prominence had caught the golden light of the sinking sun, and the shadows that had crept into the valleys only enhanced the coloring of the scene and made the effect more striking.

A Jesuit college, with its garden and appurtenances, is an appendant on the southern side of the terrace, and we crossed over to take a peep at their chapel, well knowing the good taste and exquisite finish which are usually displayed in their churches. There we found them also holding a Triduum, and, their service being a little later than that of the other chapel, we had the pleasure of attending Benediction a second time. Here the music was delightful and the chapel a gem. It was very small, and seemed to be lit entirely from the altar, which was ablaze with wax-lights and natural flowers; there appeared to be no external light to enter at all, and yet from its miniature size none of its details were lost, and, with the accessories of the solemn service then going on, it was the embodiment of beauty and inspiration.

When we turned our footsteps downward, the shadow’s had lengthened, and were fast creeping out of the valleys, and by the time we reached home the heights of Fourrière, which we still had in sight, were shrouded in gloom.

The next morning we were awakened by the booming of cannon, which announced the inauguration of the _fête_.

We hurried through breakfast, so as to reach the cathedral in time for the procession. In the square opposite our hotel, an altar had been erected, and we passed several others on our way, but their decorations, at this early hour, were not quite complete.

Everything wore a festive look, and everybody was out in holiday attire, flags and banners were flying, and the façades of some of those immensely high houses were festooned from top to bottom with crimson and yellow hangings. One building in especial was very effective; it was the Palais de Justice, which is on the right bank of the Saône, and which we faced in crossing the bridge to the cathedral. Its extended front of Corinthian pillars was draped in crimson cloth, which contrasted finely with the gray stone of which it was built. A little to its left is the old cathedral, stately and grand in its sombre livery of centuries. It has seen generations pass away, emperors and empires, kingdoms and kings, and yet it stands to-day intact, and ready to do duty for another hundred years, unless demolished by the sacrilegious hand of the iconoclast of the nineteenth century.

On reaching the _place_ in front of the cathedral, we found a large crowd awaiting the procession. In a short time the sound of martial music was heard, and presently several officers rode up on horseback to open a passage through the crowd.

The procession was escorted by a troop of cavalry and military band, and preceded by a number of lovely children, dressed in white, with silver wings, their hair flowing, and scattering flowers as they passed along. As it entered the church, the organ pealed forth, filling the vast aisles with its magnificent harmony. Then Pontifical High Mass began, in all the grandeur of the especial ritual which is attached to this church, and which is the oldest in France, having been introduced here by one of the first bishops of Lyons; the liturgy is also different from that ordinarily used, and the ceremonies are of the most imposing character. The band, placed in a remote part of the church, played at intervals during the service, and the harsh and deafening sounds which are usually the result of brass instruments in a close building were lost in the immense space, and only the sweetest strains swept up through the nave and aisles.

In like manner the glare of day fell through the richly stained windows in a mellow and subdued light, which diffused itself generally over the church.

A very pleasant American writer[78] has said: “If we could only bring one thing back from Europe, that one thing would be a cathedral.” And truly these old monuments have a prestige to which persons of all creeds must pay tribute; and the veriest scoffer lifts his hat with reverence as he enters, and feels the influence of that wonderful atmosphere which pervades their hallowed precincts. After Mass we prolonged our walk home to see the decorations of the city. The altars were now entirely finished, and dressed with a profusion of natural flowers.

In the afternoon the procession passed round the city in a line with the altars, at each of which benediction was given. In their liturgy there are four special hymns for each of these stations or _reposoirs_, and, when the latter exceed that number, the chants are repeated until they have all been visited. There is generally one altar in each ward or district of the city, to satisfy the pious devotion of those who cannot attend service at the church.

In the evening illuminations and fireworks completed the festivities of the day--of a day whose minutest detail showed how true “_the Rome of Gaul_” had been to the colors which she unfurled nearly seventeen hundred years ago on the ramparts of paganism.

Since then I have seen other _fêtes_ in other lands, but none have left the impression of the first which I saw inaugurated in the old Cathedral of St. Jean, under the shadow of Mont Fourrière.

FOOTNOTES:

[75] Corpus Christi.

[76] This chapel is built on the site of the ancient _Forum Vetus_ of the Romans erected by order of the Emperor Trajan. A part of the chapel is built of the stone that was left of its ruins. It is now, and has been for more than a thousand years, a celebrated pilgrimage.

[77] Procter.

[78] Hillard.

HOW THE CHURCH UNDERSTANDS AND UPHOLDS THE RIGHTS OF WOMEN.

THIRD ARTICLE.

THE MIDDLE AGES.

The middle ages were undoubtedly the epoch during which the influence of woman upon the gravest affairs and most important issues in the history of the church was most widely exercised. There was hardly a single country in Europe that was evangelized and reclaimed from social barbarism without the direct intervention of the power of women, and wherever the inevitable excesses of a system in the main both useful and honorable, such as the feudalism of the middle ages, had to be checked or corrected, it was always done through the merciful intercession of holy and generous women. To begin with the country whose daughters have ever been foremost in zeal for the cause of religion, France, we have a long list of queens whose names are conspicuous in the annals of church history. They were no less honored in their own day than they have been since the voice of the faithful has proclaimed them saints. When the French monarchy was in its first military and elementary stages, the young Frankish conqueror, the heathen Clovis, who had just forced the ancient Gauls of the province of Rheims to bow before his power, found at the court of Gondebaud, King of Burgundy, the niece of that prince, Clotildis, a Christian maiden, renowned for her learning in matters of theology, and for her undaunted stand against the Arianism of her uncle’s court. St. Gregory of Tours, says Ventura,[79] represents her as evincing the most varied and reliable knowledge of Christianity, and especially of the questions at that time lately decided at the Council of Nicæa. She knew equally how to combat paganism on her husband’s part and Arianism upon her uncle’s, and displayed all the self-possession of a great apologist, with the theological science of a doctor of the church. This was as early as the year 493, not long after Clovis won the great battle of Tolbiac against the Alemanni, and became a Christian, according to his vow, made during the engagement, to the “Son of the living God, thou whom Clotildis worships.” The queen then sent for St. Remigius, the Bishop of Rheims, to instruct and baptize her husband. She instructed the women of her court and family herself, and showed herself most zealous in the propagation of the faith. The ceremony of baptism, and the anointing of the king which followed it, were performed, by the queen’s care, with extraordinary solemnity. She herself walked in the procession between the king’s two sisters, the one formerly a pagan, the other an Arian. The first, the Princess Albofleda, renounced the world and consecrated her virginity to God, thus giving a first example to the numerous royal maidens of France who have since left the court for the cloister. Clotildis so fired her husband’s heart with her holy enthusiasm that he built and endowed the church of SS. Peter and Paul in Paris, now called St. Genevieve in honor of the sainted shepherdess who, later on, shared with Clotildis herself the title of patroness of France. Clovis was afterwards buried in this church. The Visigoths and Burgundians, who were Arians, were shamed into less inhuman ways by the example and widespread influence of the victorious Clovis and his Christian warriors; the foundations of the great French monarchy were laid by the evident desire of the neighboring tribes to coalesce with the Franks; the future Catholic monarchy of Spain was consecrated by the heroic zeal and suffering of Clotildis the younger, the only daughter of Clovis, married to the Arian Amalaric, King of the Visigoths, in Spain, and the mitigation of many lawless and still half-barbarian acts during the reigns of her sons was successfully undertaken; so that it may be said with truth of this period of history that its chief glory was the supremacy of woman. Clotildis died at Tours, where for many years she had lived in solitude and humility, entirely ignoring her high rank, and employing her influence over her sons in exhortations to preserve the peace of their respective kingdoms, to protect the poor, and to treat them as brethren. But great as her services to religion and civilization had been, the church was not destined to suffer by her death, for a long succession of imitators of her virtues took her place from century to century, and protected the interests of that church whose champions cannot fail her as long as principle and honor exist in the world. Radegundes, the daughter of Bertarius, King of Thuringia, and the captive of King Clotaire I. (fourth son of St. Clotildis), was instructed in the Christian faith at the court of the latter, whom she afterwards married. Her great delight during the short period of her court life was the care of the sick in the hospital of Athies, which she had founded, and the alleviation of the miseries of the poor. She endeavored to restrain the lawlessness of the court; but, when her husband caused her brother to be treacherously assassinated, as Butler tells us,[80] in order to possess his kingdom of Thuringia, she was so grieved at the time that she begged for leave to retire into a monastery. Here her influence was greater than it had been at court. The great abbey of Poitiers was founded and the first abbess, Agnes, chosen by her. She enriched the church of this monastery with numerous gifts, and sent ambassadors to the Emperor Justin of Constantinople to obtain a relic of the True Cross. This being given her, she had it placed in a shrine, to which it was carried in solemn procession. She had already invited to Poitiers many learned and holy men, among others the orator and poet Venantius Fortunatus, who on this occasion composed the famous processional hymn “Vexilla Regis Prodeunt,” which is now one of the most prominent features of our liturgy. Thus, to a woman’s inspiration do we owe one of the hymns of world-wide renown, synonymous with the name and practice of Catholic Christianity. Butler tells us that Radegundes herself was a good scholar, and read both the Latin and Greek fathers. She procured for her monastery the rule and constitution of St. Cesarius of Arles, and had it confirmed by the Council of Tours, assembled 566. Here again, in the letter of Cesaria, the abbess of the monastery of St. John, at Arles, we have a most remarkable instance of the great discernment and prudence of a woman in her management of a numerous community. She gives the strictest cautions against all familiarities and partiality in a religious community, and also enjoins that each nun should learn the Psalter by heart and be able to read well. Biblical learning is thus proved to have been ever foremost in the minds of the pioneers of monasticism. But Radegundes, so great was her anxiety to make her monastery of Poitiers a perfect work, repaired to Arles herself, and studied the rule personally for some time, in order to help the Abbess Agnes in establishing it the more effectually. After the death of her husband, and during the shameful disturbances caused by the famous Fredegonda, the mistress of Chilperic, Radegundes became once more the support of orthodoxy and of the persecuted bishops of the realm. Among other proofs of the high esteem in which prominent churchmen held this great woman, let us cite the letter addressed to her by the assembled bishops of the Council of Tours, wherein they say: “We are rejoiced, most reverend daughter, to see such an example of divine favor repeated in your person; for the faith flourishes anew through the efforts of your zeal, and what had been languishing through the wintry coldness of the indifference of this age, lives again through the fervor of your soul. But as you claim as a birthplace almost the same spot whence St. Martin came, it is no wonder that you should imitate in your work his example and teaching. Shining with the light of his doctrine, you fill with heavenly conviction the hearts of those who listen to you.”[81]

The tradition of constant faith and resolute orthodoxy on the part of the queens of France was upheld in the century following that of Radegundes (the seventh), by Bathildis, the wife of Clovis II.; the friend of Eligius, Bishop of Noyon, and of Owen, Bishop of Rouen. Both of these had been placed in responsible positions at court through the influence of Radegundes--the co-operator of Genis, the holy almoner, who subsequently became Archbishop of Lyons, and the wielder of great power through the complaisance of her husband. Bathildis was pre-eminently the support of the episcopate and the refuge of the poor. She had herself been a captive, being by birth an Englishwoman, and having fallen to the lot of Erchinoald, the first officer of the King of Neustria, who treated her very kindly. Ventura says of her: “At the death of her husband, having been entrusted with the regency of the kingdom and the guardianship of her three little children, the oldest only five years old, she acquitted herself of this double office with such wisdom and prudence that even the great nobles and statesmen could not withhold their admiration and respect. With such counselors as the holy bishops Eligius, Owen, and Leger, it is not astonishing that she should have succeeded in banishing from the church in France the shameful simony which, through royal connivance, had hitherto dishonored it, and abolishing in civil matters the unjust and vexatious taxes that were grinding down the people. She multiplied hospitals, monasteries, and abbeys. The famous monastery of Chelles owes its origin to her.... But the most important of all her foundations was that of Corbie, which afterwards became so celebrated in France, and where this queen, as zealous for the propagation of science as for the strengthening of religion, established under able masters, gathered from all parts of the world, a system of the most complete literary and scientific education. This monastery, next to that of Lerins, was a true university and a centre of enlightenment. The regency of this woman renewed the glories and wonders of the reign of Pulcheria. Never had sovereign so exerted herself for the welfare of her people, both religiously, scientifically, and politically. But her greatest glory, which has not been sufficiently recognized, was ... that, contrary to the cold calculations of a false philosophy, she dared to do what no man had done before her. She abolished slavery in France (where it still subsisted), and was the first Christian sovereign who proclaimed as a national principle ... that a slave becomes free on setting his foot on the soil of France!”[82]

Between Bathildis and Blanche of Castille, from the seventh to the thirteenth centuries, there was no lack of holy and learned women in France, but it would be impossible to enumerate them all. “The mother of St. Louis, though the church has never formally canonized her, stands out as one of the grandest figures in ecclesiastical history. Her stern and unflinching devotion to religious principle, instilled early into the mind of her son, sowed the seeds of sanctity in the exceptional life of that holy king. Her talents were no less remarkable than her austerity. Her marriage at the age of fourteen with Louis VIII., King of France, gave her the high position to which her birth, her genius, and her beauty entitled her. This union was the model of Christian marriages, and her historian, the Baron Chaillon, says that during the twenty-six years it lasted she and her husband were never separated for a single instant, and that not the slightest shadow darkened the serenity of their intercourse. Even at an early age and before her husband’s accession to the throne, her father-in-law, Philip Augustus, did not refuse to take and follow her advice in matters of state importance.”[83] At her husband’s death she became, by his desire, regent of the kingdom. Ever eager to put her son’s personal prestige foremost, she carefully initiated him into the affairs of the realm, and accustomed him early to appear in his royal character in public. She wisely averted the ever-impending coalitions of the great vassals of the crown against the royal authority. She continued the war against the Albigenses, whose dissensions were ruining the kingdom; she obtained the annexation of the territory of the Counts of Toulouse to the crown, and quelled the revolt of the Duke of Brittany, who ended by gladly recognizing his fealty to her son. When she committed to Gaulthier, the Archbishop of Sens, the mission of treating for the hand of Margaret of Provence for the young king, these were the severe instructions she gave him: Only to propose the marriage formally after he had well studied the character of the young princess, and had well satisfied himself as to the stability of her principles, the purity of her life, and the sincerity of her religion. Butler, in his life of St. Louis, says of the queen: “By her care, Louis was perfectly master of the Latin tongue, learned to speak in public, and to write with elegance, grace, and dignity, and was instructed in the art of war, the wisest maxims of government, and all the accomplishments of a king. He was also a good historian, and often read the works of the Fathers.” Thus it will be seen that, without departing from the strictest feminine delicacy, a woman may be the sole responsible preceptor of a statesman and warrior, and yet leave no stain of “petticoat government” on his education, nor any suspicion of undue asceticism on his belief.

Concerning the dissensions of the nobles and vassals who refused to be present at the young king’s coronation, Butler says: “The queen regent put herself and her son at the head of his troops, and, finding means to bring over the Count of Champagne to his duty, struck the rest with such consternation that they all retired.... The whole time of the king’s minority was disturbed by these rebels, but the regent, by several alliances and negotiations, and chiefly by her courage and diligence, by which she always prevented them in the field, continually dissipated their cabals.” Of the negotiations with the Count of Toulouse, a dangerous and powerful vassal, Butler gives these details: “In the third year of her regency, she obliged Raymund, Count of Toulouse and Duke of Narbonne, to receive her conditions, which were that he should marry his daughter Jane to Alphonsus, the king’s brother, who should inherit the county of Toulouse, and that, in case they should have no children by this marriage, the whole inheritance should revert to the crown, which last eventually happened.” The same author says of Margaret of Provence “that she surpassed her sisters in beauty, wit, and virtue.” In 1242, after the majority and marriage of her son, Blanche founded the monastery of Maubuisson. Louis was remarkable for the even-handed justice with which he protected the serfs against the encroachment of their feudal lords, and on one occasion refused to allow Mgr. Enguerrand de Coucy the privilege of being tried by his peers, and condemned him to death by the ordinary process of law, for having arbitrarily hanged three children who had been caught hunting rabbits in his woods. He afterwards spared his life, but deprived him of all his estates and exacted from him an enormous fine, which he employed in building and endowing a mortuary chapel where Mass should be offered every day for the souls of the murdered children. The rest of the fine was divided into several foundations for hospitals and monasteries. In 1248, St. Louis, according to a vow he had made in sickness, set out for the crusade against the Sultan of Egypt, leaving his mother once more regent of France. Ventura says of her during this second regency that, “being in France in the body, yet in the East in spirit, and following mentally her heroic son in his dangerous undertaking, she seemed to multiply herself. Entirely absorbed in the care of the home government of a great kingdom, that she might make justice, order, and peace supreme therein, she was also participating none the less entirely in the great struggle between the Cross and the Crescent, ... and it is impossible to entertain a correct idea of the wisdom, forethought, and activity of which Blanche, during those five years, gave proof, thus being enabled to send aid in kind, in arms, and in money, to the army in the East, yet without taxing and unduly oppressing the people at home. Thus she did not neglect the smallest details in order to assure the success of an expedition in which the rational honor of France as well as the triumph of Christianity was engaged.” Ventura then goes on to remind the would-be “emancipators” of woman that, throughout her arduous duties, Queen Blanche, notwithstanding her immense governing powers and her proud experience of fifty years, did not hesitate to take as a trusted friend and counsellor the learned Archbishop of Sens, Gaulthier-Cornu. Of this latter prelate and statesman, a contemporary historian has said, “As long as his power was in the ascendant, fraud and dishonesty hid their face, while peace and justice reigned.” Blanche of Castille died before her son’s return from Egypt, and hastened to pronounce her vows of monastic consecration to God before she breathed her last, on the first of December, 1252.

We must now go back some centuries to place before our readers a fugitive account of those French princesses who exercised in Spain a true apostolate. We have already mentioned the younger Clotildis, but Indegonda, the daughter of Sigisbert, King of Austrasia, and Rigontha, the daughter of Chilperic, King of Neustria, remain to be noticed. They were married to two brothers, the former to Hermenigild, the latter to Reccared, sons of Levigild, King of the Spanish Visigoths. Indegonda suffered great persecutions from her husband’s step-mother on account of her religion, the second wife of Levigild being a bigoted Arian, and it was even a long time before Hermenigild consented to become a Catholic. When at last Indegonda had obtained this happy conversion, she herself and her husband’s uncle, the holy Leander of Seville, were exiled, and Hermenigild so persecuted by his father that, having been betrayed by the Greeks and deserted by the Romans, he fell a victim to Arian vengeance, and, after suffering torture and imprisonment, was cruelly put to death by order of Levigild himself. This barbarian king, however, repented his unnatural cruelty before he died, and, recalling his brother-in-law Leander, entrusted him with the care of his remaining son Reccared. Rigontha, the wife of the young prince, had suffered great injustice at the hands of her own father Chilperic, the lover of the too famous Fredegonda. She had succeeded in converting her husband, and, together with his uncle Leander, exercised a salutary influence over him. Reccared assembled the Arian bishops of his kingdom, and spoke to them so persuasively that they acknowledged themselves willing to be reconciled to the church. The province of Narbonne, at that time under his dominion, followed his example, while the neighboring tribe of the Suevi, also Arians, speedily joined the church. A council was then assembled at Toledo, and the intimate union of Spain with Catholic interests was founded on a solid and reliable basis.

It is told as a pleasantry of some shrewd critic of modern times that, whenever he saw or heard a disturbance of any sort, his unfailing question was, “Who is she?” being certain that, whatever might be the effect, a woman was sure to be the cause. If this is unfortunately no longer a libel on the sex in this distracted century, at least we may point back to the so-called dark ages, and proudly say, with a certainty far more absolute than that of our cynical contemporary, when we read of any great consummation in the history of religion and civilization, “Who was she?”

Not long after the death of Blanche of Castille, another Spanish princess, the daughter of Peter III. of Aragon, and the niece of St. Elizabeth of Hungary, took up the tradition of holiness, which seemed the birthright of the royal maidens of mediæval times. Her father attributed his success in his undertakings against the Moors to her prayers and early virtues. At twelve years old she was married to Denis, King of Portugal, to whom she was not only a most faithful wife, but whom she succeeded, by her meekness and silent example, in winning back from his sinful courses. She is praised by her biographers for her ascetic virtues, and for her utter disregard of her earthly rank. But what concerns us more is to look into the influence she held on social and political affairs. Among these it is impossible not to reckon her charities, for private charity has often much to do with public honesty and morality. Butler tells us that she “made it her business to seek out and secretly relieve persons of good condition who were reduced to necessity, yet out of shame durst not make known their wants. She gave constant orders to have all pilgrims and poor strangers provided with lodging and necessaries. She was very liberal in furnishing fortunes to poor young women, that they might marry according to their condition, and not be exposed to the danger of losing their virtue. She founded in different parts of the kingdom many pious establishments, particularly a hospital near her own palace at Coimbra, a house for penitent women who had been seduced into evil courses, at Torres-Novas, and a hospital for foundlings, or those children who for want of due provision are exposed to the danger of perishing by poverty or the neglect and cruelty of unnatural parents. She visited the sick and served them with her own hands, ... not that she neglected any other duties, ... for she made it her principal study to pay to her husband the most dutiful respect, love, and obedience, and bore his infidelities with invincible meekness and patience.” Let us stop to note this last sentence, which no doubt by many of our chafing sisters of this age may be misunderstood. This meekness was not a want of spirit; it was the effect of “the subordination of our inferior nature to reason, and of our reason to God,” as one of the most lucid and most sympathetic of American exponents of Catholic truth once expressed to the writer the whole duty of man upon earth. It was no passiveness, no supineness, but the heroic endurance of the martyr, who is more concerned at another’s sin than his own wrong, and who does not consider that reprisal and resentment are efficient means to win the sinner back. When a woman stoops to retaliation, she forgets the dignity of her sex, and, if _she_ forget it, who can she expect will remember it?

We may also be allowed to say one word about the numerous foundations constantly mentioned in the lives of these great Christian women of past ages. It is perhaps the general belief that nothing but monasteries were endowed in early times. We have sufficiently shown how fallacious such belief would be. Institutions of every kind, in which Catholic ingenuity was multiplied till it embraced every need and provided for every contingency, were sown all over the Christian world. The East was not forgotten, and, indeed, even the great orders of the Templars and the Hospitallers were originally nothing but organized bodies for the defence and shelter of the pilgrims who flocked to the holy places. Such charities as tended to diminish the temptations to crime were foremost among the many originated during the middle ages. We have only to refer to history to prove this. Even had these foundations been confined to monasteries, we must remember that the conventual abodes of old united in themselves nearly all the characteristics of other institutions, and in the less favored districts virtually supplied their place. Besides being the only secure and recognized homes of learning, the solitary centres of education, they were also the refuge of the homeless or benighted wanderer; the asylum of the oppressed poor, of threatened innocence, and of unjustly accused men; the hospital of the sick, the sure dispensary of medicines to the surrounding peasantry, and the unfailing granary of the poor during troublous times or years of famine. There was hardly one want, physical or spiritual, that could not find ready relief at the monasteries of both monks and nuns, so that in founding such retreats it is no exaggeration to say that orphanage, asylum, reformatory, hospital, and school were comprised within their walls.

We must return to the great queen whose munificence has led us into this digression, and resume, as was our purpose from the beginning, the rigid relation of mere historical facts to which we more willingly entrust the cause than to the most eloquent apologies.

When Elizabeth’s son, Alphonsus, revolted against his father and actually took up arms, she made the most prudent efforts to mediate between them, for which the Pope, John XXII., greatly praised her in a letter he wrote to her on the subject; but, certain enemies of hers having poisoned her husband’s mind against her, he banished her to the town of Alanquer. She refused all communication with the rebels, and at last was recalled by her penitent husband. Butler says: “She reconciled her husband and son when their armies were marching one against the other, and she reduced all the subjects to duty and obedience. She made peace between Ferdinand IV., King of Castille, and Alphonsus della Corda, his cousin-german, who disputed the crown; likewise between James II., King of Aragon, her own brother, and Ferdinand IV., King of Castille, her son-in-law. In order to effect this last, she took a journey with her husband into both these kingdoms, and, to the great satisfaction of the Christian world, put a happy end to all dissensions and debates between those states.” During her husband’s illness, which followed soon after, Elizabeth nursed him most devotedly, and ever exhorted him to think of his spiritual welfare. Her husband’s death was the end of her public career as queen--a fitting proof of the little value she placed upon the distinctions for which half the world is periodically laid in ashes. Her son, Alphonsus, and her grandson, also named Alphonsus, the young King of Castille, having again proclaimed war upon each other, Elizabeth set out to meet and reconcile them. She died on the way, in 1336, having obtained peace through her exhortations to her son, who attended her at her deathbed. Thus peace and brotherly love among princes and nations, as well as among the individuals of her own immediate circle, was ever nearest the heart of this great and admirable woman. How well it would be if she were taken as a model by the women of our day, and if her influence could be followed by the reward which our Lord himself attached to the noble office of peace-makers!

Turning to England, once the Island of Saints and the home of religious learning, we see the influence of woman most peremptorily asserted. There is Bertha, the daughter of Charibert, King of Paris, and wife of Ethelbert, King of Kent, whom we have already mentioned, with Brunehault, as being the apostles of the faith in England, and the zealous helpers of Gregory and Augustine. Rohrbacher says of her that she contributed mainly to the conversion of her husband and of the whole nation, and St. Lethard, her almoner and Bishop of Senlis, greatly aided her. There is Eanswide, her grand-daughter, the child of Eadbald, who was also converted later on and became abbess of the monastery at Folkestone, as Butler tells us. There is the great Edith, or Eadgith, the daughter of King Edgar, who in the tenth century was the ornament of her sex and the marvel of men. “She united,” says Butler, “the active life of Martha with the contemplation of Mary, and was particularly devoted to the care of the sick. When she was but fifteen years old, her father pressed her to undertake the government of three different monasteries, of which charge she was judged most capable, such was her extraordinary virtue and discretion. But she humbly declined all superiority.... Upon the death of her brother, Edward the Martyr, the nobility who adhered to the martyred king desired Edith to quit her monastery and ascend the throne, but she preferred a state of humility and obedience to the prospect of a crown.” Another Edith, the daughter of the great Earl of Kent, Godwin, became the queen of Edward the Confessor, with whom she lived by mutual consent in perpetual virginity, according to a vow the king had made many years before his marriage. Reading, studying, and devotion were her whole delight. Edward’s mother, Emma, is ranked among the saints, and was mainly instrumental in the religious and learned education of her son. Ventura, in his admirable work on Woman, which has become, as it were, a text-book for all those who are truly interested in the theme and history of woman’s greatness, draws attention to the fact that it was under the reign of Edward the Confessor--who is credited by prejudicial historians with “womanly” weakness, and who, on the contrary, was such an irrefragable proof of what the grave and wise influence of good women can do--that the equality of all men before the law was first recognized as a principle. Edward’s niece, Margaret, the wife of Malcolm, King of Scotland, was also a most eminent and influential princess. Her husband, whose confidence in her was unbounded, deferred to her in every particular of state government, whether internal or external, secular or religious. Their children’s education he left entirely in her hands, and, while she carefully surrounded them with masters well versed in all the knowledge then attainable, she was no less solicitous for the improvement of the nation. Butler says of her: “She labored most successfully to polish and civilize the Scottish nation, to encourage among the people the useful and polite arts, and to inspire them with a love of the sciences.... By her extensive alms, insolvent debtors were released, and decayed families restored, and foreign nations, especially the English, recovered their captives. She was solicitous to ransom those especially who fell into the hands of harsh masters. She also erected hospitals for poor strangers.” Her daughter Maud, who was the first wife of Henry I. of England, followed in her footsteps, and was highly revered, both during her life and after her death, by the two nations to which her birth and marriage linked her. Two great hospitals in London, that of Christ Church, Aldgate, and of St. Giles in the Fields, are due to her munificence and foresight.

We have no space to mention many of the Anglo-Saxon princesses who, either on the throne or in the cloister, swayed great political issues and protected learning while they shielded the virtue of their sex. We must leave the Island of Saints for other kingdoms whose queens were conspicuous not only in procuring the conversion of these realms to Christianity, but also in the territorial aggrandizement and material prosperity of the countries they governed. Bridget, Queen of Sweden, the famous author of the most interesting revelations ever written, was no less remarkable personally than fortunate in her many and distinguished children. Warriors and crusaders, holy wives and consecrated virgins, she offered them to God in every state, and instructed each with particular care. A pilgrimage to Rome in days when the journey from Scandinavia to the south was more an exploration than a safe pastime was bravely undertaken by her in her widowhood, and the foundation of her order and chief monastery at Vatzen is certainly one of the most boldly conceived systems known to the world. The monasteries of this order were double, and contained a smaller number of monks and a larger of nuns, divided by so strict an enclosure that, although contiguous, the communities never even saw each other. In spiritual matters, the monks held authority, but in temporal the nuns governed the double house; and in fact the monks were only attached to the foundation in a secondary degree of importance, and for the greater spiritual convenience of the cloistered women. Such subordination goes far to show how the pretended inferiority of woman is really an unknown thing in the church. The fanaticism and bad faith of later times affected to see an abuse in this system, and most of these monasteries were destroyed at the Reformation, but Butler says that a few exist yet in Flanders and Germany. St. Bridget’s works have been printed and reprinted from age to age, and have seemingly never lost what may be styled in modern parlance their popularity. She also procured a Swedish translation of the Bible to be written by Matthias, the Bishop of Worms, who died about the year 1410. She was altogether one of the most prominent women of the fourteenth century, and no unworthy successor to the central figure of the preceding age, Catherine of Sienna, of whom we shall have to speak briefly later on.

Two empresses of Germany deserve a passing notice here--Mathilda, the wife of Henry I. called the Fowler, and her daughter-in-law, the famous Adelaide. The former had been educated by her grandmother, who bore the same name as herself, and who was the abbess of the monastery of Erfurt. Once again we have a woman of genius, prudence, and great governing powers coming forth to rule a disturbed empire--and from what school? The world will hardly dare to call it unenlightened or narrow-minded; yet it was a monastery. During her husband’s wars against the Danes and Hungarians, then (it was in the ninth century) nothing better than barbarians, Mathilda was several times left regent, and Ventura tells us “that public affairs did not prosper less, the country was not less tranquil, nor the people less contented, because it was a woman who steered the helm of the state. When the emperor returned, he found everything in perfect order. The empress relinquished the functions of regent only to resume her former place of intercessor for the unfortunate, protectress of prisoners, and wise auxiliary to justice.” Adelaide, Princess of Burgundy, renewed in the following century the glories of Mathilda’s reign. She was married to the son of the latter, after having been for a short time the Queen of Lothair, King of the Lombards in Italy. Ventura says that her zeal for the public good and her love of the people gained her the appellation of the “mother of her kingdom.” After her husband’s death, Adelaide, says Butler, “educated her son Otho II. with great care, and his reign was happy as long as he governed by her directions.” His mother became regent after his death and that of his wife, and her biographer, Butler, tells us that she “looked upon power as merely a difficult stewardship, and applied herself to public affairs with indefatigable care.”[84]

The middle ages are so fruitful a field for historical details of the greatness of woman, that we find our materials crowding one upon the other in too great a profusion for our present limits. But some great figures in what we may call the Christian Pantheon of woman cannot be passed over without a word of notice. The tenth century gave another holy empress to Germany, Cunegonda, the wife of Henry II., himself a saint, and a descendant of St. Mathilda. His sister Giselda married King Stephen of Hungary, upon the express condition that he would endeavor to christianize his people. Cunegonda, who reigned for a short time between the death of St. Henry and the election of his successor, proved herself as competent to govern a realm as the greatest man; these are Ventura’s own words. The story of Elizabeth of Hungary has been eloquently told by the author of the _Monks of the West_, and pictorial art has handed down from generation to generation the touching legend of her life. Married early to a prince remarkable for his piety and generosity, she was able to indulge in her favorite pastime--working for and serving the poor. We, in these days, seem to think that philanthropy, the “love of man,” is an invention coeval with the erection of gossiping committees and wrangling “boards”; but, when we look back upon the history of our race, we are forced to remember that when man was loved for the sake of God, spiritually as well as temporally, and when the old-fashioned virtue of “charity” was not ashamed to own its created--not self-existent--origin, a broader system of benevolence was spread over Christian earth, and more daring undertakings were cheerfully and successfully carried through. Elizabeth of Hungary was not untried by adversity, and after her husband’s death suffered cruel persecutions from her brother-in-law Henry, with the undaunted fortitude which a good conscience ensures and which God’s grace strengthens. We are told of her that she spoke little and always with gravity, and especially shunned tattlers. Women are always being taxed on one side with ridiculous frivolity in speech, and urged, on the other, to a contradiction of the charge by the pedantic phraseology of surface science. We have not alluded in these pages as often as we should have done to the great love of silence which distinguished the great women whose memory is honored. Whether as religious or as seculars, the useful employment of time and a discreetness of conversation were the two special and similar characteristics of their widely different lives, and thus they provided for the devotions and the acts of charity which shared so large a portion of their days and nights. They were never idle or even uselessly occupied, and we know but few women of our own generation who could truthfully say the same of themselves. What powers, what energy, do we not see wasted in superfluous social duties; for while, as our modern phrase goes, they _kill time_, they are also engaged in stifling, dwarfing, or destroying the higher powers of their mind. Solitude, silence, meditation, these are essentials to a well-balanced mind; but how many minds there are who voluntarily go on, not heeding, until the world and its claims, its sham triumphs, and its petty rivalries upset this balance and obscure the mind’s eye! There are as many women whose intellect is wrecked on the shoals of Fashion with its “laws of the Medes and Persians,” as there are others whose sensibility is stranded on the rocks of Woman’s Rights Conventions with their reckless disregard of all natural ties and time-honored duties.

Poland presents us with several instances of heroic womanhood during the middle ages. Dombrowka, the daughter of Boleslas, Duke of Bohemia, married Mieczylas, Duke of Poland, on condition of his becoming a Christian. By her example he not only became a religious, but a pure, merciful, and just, man. His wife could not forget her own countrymen while evangelizing her new subjects, and it was to her repeated solicitations that Bohemia owed the establishment of the Archiepiscopal See of Prague. Christianity, which in those times we might call the dower of the royal maidens of Europe, was first carried into Hungary by the marriage of Adelaide, the sister-in-law of Dombrowka, to Geisa, chief of the Huns. This Geisa was father to St. Stephen, of whose exemplary queen, Giselda, we have already spoken. Of another Polish princess, Hedwige, the wife of Henry, Duke of Silesia and Poland, we are told that by her prudence and persuasiveness she succeeded in delivering her husband, who had been made a prisoner by her uncle, and in obtaining peace between these two princes. Even in our own days, have we not had recent examples of the high esteem in which the mediation of woman was held in a Catholic country by a Catholic sovereign? Who can forget that delicate diplomatic missions have been confided in past years to a woman who was the incarnation of social charm as she was also the most devoted and uncompromising enthusiast in the cause of the Catholic religion--the Empress Eugenie! This Hedwige, who, in 1240, was so instrumental in raising an army with which to encounter the heathen hordes of Tartars who threatened at that time to destroy civilization in Europe, was succeeded by another queen of the same name as the saintly Cunegonda of Germany. It was she who towards the beginning of the fourteenth century, as Dlugossius, her biographer, and the Bollandists relate, was the first to provide for the working of the salt mines of Wieliczka, which afterwards proved an infinite source of wealth to the kingdom. She also cheerfully contributed the _whole_ of her princely dowry to the equipment of an army to be led against the Tartars who had made a second raid upon the frontiers of Poland. But the greatest heroine of the country whose women are to this day the bravest under misfortune, and the most faithful to their religion, was another Hedwige, to whom Poland is indebted for her territorial aggrandizement and some of the most interesting as well as useful of her public institutions. Born a princess of Hungary, the elective crown of Poland was offered to her when she was only eighteen, and, when her marriage became a matter of national importance, she made, _herself_, a choice which only her own consummate prudence and foresight could have justified. Jagellon, Grand Duke of Lithuania and the surrounding barbarous provinces, became her husband, on the conditions, proposed by Hedwige, that his entire domains should be incorporated _for ever_ in the kingdom of Poland; that his people should embrace Christianity; that Christians who had been enslaved should be set free; that certain Polish provinces once alienated should be restored, and that all Lithuanian treasures, whether hereditary or conquered by Jagellon from his enemies, should be appropriated for the benefit of the kingdom of Poland. Here is a treaty in which a kingdom is consolidated and a dynasty established, through the unassisted efforts of the genius and prudence of a woman. Hedwige founded numberless hospitals, schools, churches, and monasteries; the great cathedral of Wilna and seven episcopal sees also owe their origin to her. Only through her death and her husband’s good-natured but weak indifference when once her influence was removed was a great monastic institution abandoned, which had for its object the study and preservation of the Slavic languages and peculiar rites. The University of Prague was already in her day a world-famed seat of learning. Hedwige, in concert with the King of Bohemia, founded and endowed in that city a spacious and magnificent college, where the youth of Lithuania were gratuitously received and provided for during their academical course. Education was certainly as gravely thought of in those days as in our later times, when we boast of its benefits being so _widely_ diffused. Whether it is as _deeply_ impressed on its ordinary recipients, let the recent “commemorations” at Oxford proclaim. Dlugossius says the college (which exists to this day) was called the Queen’s House, “a name which is in itself an undying monument to the memory of this great woman, whose worthy thought it embodied, and charity it still expresses; remaining for ever a living testimony to the world of the merits of its illustrious foundress.” Boniface IX., who reigned during the last decade of the fourteenth century, corresponded with Hedwige, upon whom he relied as the principal support and auxiliary of religion in her realms. She was always appealed to as mediatrix between the king and his subjects, as also by the vassal nobles among themselves. What the king could not do by threats, she accomplished partly by her persuasive exhortations, partly by her grave and majestic demeanor. Her historian relates that she even quelled a popular rising, and put down the abuses which had given occasion to it, before the king had time to march an army into the disaffected district and reduce it by force. Once, while her husband was fighting in Lithuania, the Hungarians, her own countrymen, invaded Poland and captured several towns. “She no sooner heard of this,” says Ventura, “than she assembled the nobles and barons, improvised an army on the spot, and, without losing an instant, herself led it on to the frontiers. There, to the great astonishment of her generals, she displayed the military talents and bravery of an old warrior. It was she who directed the sieges, organized the sallies and attacks, and gave battle on the open ground, while the whole army obeyed her enthusiastically, proud to serve under a woman-general. She conquered the enemy at every encounter, wrested from them the important stronghold of Leopol, took other cities, and not only repossessed herself of the Russian territories usurped by the Hungarians, but also added to the kingdom of Poland a vast tract of country which voluntarily surrendered itself to her rule.”[85] Hedwige is perhaps less known than other renowned women of the middle ages, and therefore we have been led to speak more at length of her extraordinary powers. It would be useless to remind the reader that she was no less remarkable for the modesty of her private life and the austerities and charities of her secret life than famed for the wonderful and versatile talents displayed in her public career. Chastity and devotion invariably accompany all greatness in Catholic womanhood, but, as we shall have occasion to illustrate this fact later on, we will not now stop to consider it in its evident bearings on the vexed question raised by certain indiscriminate apostles of the rights of woman.

We cannot pass over, among the prominent women of mediæval times the famous Countess Mathilda, of Tuscany, the friend and ally of Gregory VII., Hildebrand the Reformer. Rohrbacher calls her the modern Deborah, and adds that in Italy, whose princes were mostly traitors to the cause of truth and patriotism, “one man only, during a long reign of fifty years, showed himself ever faithful, ever devoted to the church and her head, ever ready to second them in efforts for the reformation of the clergy and the restoration of ancient discipline, ever prompt to defend them, sword in hand, from their most formidable enemies, never allured by bribes, intimidated by threats, or cast down by adversity, and this _one man_ was _a woman_, the Countess Mathilda.”

Her donation of Tuscany, the Marches, Parma, Modena, Reggio, and various other cities and lands, to the Holy See, is a fact that stands alone in history, and is simply the most momentous act of practical devotion which the Chair of Peter ever received. This generous and unreserved gift, first made to Gregory VII. in 1077, and confirmed in 1102 to Pascal II., is the unparalleled expression of the whole nature of woman, in its thoroughness, its spirit of martyrdom, its enthusiastic and unerring instincts, towards the good and the true. Henry IV. of Germany, having incurred excommunication, was reconciled to the Pope through the good offices of the great countess, and met him for that purpose at the fortress of Canossa, then a fief of the Countess of Tuscany. Ventura says of her that she was as learned as she was pious, and as solicitous for the propagation of science and the interests of literature as for the reformation of clerical abuses and the consolidation of the church. She multiplied schools and colleges over her dominions, but the crowning work of her great reign was the foundation of the famous University of Bologna, confessedly the best seat of learning in Europe for many centuries. Mathilda gathered together all the enlightened and talented masters of her age in this time-honored and world-renowned university, and in honor of her munificence it has remained a custom to this day to allow women to graduate there, to take a doctorate, and “profess” in public any of the learned faculties. Women, we are told by Ventura, the earnest panegyrist of the sex, have taken advantage of this custom at all times, and even up to the present day, when (in the beginning of this century, we believe) the celebrated female professor, Tambroni, taught Latin and Greek within the Bolognese university. Cardinal Mezzofanti, the great linguist, was at one time her pupil.

We have been led so far in the search, however superficial, for instances of the greatness of woman, as recognized, protected, and rewarded by the church, that we have reached a limit to our explorations in this article without mentioning any of the great women of the middle ages save those of royal descent. There are many who claim our attention, and whose influence over public affairs and the minds of men was not less than that exercised by the royal matrons and maidens we have cursorily named. Some were destined to mingle in political struggles, others owe their fame to their learning, one of them to actual feats of arms, and all to the spirit of chivalry which rendered a woman inviolable and sacred wherever honor was known and laws revered. But this spirit itself, what was it save the offspring of that higher spirit of reverential homage ever inculcated by the church towards that sex which gave a mother to our God?

Before taking up the subject of the status of woman within the church after the sixteenth century, we may, perhaps, return for a brief space to the Catherines of Sienna, the Joans of Arc, and the Genevieves of ecclesiastical history.

FOOTNOTES:

[79] _Donna Cattolica_, ii. p. 74.

[80] _Lives of the Saints._

[81] _Life of St. Radegundes._ By Busslère

[82] _Donna Cattolica._

[83] _Donna Cattolica_, vol. ii. p. 104.

[84] _Lives of the Saints._

[85] _Donna Cattolica_, p. 174.

BRYANT’S TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD.[86]

The appearance at this time and in this country of a first-rate translation of the _Iliad_ is an event of much significance. Through the exaggerated praise which London critics bestow on our dialect poetry, there runs a quiet assumption that our culture is narrow and unsound. Our oaten pipe is well enough, but our lyre disjointed and unstrung. To such insinuations Mr. Bryant’s work is a complete and final rejoinder. We shall find it easy to show that he has made the best translation of Homer in our language, and with one exception the very best extant. In the face of such an achievement, it will henceforth be preposterous to sneer at American scholarship.

Winged words the Homeric poems may well be called, which, fledged in the dawn of time, have not yet faltered in their flight across the centuries. Their superiority as works of art is not more unquestionable than is their procreative power. They have ever been--to use Milton’s words--as lively and as vigorously productive as those fabulous dragon’s teeth. The history of Greek letters, we might almost say, is the genesis of the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_. Upon them Aristotle based his canons; from them the Attic tragedy drew her inspiration and her argument. To the same source the most delightful of Greek historians referred his style and his method, while the choir of lyric and erotic poets confessed their debt to him who “gave them birth, but higher sang.” The direct action of the Homeric poems upon the masters of the Latin literature has been compared to that of the sunlight, but their indirect influence through the medium of Athenian models was pervasive and quickening as the solar heat. The development of poetry among Western nations can be accurately measured by the thoroughness with which they have assimilated Homer. The _Orlando_ and the _Lusiad_ repeat the story of Ulysses. Even minor excellences of the _Iliad_ are reproduced in the _Jerusalem Delivered_. Milton and Goethe have drawn copiously from the same stores. Nor is there a single modern poet of the first rank, with the exception of Shakespeare, whose obligations to Homer are not manifold and obvious.

It is true that the eighteenth century, which sought to shatter so many idols, chose to depreciate these poems. Embellished by Pope, dissected by Fontanelle, and patronized by Mme. Dacier, they fell, it must be confessed, upon evil times. It is a suggestive commentary upon the self-styled _siècle du goût_ that the autocrat of letters could pronounce the _Iliad_ “une poème qu’on admire, et qu’on ne lit pas.”[87] To the author of the _Henriade_, Homer was only a _beau parleur_. It is now many years since the stigma went home to roost. Perrault and La Motte Houdart, who knew him only in the rags and gyves of an obscure translation, point with a satisfied smirk to the “coarseness” and “barbarism” of Homer. One is reminded of those Philistine lords who flung their jests at Samson Agonistes while he leaned against the pillars in Gaza.

Of living English poets, the strongest and sweetest acknowledge gratefully in Homer a source of their melody and strength. The fragment of an epic which is perhaps the Laureate’s best work was presented by the author as “faint Homeric echoes.” From Homer, quite as truly as from Chaucer, has the _Earthly Paradise_ caught its genial sunshine and bracing air. The world, we presume, would have lost nothing had Mr. Swinburne read Euripides less and the _Iliad_ more. A timely reaction has set in against the morbid self-consciousness and the hankering after glitter and novelty which are sure precursors of decay. Of that reaction, Matthew Arnold, who in childhood was taught to reverence Homer, has been the prophet and protagonist. With the same movement the temper and discipline of Mr. Bryant’s mind place him in active sympathy. We do not doubt that it was the aim of his _Iliad_ to elevate and purify the taste of his countrymen. The success which his translation has already achieved augurs for it not a little influence upon the national literature.

To the thoughtful artist, Schlegel could suggest nothing more useful than the study of casts from the antique. A faithful version of the _Iliad_ opens whole galleries of casts. The sculptor Bouchardon, we are told, was discovered reading Homer in a translation, and that a sorry one. “Ah, monsieur!” he exclaimed, “depuis que j’ai lu ce livre, il me semble que les hommes ont quinze pieds de haut.”[88] We know what Keats beheld upon looking into Chapman’s _Homer_, and we know that the quarry from which he hewed _Hyperion_ is not yet exhausted. Of the thousands who will now listen for the first time to the story of Achilles, it may well be that some will kindle at what they hear. They will know how to thank Mr. Bryant that those flames which blazed over Troy, leaping from headland to headland, have once more borne a message across the sea.

Since the beginning of the seventeenth century, repeated attempts have been made to translate the master-poems of the Greek and Latin literatures into English verse. We suppose it will be acknowledged that those attempts have for the most part failed. The truth is that translation as commonly practised in England cannot properly be called an art. There are no fundamental principles universally recognized as the conditions of its development. It is still hardly more than a trick, in which one succeeds better than another, but each proceeds upon a method of his own. Who has prefaced his work with such a definition of translation as criticism can admit to be exhaustive and final? We might have expected so much from Hobbes. We do not find it. Dryden’s cardinal idea, that translation is “a kind of drawing after the life,” has never been literally accepted by others. It did not uniformly govern himself. The face seen and the face drawn both appeal to the brain through the eye, whereas even those English translators who aim to infuse the identical thought, feeling, or fancy of their original have recourse to media of sensual metaphor, sometimes modified, sometimes distinct from those employed in their author’s language. On Sir George Cornewall Lewis’ view of translation we will not dwell, because we are not sure that we understand it, and at least cannot conceive the practical application of it. It is enough for us that he heartily commended as an instance of right treatment Hookham Frere’s _Aristophanes_, which is clever, fresh, and racy enough, but certainly not Attic. There is another theory, that we should ask ourselves what our author _would_ have said had he been writing in English. One objection to this is, as Mr. Newman remarks, that no two men would agree in their answers to such a question. Homer, if an Englishman and writing in our tongue, would unquestionably have given a different turn and tinge to his verse from that which it takes in Greek. But are we not bound to make the province of translation, as discriminated from paraphrase, the reproduction of what an author did actually say? Certainly the aim of Homeric translators into our tongue should be, not of course to compass the effect produced upon an Athenian reading Homer in the age of Peisistratos or upon a consummate scholar capable, we will say, of _thinking_ in Ionic Greek, but to make upon Englishmen or Americans of average culture an impression nearly identical with that which they derive from the _Iliad_ itself. Achieve this, and they who are themselves not scholars will at least be assured that they are reading Homer, not Sotheby or Pope. Such an aim does not seem too ambitious, but it has never been attained, rarely approached, in English. A radical error runs through all our metrical versions of the classic poets. Literal accuracy is by some repudiated, attempted by others, and occasionally secured in detached passages, but is always subordinate to the attainment of harmonious numbers and agreeable diction. Whenever literal accuracy seems likely to conflict with these, it is sacrificed. Now, if it be true that such sacrifice is frequently inevitable, then a genuine translation of the _Iliad_ is an impossibility. But this we are reluctant to admit. The matchless version of Voss has proved that it is possible to be at once literal and musical, to preserve in one Germanic language at least as much of the Homeric flavor as Germans of average culture can detect in the original. Perhaps one clue to his success is to be found in his employment of the hexameter. A profound artist, he could not fail to recognize the inextricable connection of rhythm and cæsura with the shape and play of thought. He saw that in some subtle sort the metre _is_ the poem. We have not abandoned the hope of seeing the hexameter one day naturalized in English. Mr. Kingsley’s _Andromeda_ showed a marked improvement on _Evangeline_, and what the Laureate might do in this way is sufficiently clear from his _Ode to Milton_, where he has grappled successfully with alcaics, undoubtedly the most intricate and difficult of dactylic measures. The distinction between quantitative and accentual metres has been pressed too far by men who have wanted patience to cope with those peculiarities which render our language somewhat intractable to dactylic verse.

Almost every familiar scheme of English metre has been applied to the reproduction of Homer. We have had Chapman’s fourteen-syllable line, the rhymed couplet of Pope and Sotheby, the unrhymed iambics of Cowper, Mr. Worsley’s Spenserian stanza, the ballad movement in seven beats of Mr. Newman, and many more. One or two of these are noble English poems, but as translations none can be compared with the work of Voss. We should have said, before the appearance of Mr. Bryant’s volumes, that a new version of the _Iliad_ executed upon one of the old plans and in one of the old metres was not called for. The attempt of Lord Derby to vie with Cowper in blank-verse had proved singularly unfortunate. Failing to accredit the scholar, its publication belittled the statesman. It is not with such a performance that the conservative party can match Mr. Gladstone’s _Homeric Age_. We should not highly commend Mr. Bryant were we to say that he is every-way more successful than Lord Derby. He has, in our judgment, surpassed Cowper, and that was no easy task. The associations, indeed, connected with what is known as blank-verse, render it to an English ear somewhat unsuitable to a poem like the _Iliad_, which presents an infinite variety of incidents and situations quite as often trivial as dignified. Still, Cowper, although his muse, stooping to certain homely details, discovers a sort of prudishness which is highly amusing, is generally vigorous and noble where energy and majesty are required, and had hitherto been the least unsatisfactory of Homer’s English translators. In examining Mr. Bryant’s work we shall mainly confine ourselves--so far as English writers are concerned--to a collation of Cowper and Lord Derby. We have neither space nor inclination to quote from the rhymed versions. Faithfully to reproduce Homer in rhyme was declared by Pope to be impossible, and Mr. Worsley’s _Odyssey_, delightful as it is, has not availed to set aside the judgment.

It would be easy to misinterpret the views which have governed Mr. Bryant’s work by his application of Latin names to the Homeric deities, and the reason which he assigns in the preface for this practice. It is true that he is countenanced by Lord Derby, but we think we had a right to expect more from his scholarship. We cannot but deem them both in the wrong, and to our mind the error is serious and far-reaching. The denizens of Homer’s Olympus are in the strictest sense personal gods. Such superhuman attributes as they severally possess are sharply defined, the degree and scope of their authority, except, perhaps, in two instances, clearly marked. They live the life of men, eat, drink, love, quarrel. They exhibit the most passionate interest in the war which rages before Ilium. They are bitter and unscrupulous partisans, wheedle, lie, bargain, rebel, in the cause of their _protégées_. They forsake their dwellings to take part in the debates of mortals, mix in the fight, are pierced with spears, and the celestial ichor flows precisely like human blood. In short, they resemble rather the demigods of a later mythology, and are rarely invested with that awful sublimity and mystery which enshroud most of the elder Roman divinities. Even in the _Theogony_ of Hesiod, the attributes of certain gods have undergone a degree of alteration which it is tax enough to bear in mind. To insist upon confounding Ares, Aphroditê, and Athenê with Mars, Venus, and Minerva, deities which, as enshrined in the literature purely and distinctively Latin, are as native and peculiar to Rome as her language, is to mystify the reader who knows anything of either. It appears to us as unreasonable to rename the gods as to miscall the heroes of the _Iliad_. Surely it is no apology for the confusion of things essentially distinct that the practice has been in some sort naturalized in our literature. So are the legendary chronicles of the kings of Rome, so are the distorted portraits of Shakespeare’s histories. A manifest error cannot plead undisturbed possession. Moreover, it is now many years since English scholars have labored to educate their countrymen up to something like discrimination between the Greek and Latin mythologies. Their task is well-nigh done. Lemprière’s Dictionary is at length obsolete, and the volumes of Grote are in the hands of every schoolboy. If the prevailing excellence of Mr. Bryant’s work had not disarmed us, we should be disposed to protest against the repetition of an error, as well as against the presumption of national ignorance, by which it is excused. It is certainly matter of regret that such an objection should lie on the threshold of a work in most respects so sound and scholarlike.

The new version begins well:

“O Goddess! sing the wrath of Peleus’ son Achilles; sing the deadly wrath that brought Woes numberless upon the Greeks and swept To Hades many a valiant soul, and gave Their limbs a prey to dogs and birds of air. For so had Jove appointed, from the time When the two chiefs--Atrides, King of men, And great Achilles--parted first as foes.”

Seven hexameters in eight lines of blank-verse--certainly a remarkable instance of compression. Except ἡρωων, πασι (almost an expletive), and προ in προιαψεν (which, perhaps, is faintly suggested by “swept”), not a word of Homer is omitted, not a word is added. “Birds of air” is an accurate translation of οἰωνοισι. “Parted first as foes” is exceedingly close. There is but one error, διος is rendered “great.” To this word no moral attribute whatever is attached in the Homeric poems. It is equivalent to “high-born” or “noble” (as Cowper gives it) in the primitive sense of that word. Lord Derby makes it “godlike,” which is quite incorrect. If there be a fault in the lines just quoted, it is a certain coldness. They hardly lift us to the height of the great argument. But for conscientious fidelity to the original, these lines have not been approached in English, and are in this respect fully equal to Voss. Hear, for instance, Cowper, who requires an extra line:

“Achilles sing, O Goddess, Peleus’ son, His wrath pernicious, who ten thousand woes Caused to Achaia’s _host_, sent many a soul Illustrious into Ades premature, And heroes gave (so stood the will of Jove) To dogs and to all ravening birds a prey. When fierce dispute had separated once The noble chief Achilles from the son Of Atreus, Agamemnon, King of men.”

This is pitched in the right key, although the finest line, the fourth, is perhaps too suggestively Miltonic. In his scholarship Cowper is loose. “Who” is grammatically wrong and æsthetically a blunder. It is not Achilles, but Achilles’ wrath that Homer means to sing. “Host,” “ravening,” “fierce,” “chief,” “Agamemnon,” are merely supernumeraries. “Illustrious” was inserted, we presume, for rhythmical reasons; it does not translate ἰφθιμους. “Stood” for ἐτελειετο is fine; Mr. Bryant fails to convey the notion of fulfilment, of inevitable accomplishment, which the word seems to carry. The antithesis between ψυχὰς and αὐτους, significant as regards the Homeric theory of a future life, is quite lost in Cowper, while it is cleverly projected in Mr. Bryant’s lines. “Premature” preserves the force of the preposition in προ-ιαψεν, which ought not to be overlooked.

It may be well now to quote Lord Derby. He needs _ten_ lines:

“Of Peleus’ son, Achilles, sing, O Muse. The vengeance deep and deadly whence to Greece Unnumbered ills arose, which many a soul Of mighty warriors to the viewless Shades Untimely sent, they on the battle plain Unburied lay, a prey to ravening dogs And carrion birds, but so had Jove decreed. From that sad day when first in wordy war The mighty Agamemnon, King of men, Confronted stood by Peleus’ godlike son.”

This is hardly worth criticising in detail. First, why “Muse”? “Vengeance” is bad for μηνις. “Deadly” translates οὐλομένην well enough, but “deep and deadly” suggests the harrowing phraseology of the _Ledger_ romance. “Viewless Shades” is possibly poetical, but Homer chooses to be geographical--he says Ἀις. “They on the battle plain unburied”; we cannot find this in the Greek, but it accounts for one extra line. “Ravening” and “carrion” raise Cowper’s expletive to the second power. “Sad day”! And so it was, but to call it so is almost maudlin. Ἐριζω does indeed mean to wrangle, but “wordy war” is petty and poetastic. “The mighty Agamemnon”! Homer is satisfied with _Atrides_. And now we will see if it be possible to give this magnificent prologue measure for measure, line for line, almost word for word. Hear Voss:

“Singe den Zorn, O Göttin, des Peleiaden Achilleus, Ihn der entbrannt den Achaiern unendbaren Jammer erregte, Und viel tapfere Seelen der Heldensöhne zum Ais Sendete, aber sie selber zum Raub’ ausstreckte den Hunden Und den Gevögel umher--so ward Zeus’ Wille vollendet, Seit dem Tage als einst durch bitteren Zank sich entzweiten Atreus’ Sohn der Herrscher des Volks und der edle Achilleus!”

The figurative _entbrannt_ for οὐλομένην is not to our taste. _Bitteren_ is superfluous, and _sendete_ imperfectly translates προιαψεν. Otherwise these lines are flawless.

We pass to the sixth book, to a passage which Pope and Chapman have done well, Sotheby on the whole better, where even Hobbes grows tender, where every translator has sought to do his best. The parting of Hector and Andromache is a scene (if we except the _Alcestis_) unique in classic literature. When we consider the state of society depicted in the Homeric poems, the figure of Andromache seems anomalous and inexplicable; or rather she almost constrains us to recast our notions of the social framework in which we find her set. In her the sexual passion is refined and sublimated to that noblest form of conjugal love which is thought to be peculiar to the civilized and christianized descendants from the chaste German stock. Through the historical ages of Greece, in the Roman Republic and Empire, we seek in vain a pendant to this portrait. The ideal would seem to have been lost. The painter who drew Alexander’s favorite could not have limned Andromache; he who sang _Ariadne in Naxos_ would have failed to understand her. To recover the type, we must descend to a much later age--to Raphael and to Wordsworth. The sweetest words in our language--sweetheart, helpmate, wife--describe Andromache. She is not the wanton idol of a despot’s caprice, nor the dull victim of a convenient Athenian marriage, nor the selfish _protégée_ of the cynical Roman law. She might have been bred in a Christian world and blessed an English home. We quote twenty lines from Mr. Bryant:

“She came attended by a maid who bore A tender child--a babe too young to speak-- Upon her bosom, Hector’s only son, Beautiful as a star....

* * * * *

The father on his child Looked with a silent smile. Andromache Pressed to his side meanwhile, and all in tears Clung to his hand, and thus beginning said: ‘Too brave! thy valor yet will cause thy death! Thou hast no pity on thy tender child, Nor me, unhappy one, who soon must be Thy widow. All the Greeks will rush on thee To take thy life. A happier lot were mine, If I must lose thee, to go down to earth, For I shall have no hope when thou art gone, Nothing but sorrow. Father have I none, And no dear mother.... Seven brothers had I in my father’s house, And all went down to Hades in one day.

* * * * *

Hector, thou Art father and dear mother now to me, And brother and my youthful spouse besides.’”

No man, we imagine, who examines the above lines will question the general accuracy of Mr. Bryant’s scholarship. They are at once the most succinct, literal, and beautiful reproduction of Homer’s words which has been achieved in English. As Americans, we are proud of them. Cowper, indeed, had finely rendered this passage, and it is possible that some persons unfamiliar with the Greek and habituated to the movement of the _Paradise Lost_ may prefer his inverted construction and sonorous phrase. We will not quote him, however, but rather choose to pay Mr. Bryant the highest homage in our power by placing beside his lines the version of Voss:

“Die Dienerin aber ihr folgend Trug an der Brust das zarte, noch ganz unmündige Knäblein.

* * * * *

Hektor’s einzigen Sohn, dem schimmernden Sterne vergleichbar. Siehe, mit Lächeln blickte der Vater still auf das Knäblein, Aber neben ihn trat Andromache Thränen vergiessend, Drückt ihm freundlich die Hand, und redete also, beginnend, Seltsamer Mann, dich tödtet dein Muth noch und du erbarmst dich Nicht des stammelnden Kindes, noch mein des elenden Weibes, Ach, bald Witwe von dir, denn dich tödten gewiss die Achaier Alle mit Macht austürmend; allein mir ware das Beste Deiner beraubt in die Erde hinabzusinken; denn weiter Bleibt kein Trost mir übrig, wenn du dein Schicksal erreicht hast, Grau nur und nicht mehr hab’ ich ja Vater und liebende Mutter.

* * * * *

Sieben auch waren die Brüder mir dort in unserer Wohnung, Und die wandelten all ‘am selbigen Tage zum Ais.’”

We doubt if these lines can be surpassed except by the Greek itself. They echo the melody of Homer. Mr. Bryant, of course, relinquished the hope of competing with him in this respect when he adopted iambic verse. In point of compression, however, and literal accuracy, we shall find him not inferior. There are in both versions some imperfections. “Tender” (_zarte_) may perhaps stand for ἀταλαφρων although it represents but partially that exquisite epithet. Cowper omits this word altogether, and Lord Derby substitutes something of his own, “all unconscious.” To our mind Mr. Bryant’s “too young to speak” is most felicitous for νηπιον αὐτως. The word, however, in many passages of the _Iliad_ shows no trace of relation to επος, and means simply “under age,” as Voss gives it. The force of the adverb is nicely preserved in the German. Both versions make ἁγαπητον “only” (_einzigen_). The line of the _Odyssey_ (b. ii. 365) seems to us conclusive against the propriety of this translation. We prefer Cowper’s “darling.” And now we come to the famous simile, ἀλιγκιον ἀστερι καλῷ. Mr. Bryant, following Cowper, writes “beautiful as a star.” But Homer is far more picturesque than this. He shows us the bright cheeks and glancing eyes of Hector’s boy gleaming from his nurse’s bosom, as a star gleams. “A fair star”--Lord Derby would make it a planet, “morning star” he calls it. But stars that twinkle and glimmer are most alluring to the eye, are the fairest, and therefore Voss is right--_schimmernden Sterne vergleichbar_. Mr. Bryant is not successful in the next line. We cannot like “silent smile.” Can a smile be other than silent? Neither can Voss match Cowper’s

“The father silent eyed his babe, and smiled.”

“Pressed to his side” is vivid, where Cowper and Voss are tame; “clung to his hand”--the Greek is yet stronger, “grew on his hand.” Voss was certainly drowsy when he could render this “pressed kindly his hand.” Andromache’s touching first word is quite lost in the “Dear lord” of Lord Derby. Cowper’s “My noble Hector” is even worse. The truth is that Δαιμονιε is uttered by the young wife in tender reproach, and this is conveyed in good measure by “too brave,” but _seltsamer Mann_ is perfect. “Tender child”--Cowper and Lord Derby write “helpless.” Voss’ _stammelnden_ is based, we presume, on _Il._ 2, 238, where some command of speech more or less articulate seems to be conceded to νηπιαχοις. The next four lines of the new version are close and felicitous, but θαλπωρη is not so much “hope” as “comfort”; and “when thou art gone” hardly expresses the thought in ἐπει ἄν συ γε ποτμον ἐπισπῃς, whereas the German delivers it faithfully. We have reached finally a wonderful couplet which fairly throbs with passionate devotion. Here is the Greek:

“‘Ἑκτωρ, ἀταρ συ μοι ἐσσι πατηρ και ποτνια μητηρ, Ἠδε κασιγνητος, συ δε μοι θαλερος παρακοιτης.’”

Which we may venture to render thus:

“‘Hector, united in thee still, find I my worshipful mother, Father and brother in thee, O blooming Hector, my husband!’”

Voss is exceedingly sweet:

“‘Hector, O du bist jetzo mir Vater und liebende Mutter, Auch mein Bruder allein, O du mein blühender Gatte!’”

Derby:

“‘But, Hector, thou to me art all in one, Sire, mother, brother, thou my wedded love.’”

Cowper:

“‘Yet, Hector, O my husband, I in thee Find parents, brothers, all that I have lost.’”

Bryant:

“‘Hector, thou Art father and dear mother now to me And brother and my youthful spouse besides.’”

Lord Derby’s version is curiously bad. Strange that one striving to utter to modern ears words which in the _Iliad_ seem to break from the heart should go out of his way for “sire” and “brethren”! And for “wedded love,” it is not only incorrect, but mawkish, and therefore in this place detestable. Cowper likewise is weak and false. “Parents” is intolerable; ποτνια and θαλερος are overlooked. And in exchange for those adjectives we have “all that I have lost” (pure Cowper). Mr. Bryant does very much better, but he is again somewhat cold; and coldness here is hardly pardonable. He was determined to give the last line literally; but to put παρακοιτης in the vocative, as Voss has done, makes the verse literal enough and more glowing. Both Voss and Mr. Bryant are wrong in ποτνια. The active participle (_liebende_) is out of the question, and even “dear” conveys an erroneous impression of the relations subsisting between mother and daughter in the Homeric age. Ποτνια predicates a sentiment of respect and reverence, and is often associated with the names of deities. For an exact analogue we must go back to English domestic life in the last century. We shall find it in what was then a household word--“honored mother.” We must do Lord Derby the justice to say that he had hit upon the translation in line 413. It is a pity that he did not repeat it here. Θαλερος has proved a stumbling-block to most translators. It is a beautiful word: and placed with exquisite propriety in the mouth of a young wife who gazes on the bravest face and noblest form in Ilium. Mr. Bryant’s “youthful” is not absolutely wrong, but it is rather the impression which youth and health make upon the eye, their visible glory, their “purple light,” which Homer makes in θαλερος. _Blühende_ gives it exactly. We wish that with these perfect words Andromache might have vanished from literature. The later myths dishonor her. It seems a crime against nature to recount of this woman that

“Victoris heri tetigit captiva cubile,”

and that Hector’s widow bore children to the son of Achilles. Surely instinct would have taught her the tenet of a later philosophy: “We are in the power of no calamity while death is in our own.” Not in Euripides and Virgil, but rather in Racine, would we follow the fortunes of that Andromache whom we knew by the Scæan gate.

Let us glance next at the concluding lines of the eighth book. They have been translated by Tennyson, and it may be interesting to contrast his version. Mr. Bryant writes:

“So high in hope they sat the whole night through In warlike lines, and many watch-fires blazed As when in heaven the stars look brightly forth Round the clear-shining moon while not a breeze Stirs in the depths of air, and all the stars Are seen and gladness fills the shepherd’s heart, So many fires in sight of Ilium blazed Lit by the sons of Troy between the ships And eddying Xanthus: on the plain there shone A thousand; fifty warriors by each fire Sat in its light. Their steeds beside the cars-- Champing their oats and their white barley--stood, And waited for the golden morn to rise.”

Tennyson renders the same passage thus:

“And these all night upon the ridge of war Sat glorying; many a fire before them blazed; As when in heaven the stars about the moon Look beautiful when all the winds are laid

* * * * *

... and all the stars Shine, and the shepherd gladdens in his heart. So many a fire between the ships and stream Of Xanthus blazed before the towers of Troy, A thousand on the plain, and close by each Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire. And eating hoary grain and pulse the steeds Stood by the cars waiting the thronèd morn.”

Some may prefer the general effect of the Laureate’s lines, but our American version adheres quite as closely to the text. We are surprised, however, to find “warlike lines.” Mr. Tennyson’s alternative translation, “ridge of war” is an exact reproduction of the Greek, ἀνα πτολεμοιο γεφυρας. “Bridge,” which he first wrote, is post-Homeric. Lord Derby’s phrase is close enough, but wanting in pictorial power:

“Full of proud hopes, upon the pass of war All night they camped, and frequent blazed their fires.”

If one care to see what sad work may sometimes proceed from a true poet, here is Cowper’s version of these lines--ten words are required to misconstrue three:

“Big with great purposes and proud they sat, Not disarrayed but in fair form displayed Of even ranks, and watched their numerous fires.”

The familiar simile of the moon and stars in the above passage is sharply and faithfully reproduced by Mr. Bryant, whereas Tennyson’s “look beautiful” for φαινετ' ἀριπρεπεα is both loose and weak. “All the winds are laid”; Cowper says “hushed.” Either is closer than Mr. Bryant’s phrase. Lord Derby’s translation of παντα δε τ' ειδεται ἀστρα is ambitious and clumsy--“Shines each particular star distinct.” The last six hexameters are given in seven lines of our version. Tennyson has compressed them into six, but with the sacrifice of Τρωων καιοντων, which the other neatly expressed by “Lit by the sons of Troy.” We could have dispensed with the Laureate’s “towers,” but are delighted to find ἐυθρονον preserved in “throned.”

To some readers our criticism may have seemed to dwell too nicely on details; but, if they will reflect a moment, they will perceive that this is itself a guarantee of sincerity. We propose to give grounds for our opinions, that others may accept them knowingly, or refute them, if they can. To flood with general praise or spatter with vague abuse belongs to the Cheapjacks of literature. Moreover, no American needs to be told that Mr. Bryant is a poet. Men do not ask whether his _Iliad_ is a delightful poem, but whether it truthfully photographs Homer. That question, if we may judge from his performances, the average magazine critic has preferred to evade.

From the extracts already presented, it is manifest that our American translator has followed the text of his author with a scrupulous exactitude which required unusual self-command from a poet of original powers; yet he is often so truly and nobly poetical that many will overlook the superiority of his scholarship. Most countries of Western Europe have produced several translators of the _Iliad_. But in each language one has eventually obscured the rest, and thenceforward kept unchallenged a niche in the national literature. Some such pre-eminence among English versions belongs, in our judgment, to Mr. Bryant’s work. For conscientious adherence to the text, his version has no rival in our tongue, and ought, in justice, to be compared with Voss. In point of scholarship, Cowper had shown himself much stronger than Pope, but his translation beside Mr. Bryant’s _Iliad_ seems to us a paraphrase. Both are masters of blank-verse, but Cowper is a pupil of Milton, while Mr. Bryant’s diction and rhythm are his own. The iambic pentameter is, in his hands, surprisingly plastic. We should not have supposed it capable of such happy adjustment to the shifting mood and varying pitch of the original; yet we cannot help a regret that this version was not executed in hexameters. We are quite sure that the achievement was possible to the author of this translation.

In such extracts as we have yet to make from Mr. Bryant’s work, we propose to compare him, not with his English rivals whom we hold him to have excelled, but with some of those translators who are most highly esteemed in other countries.

Few lines of the _Iliad_ have been more frequently imitated than those which paint with the tints of Albano the girdle of Aphroditê. The incident which calls forth the description is well known. Determined to lull the vigilance of Zeus and rescue her darling Greeks, Herê flies to her toilet. The most truthful of poets puts no faith in beauty unadorned, and himself performs the part of tire-woman. It occurs, however, to Herê that her lord is already familiar with the resources of her wardrobe, and the fear of a cold or careless eye leads her to borrow of Aphroditê. She receives a talisman, but precisely what this was is--to men, at least--a riddle. It was an embroidered strap, so much is certain; but how used, and where? Belt or waist-girdle it was not, for that Herê had on. It was plainly a slender and dainty thing, or how could she hide it in her bosom? For our part, we believe it to have been a breast-band (_Brustgürtel_) worn just under the breast, although a French commentator with much heat pronounces this view an insult to the figure of the goddess. The one translator competent to decide so nice a question was Mme. Dacier. Unhappily she throws no light on it. Mr. Bryant turns the passage thus:

“She spake, and from her bosom drew the zone Embroidered, many-colored, and instinct With every winning charm--with love, desire, Dalliance, and gentle speech that stealthily O’ercomes the purpose of the wisest mind.”

We must object to “zone.” Mr. Bryant has just given (_Il._ 14, 181) the same name to a broad, heavily-fringed belt which Herê is now wearing. But Homer makes a difference, calling that ζωνη and this ἱμας. Voss likewise is here somewhat careless, rendering both words by _Gürtel_. “Dalliance” translates a stubborn word, and projects the idea which lay at the root of ὀαριστυς. Let us turn to Voss:

“Sprach und löste vom Busen den wunderköstlichen Gürtel Buntgestickt; dort waren die Zauberreize versammelt. Dort war schmachtende Lieb’ und Sehnsucht, dort das Getändel, Dort die schmeichelnde Bitte die oft auch den Weisen bethöret.”

How neatly ποικιλον and κεστον are compressed in _buntgestickt_! _Wunderköstlichen_ is, of course, mere padding. _Schmachtende_ likewise is superfluous. Neither can we altogether like “befool” for ἐκλεψε νοον. Mr. Bryant’s phrase is certainly more felicitous. On the whole, it must be conceded that Voss flickers in these lines.

When Mme. Dacier brought out her _Iliad_, it was affirmed on all hands that Homer could never, in the nature of things, be presented in French verse. From that verdict an appeal has from time to time been taken, but the decision has never been reversed. Mme. Dacier’s stiffness and the flippancy of La Motte are indeed equally intolerable. We decidedly prefer to any metrical version in French the prose translations of Bitaube and Dugas Montbel. Both are in the strictest sense belles-lettres works, and are generally accurate and spirited. Bitaube portrays the girdle thus: “En même temps elle détache sa ceinture riche d’une superbe broderie. Là se trouvent réunis les charmes les plus séduisants; là sont l’amour, les tendres désirs, les doux entretiens et ces accents persuasifs, qui dérobent en secret le cœur du plus sage.” There are some adjectives here for which Homer is not responsible.

Monti’s version is well known. It has been called the golden ring which links the Greek and Italian literatures, and is ranked with Caro’s _Æneid_. Beside _La Morte d’Ettore_ it appears a meritorious work. No doubt the climax of false taste was reached when Cesarrotti, who had executed a good translation in prose, proceeded to metamorphose the _Iliad_ into a strange monster which he called The _Death of Hector_. We will not quote Monti now, for in this place he is tame and redundant. Yet he has skilfully hit with _favellio_ a secondary meaning of ὀαριστυς. The French have a word from the same root, _babil_; but we have nothing in English which so happily expresses the _cooing_ of young lovers. Tasso’s reproduction of these lines is exquisite. He is depicting Armida’s girdle. It was fraught, he says, with--

“Teneri sdegni, e placide, e tranquille, Repulse, cari vezzi e liete paci, Sorrisi, parolette, e dolci stille Di pianto, e sospir tronchi, e molli baci.”

After the short, swift strokes of Homer, this picture seems almost florid with _concetti_. But each poet meant to epitomize the charms he had beheld in life. The countrywomen of Tasso were skilled in lovers’ sleights, whereas the simple virgins of Homeric times had never heard of the _gai scavoir_. If we may trust Brantôme, who knew something of Italian manners in that age, the dames of Sienna were quite competent to instruct Aphroditê in the arts of fascination.

The range of Homeric similes is not limited to the phenomena of sky, river, and ocean, to the familiar experiences of the forge, the vineyard, and the chase. The lightning play of fancy and memory and the emotions of the heart are submitted to the same scrutiny, and portrayed with like felicity. “Rapid as thought” has become the tritest commonplace in every European language, but the guise which the simile originally wore in Homer is still novel and effective. Incensed at the trick which has just been cleverly executed, Zeus orders Herê back to Olympus. Then Mr. Bryant:

“He spake, the white-armed goddess willingly Obeyed him, and from Ida’s summit flew To high Olympus. As the thought of man Flies rapidly, when having travelled far, He thinks, Here would I be; I would be there-- And flits from place to place.”

“Willingly” is supported by Voss’ _willig_, but has no correlative in the Greek. The context, moreover, shows that Herê departed in a pet, and her peevishness finds full vent when she reaches Olympus. Mr. Bryant omits to translate φρεσι πευκαλιμῃσι. For this phrase Voss gives _spähenden Geiste_, deriving the adjective from πευκη, by which, with Buttmann, he understands the _pointed_ (not _bitter_) fir-tree. But if Schneider be right, these words are equivalent to πυκα φρονεοντων in the description of the girdle just quoted. The root would then be looked for in πυκνος, and the latter phrase might find an analogue, though not an exact one, in our “close schemers.” These details are worthy of notice, for Chapman, mistaking the primitive sense of this adjective, has utterly missed the point of the simile. The perversity of Hobbes is ludicrous. He condenses Homer after this fashion:

“This said, went Juno to Olympus high, As when a man looks on an ample plain To any distance quickly goes his eye.”

Voss and Mr. Bryant are in this place so much alike that we will not collate the German, but give instead Monti’s blank-verse:

“Disse e la Diva dalle bianche bracchia Obbediente dall’ Idea montagna Al Olympo sali. Colla prestezza Con que vola il pensier del viatore Che scorse molte terre le rianda In suo segreto e dici, Io quella riva Io quell’ altra toccai.”

_Scorse_ and _rianda_ are pictorial, and perhaps sufficiently literal. We like also _suo segreto_ for “close mind.” Altogether the version is neat and animated, but less compact than Mr. Bryant’s. Both are quite as faithful as the prose of Bitaube and Montbel. The former writes: “Il dit, et Junon soumise à son époux s’élève des sommets d’Ida sur Olympe. Tel que le rapide essor de la pensée de l’homme lorsqu’ayant parcouru des pays d’une vaste étendue, et se rappelant en un moment tous les objets qui l’ont frappé, il dit en lui-même, j’étais ici, j’étais là.” It will be observed that Mr. Bryant’s “Here would I be, I would be there!” reproduces the optative εἰην. So does the _Dorthin möcht ich, und dort_ of Voss. An alternative reading is ἠηv which Bitaube and Monti have preferred. The verb, however, should then be in the third person, not the first as they give it. The imperfect would impart to the thought a slightly different tinge, and make the traveller rather retrace in memory than revisit it in desire. If this reading be accepted, we might, perhaps, venture to present the passage in this form:

Thus he pronounced; and Herê, the white-armed goddess, obeyed him, Down from the summits of Ida speeding to lofty Olympus, Darting as darteth the mind of a man who whilom has travelled Up and down on the earth, in close thought ponders his travels, Here was he now--now there!--still aiming in many directions.

In the battle which opens in the twentieth book culminates the action of the poem. Achilles now enters the field, and Mr. Gladstone has justly remarked that we seem never to have heard of wars or warriors before. To frame his central figure, Homer summons from Olympus the whole hierarchy of heaven. Amid thunder and earthquake, the gods are seen rallying to either side. No part of the _Iliad_ is pitched in a loftier key. Nowhere is a translator more strongly impelled to put forth all his powers. We quote Mr. Bryant:

“From above with terrible crash Thundered the father of the blessed gods And mortal men, while Neptune from below Shook the great earth and lofty mountain-peaks. Then watery Ida’s heights and very roots, The city of Troy, and the Greek galleys, quaked. Then Pluto, ruler of the nether world, Leaped from his throne in terror, lest the god Who makes the earth to tremble, cleaving it Above him, should lay bare to gods and men His horrible abodes, the dismal haunts Which even the gods abhor.”

We ought not, perhaps, to dislike the expansion of πατερ ἀνθρωπων τε θεων τε in the second line, for the epithets added are themselves hardly more than formulas. The next four lines exhibit Mr. Bryant’s best work. Their vigor and elegance are not extraneous, but wrought with patient fingers out of the text itself. “Leaped from his throne in terror” is a melancholy falling off. This indifferent line must stand for three Greek verbs which render with startling accuracy the staccato movement of fear. We give from Voss the three hexameters which depict the panic of Aïdoneus:

“Bang auch erschrack dort unten des Nachtreichs Fürst Aldoneus, Bebend entsprang er dem Thron, und schrie laut dass ihm von oben Nicht die Erd’ aufrisse der Landerschüttrer Poseidōn.”

_Nachtreich_ is not quite equal to “nether world,” but really these lines are incomparable. Beside them even the prose of Montbel seems a little wide of the text: “Dans ses retraites souterraines le roi des ombres Pluton frémit; épouvanté il s’élance de son trône, pousse un cri, de peur que le terrible Neptune entr’ouvrant la terre ne montre aux dieux et aux hommes ces demeures terribles en horreur même aux immortels.”

We are unable to speak without contempt of the _Morte d’Ettore_, but it is right to state that Cesarrotti’s prose translation of this passage is perhaps the closest extant. Monti’s verse will be found less literal:

“Tremonne Pluto il re de sepolti et spaventato Die un alto grido, e si gitto del trono Tremendo non gli squarci la terrena Volta sul capo il crollator Nettuno Ed intromessa collaggiù la luce Agli Dei non discopra ed ai mortali Le sue squallide bolge, al guardo orrende Anco del ciel.”

Homer says nothing of _intromessa luce_. The words are no doubt transferred from Virgil’s paraphrase--

“Trepidentque immisso lumine Manes.”

Longinus, in his treatise _On the Sublime_, had quoted this passage of the _Iliad_, and Boileau in a translation of that work has reproduced it with considerable care. Boileau had positively condescended to defend Homer, but it is plain that his own theory of translation was that accepted by his age. La Motte has stated it in his ode. He tells Homer that he proposes

“Sous un nouveau langage Rajeunir ton antique ouvrage,”

and deeming the unconscious energy of his author _un peu sauvage_ engages to _régler son ivresse_. From Boileau no engagement was required. His Muse was too thoroughly the _grande dame_ ever to forget herself, and even in Pythian convulsions retained a measure of decorum. We shall find his version at once droll and impressive. It is, so to speak, a Greek myth treated by Paul Veronese:

“L’enfer s’émeut au brait de Neptune en furie Pluton sort de son trône, il pâlit, il s’écrie Il a peur que ce dieu dans cet affreux séjour D’un coup de son trident ne fasse entrer le jour Et par le centre ouvert de la terre ébranlée Ne fasse voir du Styx la rive désolée Ne découvre aux vivants cet empire odieux Abhorré des mortels, et craint même des dieux.”

To us no book of the _Iliad_ is more delightful than the twenty-fourth. There are many scenes in which we would willingly linger not alone for the tender pathos with which the poet has informed them, but also for the light they throw on the social ethics of the later as well as primitive Greek world. The figure of Achilles weeping through the long night the loss of the beloved Patroclus is the immortal type of that devoted friendship which illumines with a peculiar radiance the stream of Hellenic biography. In the incessant warfare of sympathy with selfishness, friendship between man and man seems to have played something of the master _rôle_ which in modern times has been engrossed by the passion of love. Again, Helen in her lament over Hector’s corpse lets fall some bitter words that deserve to be weighed in connection with the peculiar attitude which Menelaus maintains throughout the poem. They would assist us to understand her strangely equivocal position, as well as the conception of the marriage relation which obtained in the Homeric age. We have space, however, but for a single extract. We will choose Priam’s prayer to Achilles. How often and with what careful hand these lines have been reproduced in English is well-known. In French there are no less than ten metrical versions, to say nothing of prose. To poets of every nation this passage has remained a bow of Ulysses which many have been eager to grasp, but none save Voss has hitherto had sinew enough to bend. The circumstances under which the prayer is made are inexpressively affecting. The fate of Troy has at length compelled the combat of Hector and Achilles. From the walls of the city Priam has beheld the fatal issue. The pride and prop of his old age, the bulwark of his kingdom, lies dead and dishonored in the hostile camp. Conducted by Hermes, Priam passes the sentinels, and gains the quarters of his foe. He enters, springs toward Pelides, clasps his knees, and kisses those “slaughter-dealing hands” which had slain so many of his sons. Then Mr. Bryant:

“Think of thy father, an old man like me, God-like Achilles! on the dreary verge Of closing life he stands, and even now Haply is fiercely pressed by those who dwell Around him, and has none to shield his age From war and its disasters. Yet his heart Rejoices when he hears thou yet dost live, And every day he hopes that his dear son Will come again from Troy. My lot is hard, For I was father of the bravest sons In all wide Troy, and none are left me now!

* * * * *

Oh! revere The gods, Achilles, and be merciful, Calling to mind thy father, happier he Than I; for I have borne what no man else That dwells on earth could bear--have laid my lips Upon the hand of him who slew my son.”

Had these lines been pointed at by the legend, we could well understand why Solon should have burned his epic. Let us not stay for criticism, but, with eyes fixed on the Greek, give our ears to Voss!

“Deiners Vaters gedenk! O gottergleicher Achilleus, Sein des Bejahrten wie ich, an der traurigen Schwelle des Alters, Und vielleicht dass jenen die umbewohnende Völker Drängen, und niemand ist ihm Jammer und Weh zu entfernen. Jener indess so oft er von dir dem lebenden höret Freut er sich innig im Geist, und hofft von Tage zu Tage Dass er den trautesten Sohn noch seh’ heimkehren von Troja. Ich unseliger Mann die tapfersten Söhn’ erzeugt’ ich Weil im Troegebiet, und nun ist keiner mir übrig! Scheue die Götter demnach, O Peleid! und erbarme dich meiner Denkend des eigenen Vaters! Ich bin noch werther des Mitleids: Duld’ ich doch was sonst kein sterblicher Erdebewohner Ach die die Kinder getödtet die Hand an die Lippen zu drücken.”

We hold that it lies not in the power of translation to surpass these lines of Voss. They are truly marvels in photography. To every Homeric line corresponds a German hexameter. In every verse the emphatic word stands where Homer placed it. The very pauses are for the most part preserved. The translator has not retrenched a word. He has scarcely added one. He has certainly not added an idea. On the nice propriety of his diction, and his perfect sympathy with the _feeling_ of the Greek, we need not dwell. In these respects Mr. Bryant must be ranked next to him--with an interval, perhaps, but next. His “dreary verge of closing life” skilfully interprets an ambiguous phrase which Voss has chosen to retain. Again, _unseliger Mann_ is somewhat cold, whereas “my lot is hard” has caught, so to speak, the genuine accents of heartbreak. “And every day he hopes that his dear son,” etc. Readers of the _Holy Dying_ will recall the touching picture of a drowned sailor rolled upon his floating bed of waves, while at home _his_ father “weeps with joy to think how happy he shall be when his beloved boy returns into the circle of his father’s arms.”

Voltaire has somewhere asserted that Homer never drew a tear. Yet even he could not behold this scene unmoved, and himself entered the lists as a translator. His version of this passage embodies the principles which he maintained ought to govern translators of Homer. It forms a curious chapter in the history of taste. Achilles turning discovers Priam, “ce vieillard vénérable,”

“Exhalant à ses pieds ses sanglots et ses cris Et lui baisant la main qui fit périr son fils; Il n’osait sur Achille encor jeter la vue, Il voulait lui parler, et sa voix s’est perdue, Enfin il le regarde et parmi ses sanglots Tremblant, pâle, et sans force, il prononce ces mots. ‘Songez, seigneur! songez que vous avez un père--’ Il ne put achever. Le héros sanguinaire Sentit que la pitié pénétrait dans son cœur, Priam lui prend les mains, ah prince! ah mon vainqueur? J’étais père d’Hector, et ses généreux frères Flattaient mes derniers jours, et les rendait prospères. Ils ne sont plus.”

These lines are not altogether without merit, but no man, we suppose, who possesses what has been termed a historical _conscience_ will allow them to be poetic. The elements of the scene are there, but they are worked up in accordance with the tricks and traditions of the _Comédie Française_. To the eye of Voltaire, Priam was simply an antitype of the _père noble_, and must assume the attitude and demeanor appropriate to that _rôle_. In short, the verses are conceived in the spirit of his age, and exhibit his best manner. But read them after the Greek, and what fresh point they impart to the familiar words, “In old times men wrote like orators, but now like rhetoricians.”

From Voltaire to Monti is a long stride toward Homer’s Olympus. The Italian has infused much sweetness into this passage. And it is a native, not a grafted, sweetness. Writing in blank-verse, he neither needs nor claims the license of French translators; yet we sometimes miss Mr. Bryant’s terseness and simplicity; as in the initial lines:

“Divino Achille ti rammenta il padre Il padre tuo da sia vecchiezza oppresso, Qua io mi sono! In questo punto ei forse Da potenti vicini assediato Non ha chi lo socorra e all’ imminente Periglio il tolga.”

To appreciate this version one needs only to glance at Cesarrotti’s. Priam’s first three words--Μνησαι πατρος σοιο!--comprise the most effective exordium in literature. They are true projectiles shot from soul to soul. Let us see if they are easily recognized in the _Morte d’Ettore_:

“Ah pieta, grida, Divino Achille! Il padre tuo t’implora Per tuo padre, pieta!”

Is it possible to place artist and word-monger in sharper antithesis? The success of his mission--perhaps his life--depends upon the first impression. Conceive royal Priam whining forth “Pity, pity!” like some professional beggar mumbling his worn-out lies. Homer said simply, “Think of thy father, Achilles!” The words, like the stroke of Moses’ rod, split the stubborn heart, and pity gushed forth in tears.

It must be admitted that Mr. Bryant’s lines are not always invested with the impassioned fervor and glowing life which have rescued the works of his English predecessors from oblivion. But it will often be found that where they were most spirited they were least Homeric. It is inevitable that a conscientious workman who resolves to copy his model in the minutest details will produce at times a _mosaic_ rather than a _casting_--his materials will seem pieced and not fused. But we are sure that the sweetness of Mr. Bryant’s verse will delight the general reader, while scholars will appreciate his self-control. Animation is desirable, but fidelity is indispensable; and they who truly love the _Iliad_ will prefer Homer in marble to Pope and Chapman in the flesh.

Over all translators of the _Iliad_, we confess that Voss is paramount; but no other version with which we are acquainted will bear a sustained comparison with Mr. Bryant’s. The latter’s obligations to Voss are undoubtedly great; but he has well-nigh cancelled the debt, for the next worker in the field will owe much to him. It may be that translation is not the highest function of genius; yet where it is nobly fulfilled it deserves and commands our gratitude. Nor is this all. It is something more than a figure of speech--the fine figure of Politian’s--by which Homer, assisting in the person of Ganymede at the banquet of the gods, is made to distribute to his best lovers some portion of his own ambrosia.

FOOTNOTES:

[86] _The Iliad of Homer._ Translated by Wm. Cullen Bryant. Boston: Fields, Osgood & Co.

[87] “A poem people admire without reading.”

[88] “Ah, monsieur! since reading that book men seem to be fifteen feet high.”

SPAIN: WHAT IT WAS AND WHAT IT IS.

A nation vegetating on old memories; a people for two centuries priest-ridden, just beginning to awaken and show some signs of the enlightenment of the age; a government liable to change every twenty-four hours; an empty treasury shifting from one to another incapable ministry; and, above all, a ridiculous pretension and holding to such an Old World phrase as national honor--such is the ordinary run of opinion on Spain. What is it coming to? What is its destiny? Has it a destiny in these busy, practical days? Or is its life played out long ago, and the nation simply drifting downwards into the yawning gulf of insignificance where many another has been swallowed up?

Have Catholics an interest in the question?

Yesterday, when mention was made of Spain, the enlightened world lifted up its eyes and hands in pious protestation against such an outrage on our nineteenth century of civilization. A superstitious race given to the worshipping of graven images, hoodwinked by the priests, those inveterate enemies of progress; no free-will among them; no understanding; nothing but memory. To-day all is changed. The dawn long delayed of enlightenment has come at last to the unhappy land--has come accompanied by the usual signs. Churches have been rifled, the sanctuary has been desecrated, the Jesuits have been scattered, nuns and monks have been robbed of their homes and driven naked into the world, blood has flowed freely, murder has been done. So, to-day the world smiles, and rubs its hands, and hopes better things for Spain.

That it was a great nation we all acknowledge, and the title is a true one. It was not alone a mighty nation; those buried under the Eastern sands were mighty nations, yet their workings in this world were as barren of fruit as the shifting covering that has hidden them away, without an oasis to redeem their barrenness. China might be called a mighty nation, but it has walled itself in from the world by the most narrow-minded and selfish policy, and we have had to fight our way through good and evil up to our present standard without a helping hand from it. Russia is a mighty nation, and we look anxiously to the development of its vast power, but up to the present its only effect on the world has been that of brute strength. But Spain has been pre-eminently a _great_ nation; that is, a nation that has done much for its own and others’ development, in all that can make peoples sound, intelligent, prosperous, and happy.

Looking back at its history as far as we can look back, we find the same characteristics in the race as we find to-day; above all, that intense, all-absorbing nationality which has kept it unmixed and unconquered. Hannibal courted its alliance; the Roman failed ever to subdue it thoroughly. Great stubborn resistances to the Empress of the World stand out now and then in clear relief from that dim background--awful sieges wonderfully sustained, where the women play an equal part with the men. We shall always find these Spanish women leading the van in the hour of their country’s danger. The victories gained over them resembled the victory of Pyrrhus. The Romans went and the Moors came, and fastened on the heart of the kingdom, populating and flourishing there, sucking out its life. They built their cities and their palaces in the fairest spots in the land. Powerful, warlike, rich, with immense resources, they laughed at the handful of men, kingless, skulking among rocks, and starving for liberty. But that handful will not surrender what is their own while one arm can be raised to defend it. They are true to one another as Spaniards and as Catholics now; for a new element is in them binding them more firmly than the very blood that is common to their veins--religion, the religion of Christ, which they have seized upon with all their passionate nature, never to relinquish. Inch by inch the Moors are driven back over the sea. They were invaded again by a more terrible foe than all--more terrible even than France in her deep distress has lately seen. Bonaparte had drained the country of its armies, had emptied its coffers, and taken away its king, all under the shadow of friendship and alliance. When he held it thus powerless in his hands, he sent in his armies, and impudently set his brother on the throne. Kingless, moneyless, defenceless as they were, the people rose up, the women again leading the van, and the priests inflaming all. Bonaparte was driven out. The priests, for all their hoodwinking, can be good patriots, it seems. The London _Times_, the mouthpiece of the enlightenment of the age, certainly no great friend to Spaniards and Catholics, contrasted the conduct of France during the late invasion with that of Spain. France, in her sorest straits, was never so hard pushed as Spain when the first Napoleon entered; yet a nation of over 30,000,000 could not rid themselves of half a million. There was no Carthagena, no Saguntum, no Saragossa--no approach to such. And the _Times_ confessed that France failed because she possessed neither the patriotism nor the religious enthusiasm of the Spaniards. Such examples has Spain given to the world of the purest patriotism, the first element of greatness in a nation; of a self-reliance that, when all seems lost, will not look without for aid, but to itself.

She has not ceased her working here. In no department has she been backward. Science owes her much. Literature is enriched by her authors. The inspirations of Murillo are the embodiment of all that our religion can feel in its deepest moments; before his canvas, the Christian prays, the infidel cannot scoff. She has given soldiers of the noblest type; statesmen the most benevolent and enlightened. The Spanish constitution in itself is from days remote admirable for equipoise and justice. In England they are just approaching the Spanish marriage laws. A Spanish merchant will tell you that for the generality of commercial questions he is his own lawyer, so clear and well-defined is the law.

What do we Catholics owe to Spain?

First of all, that high example of unswerving faith and devotion to the Holy See through ages of evil report and good report. The great heart of the nation is not moved by events that will come under our notice after. She has not only given a host of theological writers, but, what is still better, a host of theological actors--notably the Order of St. Dominic and the Society of Jesus, the names of which are enough to recall our debt.

To the Old World she opened up a New. Here Spain had a mission that is rarely given to nations. She failed, though the monarch sent priests to accompany the soldiers, to temper the conquest of the sword by that of the cross. How well the warriors of Christ demeaned themselves, our Bancroft and Prescott tell us.

She failed; but who shall cast the first stone at her? That nation only which has subdued another by Christian love and the weapon of the cross--a phenomenon that has not yet appeared even in these blessed days.

We hear much of the cruelty of these Spanish settlers, of their selfishness, of their greed of gold.

We must make a little allowance for the days in which they lived. Men were untutored then; peace congresses (save the mark!) were unknown; an _Alabama_ case would either have been let alone or settled by the sword long ere it could have grown into a mere talking difficulty; men did not consult lawyers on the nice distinctions of _meum_ and _tuum_. The Spaniards landed, and held their own by cruelty, oppression, and rapine, no doubt. We, with all our enlightenment, have followed their example pretty faithfully; except that, for men like the saintly Las Casas, we despatched an agent that worked a speedy conversion--fire-water. We have taken root here and grown up, and are a great nation, spreading out in all directions, wealthy, prosperous, enlightened, with civilization at our finger-ends, and Bibles willy-nilly in every one of our schools. Yes, we are a decided improvement on the Spaniards. But a hundred years ago there existed a race in this country to whom the land that we tread upon belonged. Where is that race now? A wretched remnant of it scowling and prowling on our outskirts; we are killing them off. We heard of them the other day joining in the great hunt. The most enterprising and powerful of our journals, one that has fitted out a purely benevolent expedition to Africa, sent its correspondent down to record it all. We had an “idyl of the plains”; the course of our great enlightenment and progress was drawn in fanciful colors, with this correspondent for central figure, riding for miles and miles under the stars to tell us at our breakfasts of the exact position of a soldier throwing an ornament round the neck of a savage maiden, and the evident appreciation the savages exhibited of champagne.

Spain failed in her mission, great and glorious as it was. Have we succeeded better? Has England, in India, or Tasmania, or wherever she set her foot?

Gold brought its own curse. When wealth comes unasked, few men will labor. The “Eldorado” filled the dreams and stopped the life of the Spaniards. One by one her rich possessions dropped from the parent nation, till Cuba was the only one left, and Cuba wishes to go also.

She has become a second-rate power in Europe, if so high--the kingdom “on whose dominions the sun never set.”

And here, with this glance at her past history to call to mind what she was, what she has achieved, the truly great elements that were always in her, we turn to look at her as she is; to consider her present bearing on the church, for we Catholics must always look at all things with a Catholic eye, knowing, as we do, that our religion is the one religion upon which the salvation of this world hangs; that, if the world is to be saved by us, we can never put our faith upon the shelf and enter the world as worldlings. The Spirit of God must permeate and pervade all people, all places, all things, at all times; and when that is accomplished, and not before, then will the world be saved.

Spain groaned under the rule of Isabella, or rather under the rule of her rulers. She was a woman far “more sinned against than sinning.” We are apt too often to blame the victim for the circumstances which make the victim. From her infancy a tool in the hands of unprincipled men; forced to marry a man utterly worthless in every respect; almost without one true friend, without a soul for her woman’s heart to cling to. We accuse her of all the evils created, fostered, encouraged by a host of powerful men, who used her as a chess-piece; while she stood, their game was safe. The revolution more than smouldered; but O’Donnell, at once a statesman and a soldier, kept it down. Narvaez, crafty and bold, succeeded him, and in turn went. These men, particularly the latter, in striking at their own foes, left a bitter legacy of hatred and revenge to the queen. What all foresaw came to pass--the last rising which ousted her. Prim came in; the nation’s destiny was at last in its own hands; now for the millennium.

Prim commenced it--a likely man for such a purpose. A bold, unscrupulous adventurer, whose chief virtue was his reckless bravery; no great talker; not a man who would astonish you by the wisdom of his words, but quick to decide, speedy to execute; a very soldier whose “voice was in his sword”--such was Prim. He found himself adored by the soldiers, glorified by the people. He did not care for the latter: when they wished to tear the crown from his cap on his entry into Malaga, he would not let them; he declared himself in plain words for monarchy from the beginning. He found the cortes split up into parties. Many for Don Carlos, a strong body, who if not crushed would have their king; so Prim resolved to crush them. A few for Montpensier; another few for Don Alfonso, the queen’s son; neither worth bothering about, Prim let them alone. A small compact party of republicans, very ably led; nearly all young, enthusiastic, lawyers many of them, excellent speakers, excellent fighters at a pinch, too. This was a dangerous party, who had been most instrumental in putting Prim where he was. He dared not turn round on them at once, the people were still armed. He coquetted with them. They were young, and many unfledged, eager to try their lungs, fond of the sound of their voices. Spain should be governed only as Spain wished; she should have a model constitution; freedom of the person, freedom of the press, freedom of religion, freedom of everything. No more conscriptions, only a few more thousands just to enable the army to quell those troublesome Carlists. He threw them a constitution, a model indeed in its construction, fit for Utopia, but scarcely for the wild spirits then raging in Spain. He let them wrangle over that, and turned himself to the army. He had always been popular with the soldiers; he moved everybody up a grade; by this means he created all the colonels, and the army was his. With this weapon secure in his grasp he could beat them all, and he did. He played them off, one against the other, in the cortes; he knew, split up as they were, the elements too opposed to coalesce, they would never agree about any single thing or any single person; he suggested this and he suggested that; if they would not take his suggestions, that was their fault. One thing was clear, they must support him, or anarchy would ensue. The Carlists left the chamber to fight. Precisely what Prim wanted; he had encouraged it, in fact; the sooner, the better for him, as he could the more easily crush them. He did so, cruelly and mercilessly. In the meantime, he was all honey to the republicans. But at last they began to see that they had been hoodwinked; that there was no hope of a republic from Prim; that the monarchy they hated would come in again, and all their efforts prove fruitless. Prim demanded the arms of the people--the arms which had been distributed to enable him to crush the monarchy. The republicans in their turn left the chamber to fight; and well they fought, too, against the overwhelming forces that Prim sent to quell them; for no half measures would do for Juan Prim. Those men who rose and fought so tenaciously at Cadiz, at Jerez, at Malaga, Valencia, had been well schooled beforehand by the preachers of the age. “You are poor, and your children will be poor after you. The labor of your hands goes to dress the fine ladies of the rich; to fatten lazy priests, who do nothing for a living; to set those brave gentlemen on horseback, who think themselves made of other flesh and blood than yours. We will change all that when the queen is driven out. We will all be equal, and do equal work or no work. Our men are men as theirs are; our women are women also.”

The queen was driven away; the friars, and the Jesuits, and the nuns banished. The government seized upon their houses and what was in them; of course it was not robbery when the government took them. Still the poor were not a penny the richer. These plausible doctrines had seized upon their simple minds. It was something worth fighting for, and they fought. No Paris barricades were ever defended with half the fury and obstinacy displayed by those Andalusians--the mountaineers and villagers whose fathers and grandfathers had harassed, surrounded, and captured a force of 4000 or more, under one of the First Napoleon’s generals. Still, we hear of none of those outrages at which the world sickened lately in Paris. “Aqui nadie se roba caballeros”--“Gentlemen, no one robs here,” was the first cry at Cadiz. A commandant of the forces was struck down in the midst of the revolutionists by a shot. They knew him well, and that he was going to fight against them; yet they were the first men to take him from the street and care for his wounds. There is all that is noble, generous, and faithful in the heart of this people, which it only requires a wise government to draw out.

They were beaten on all sides. They dared not rise in Madrid, for Prim kept his forces there, as a centre, menacing the country. In the midst of all this distraction, we see one flash of the old spirit that, however it might split against itself, was one against a common foe. Cuba saw its chance, and, though many concessions had been made, it would have liberty at once. Prim had quite enough to do at home; his hands were full with Carlists and republicans. We lent our sanction to the Cuban claims, with an after-eye to our own interests; and our minister made some representations that never quite came to light. Prim made no answer to them, at least in words. But, notwithstanding the dearth of money and of men, the strain at home requiring every nerve to sustain it, the old Spanish blood was true to itself. Volunteers sprang up in crowds; and force after force was shipped, is shipped still, to the island, ostensibly to quell a rebellion that never held a position from the first. A nation that can act so in such a moment must have something in it.

Before taking leave of Prim, in turn the hero and the terror of the revolution, much as we deplore that the destinies of such a nation at such a crisis should have fallen into the hands of such a man, we cannot help paying a tribute to his never-flagging energy, dauntless courage, and prompt decision. Men laughed at Prim, at his speeches, and wondered how he ever gained his position. Speaking on the deficiency of the national treasury, and utterly unable to tide over those rocks on which all governments break--figures: “I know we shall be able to meet the deficiency,” said Prim, “But how?” asked the deputies. “I do not know exactly how; but I have a _feeling_ in my breast which convinces me;” the words are from memory, but they convey the substance. Men laughed, but Prim stood his ground; and gradually the question, “What will Spain do?” merged into that of “What will Prim do?” A better man and a wiser statesman, neither very difficult to obtain, would have availed himself of such an opportunity to heal his country’s wounds. Prim could not do this; he did not know how; but he was at least “wise in his generation.” He could not save the sick man; he did the next best thing, he kept him from killing himself. The foolhardiness of the man was his destruction. He had often had warnings, but he knew not what fear was, and took no precautions.

“To have the republic is easy,” said Castelar, the leader of the republicans, after one of his defeats, to Prim. “We have only to kill one man.” “Nothing but a thunderbolt kills me,” retorted Prim, “and of those very few fall.”

The thunderbolt fell and crushed him, but failed to crush what it was aimed at, the monarchy. Amadeus landed just in time to learn that his right-hand man was gone--a fearful venture for a young king and his queen. But he braved it royally; and though the race of Victor Emanuel can never find much favor in our eyes, this son of his, we confess, has borne himself through trying scenes like a king and like a gentleman, nobly supported by his brave and Catholic lady. That he was never elected by the people is clear; that, notwithstanding his personal merit, he is not likely to stay long where he is, is the surmise of all. If a telegram, without the slightest foundation in fact, announced his expulsion to-morrow, not a man in the world would disbelieve it. The people can feel no sympathy with a man who has no sort of title to their ancient crown; who is a perfect stranger to them, and almost to the world; who after the hawking of their throne about Europe, was forced upon them against their will. Besides, the Italians, of all European nations, are despised in Spain. They are considered there as good singers, dancers, cooks, and such like, but not the men for anything manly or great: how much less for the throne of Ferdinand the Catholic! “King Macaroni the First” was the burlesque that greeted Amadeus on his arrival in the capital. With him we will not trouble ourselves further, but with the revolution that gave occasion to the accident of his accession, and which will displace him to-morrow or the next day.

Spain undoubtedly was in a bad state under the _régime_ of Isabella. The question is, Has she bettered herself by driving out the queen? The new order came in with a grand flourish of trumpets. Progress was the watchword: the “Progressistas” were Prim’s party till he broke them up. We have touched already on the blood shed in civil strife for this party and for that, but there are other things to consider. Education is the word of the day; let us see what the revolution effected in this direction.

The Jesuits under great difficulties were organizing colleges and missions; they were straining every nerve to educate and improve the people, and were just beginning to make some headway when the revolution came; and of course the first “abuse” to be abolished was the Order of Jesus--that order that flourishes even in Protestant countries like England, where the government, under such a chancellor as Mr. Lowe, grants them a pension for their observatory at Stonyhurst. They had to fly the country; their establishments were all broken up and seized upon by the government. A case in point:

At Port St. Mary’s, between Cadiz and Jerez, the gentlemen of the town, seeing the good effected by the Jesuits in their missions, and feeling it in the improved conduct of the men they employed, as more than one of them assured the writer, united and raised funds sufficient to build a magnificent college which they presented to the society. The government, then of Isabella, had nothing to do with it. When the revolution broke out, there were three hundred students there, many of them from the first families of Spain. In addition to these, forty of the poor children of the district were admitted to the course of studies free. The Jesuits were banished, and escaped with their lives, thanks to the courage of a noble-hearted gentleman of the town and his sons, who at the risk of their own lives and property gave them shelter till Topete himself went and conducted them to the sea. The college was closed and seized by the government. The gentlemen who built it demanded the building to be used at least for educational purposes, no matter under whom. To all their remonstrances a deaf ear was turned; and the college stands tenantless to this day. Those who had the means sent their children out of the country to England, France, or elsewhere. Many could not, and for them there was no remedy. Their children must do without education while the work of enlightenment goes on.

They drove out the friars and the nuns destitute into the world; seized upon their property, and possessed themselves of their treasures, the vessels of the sanctuary, vestments, paintings, gifts given in expiation of sins or propitiation of heaven by men and women long ago resting in their graves. Not a year back the writer, then in London, saw an announcement in the _Times_ of the accession of some rare Spanish jewelry to the curiosities of the very interesting Museum at Kensington. He went, and found the ornaments that had decked the images and altars of the Virgen del Pilar at Saragossa, neatly arranged in two large cases, each ornament ticketed off as in a Jew’s shop, with the estimated value underneath in sums varying from over a hundred, sometimes over two or three hundred, pounds downwards. This sacrilegious robbery was repeated throughout the country--a dangerous example to the poor, whom they had indoctrinated with the pernicious ideas so prevalent in these times, the climax of which we saw the other day in Paris.

There was to be no state religion, and the clergy no longer to be salaried by the government. We must observe how all these movements strike at the church first; as is right they should do, for, that power destroyed, there is an end to morality, and the rest is easy. After a fierce and prolonged debate, in which the republicans came out in their true colors, and gave utterance, not the greater number happily, to open-mouthed blasphemy not simply against the church, but against the God whom Protestant and Catholic adore in common, the motion was not carried. The Catholic Church continues the church of the state, as it is the church of the whole nation.

“There are three things I hate intensely (_que me odian_): God, the monarchy, and phthisis,” said an alcalde in the north. It is a comfort to know that the wretch who said this craved a priest on his dying bed when attacked by the last object of his hatred, and God, ever merciful, allowed him one.

Emilio Castelar, the prime mover in the motion, spoke differently. He is the leader of the republicans: young, gifted beyond measure in all that can give a man influence among his fellows, a marvellous orator, whom the whole cortes, from the prelate to the red-hot republican, listens to spell-bound when he speaks. His attacks on Prim were terrible, unceasing, unsparing; he lashed the cortes into foam; but Prim, conscious of his power, had a dry, sarcastic manner of meeting them that took a good deal of the eloquent edge off. On the religious question Castelar said, “For my own part, if I chose any religion, it would be the Catholic, in which I was born and in which my mother died. A Protestant I could never be: it is too frigid for me.”

Liberty of the press, in these days the bulwark of our rights, liberty of public discussion, were proclaimed. The press was free to attack everything and every institution we consider holy. The republican papers poured forth floods of blasphemy unchecked. The Carlist, the Catholic organs alone were suppressed. Villaslada, the editor of the _Pensamiento Español_, the leading Carlist and Catholic newspaper, which bears the Holy Father’s blessing on its page, was forced to fly the country, and his papers seized. He has since returned, and has now a seat in the cortes. His offence was attacking the government and advocating the cause of Don Carlos at a time when Prim professed to await the expression of the will of the people to declare the king. So much for free discussion.

It would be tedious as well as profitless to take every item in the catalogue of a nation, and contrast them now with what they were before the overthrow of the Bourbon line. Certain it is that, bad as things were in Spain under Isabella, they are worse at present. Her commerce has deteriorated wofully. “We know not what to expect in Spain at any moment. The men we employ have been so preached to by the apostles of the revolution that they are ready to turn on us we know not when. We dare not keep a large stock on hand. We are trying to sell things off even at a sacrifice, we get our money safe banked in England, and, if the revolution and ruin come, well, at least we shall have some provision for our wives and children.” That is how any merchant will speak to-day on Spanish affairs.

“The shortest road to peace is through the revolution,” said Villaslada, and that is the opinion of all the thoughtful men the writer has met. They look upon a revolution as inevitable, the passions of the people have been so tampered with. It is hoped for that the people may sicken of their illusions; that the fury may waste itself; that the blood-letting which must follow may allay the fever, may open their eyes to the Utopia which their frenzy pictures.

It is a sad state for such a nation. It makes us anxious about the question we asked at the beginning, What is its destiny? Its debt is increasing as its credit declines. And yet the nation might be a great nation still.

Its foreign possessions it can do without. To get rid of Cuba would really be a relief. The advantages which the island affords for commerce by no means compensate for the continual anxiety it causes--the support of an army and a fleet. Spain is self-sufficient. With an area similar to that of France, her population is only one-third as large. The country if worked could produce corn enough to feed more than half Europe. Magnificent forests of chestnut and mahogany, soft groves of orange and olive trees, clothe and beautify the soil. Splendid rivers roll through the land, while bays and safe harbors indent the coast. In a little district perhaps not more than ten miles square grows the wine that supplies the whole world with sherry. Spanish wool holds its own in the mart. The people are intelligent, peaceful, and moral by nature. In no country can an inferior talk to a superior as freely without passing beyond the bounds as in Spain. Beautiful, historic cities are scattered through the land. Treasures of art are in their churches and galleries, refining the feelings and quickening the intellect. Their language is music; their climate delicious; their soil fruitful; land and living cheap. Their fleet is a formidable one; the Biscayan mariners for boldness and skill are unsurpassed, tossed as they are from infancy in the cradle of their bay, where the wide-spreading Atlantic is for ever wroth that it can go no further. The bravery and discipline of their army is within our recollection. That the energy of the race has not died out is proved by the war in Morocco, the speedy quelling of the revolution, the readiness of the nation to engage in war with such a power as ourselves, where the final issue could not be for a moment doubtful; but that much derided phrase “national honor” kept them true to themselves and their traditions, and we were wise enough not to provoke a contest with a people ready to sell their lives so dear. Yet with all these advantages, their course to-day is a downward one, and will continue so until one of two governments comes--either a man like the First Napoleon or a Bismarck, who to the iron will of Prim shall add a genius which the latter neither possessed nor pretended to possess; strong enough to grind down if necessary, but great enough to lift up. To such a man both Spain and France to-day present fields ripe with opportunity.

Or, for Spain at least, where there is still great faith and reverence for what is great and true, where happily materialism has not yet seized upon the hearts and the intellect of the people, a government that, instead of striking at the church which still is the church of the nation, and sapping the roots of Catholic, that is, of all morality, should call that church to its aid, and say to the people, “Your God shall be my God”--such a government would have from the start the greatest ally it could hope for in a religious people. Let it tell the people boldly that it shall have liberty, but not license, that it shall march with the age, that its great possessions are gone, never to return; but that at home it has resources that cannot fail, which only require the working to make them produce a hundredfold; a government which shall educate the children in religion, and from their infancy pour into their souls lessons of truth. Such a government might regenerate Spain. Such is partly the programme of Don Carlos. But he is the disciple of another school. Could he unlearn a little the doctrines of his school, Don Carlos holds the best chance to-day not only of occupying the throne, but of occupying the hearts and hopes of the nation.

And here we close with a remark on the failure of revolutions to work their purpose.

“The driving out of one unclean spirit to make room for seven more unclean,” is the history of all movements that have ever upset a throne which tradition has set in the intellect of the people, which custom has rooted in the soil, which has literally “grown with their growth and strengthened with their strength,” and even declined with their decline or caused it, which is _of_ them. It is a strange fact, but history bears it out. As we have shown, the Spaniards drove out their queen, and for a moment held their destiny in their own hands. The French drove out the Emperor, and held their destiny in their hands. Is either country the better for their action? In great contrast to these stands out Germany, before the war composed of a number of independent or semi-independent peoples. They united and placed themselves under the yoke, and present to the world a combination so great, so powerful, so irresistible by any single state save Russia or our own, that the world was convulsed by it, and the face of Europe changed in a day. Whether it will last or not is foreign to our present purpose. Men should “count the costs” before they overturn any government. It is a hard thing to change a nation. Even though you present something better, you must combat rooted prejudice, immemorial tradition, every spontaneous feeling that rises, before your idea can hold the popular mind. Look at the slow spread of Christianity. People would not give up their gods of wood and stone. Our Lord cast out devils before their eyes. “It is by Beelzebub you cast them out,” they cried. But the agents of revolution generally begin on the other side. They cast in devils. They uproot everything that is stable; they undermine morality; they teach men to scoff at everything; to obey no law. Man is free, and this world is his to do as he likes with. Who says no? The priest? The priest and the monarchy go hand-in-hand to bind free-born nations down in superstition and slavery. So they work, and, when their harvest is ripe, they reap their reward. They hack at everything right and left. But demons are powerful only to destroy, and they have raised those that they cannot lay, save by blood and iron, as Prim did, as Trochu and the rest were compelled to do. “And the last state of these nations is worse than the first.”

We were saved from a like fate because the monarchy was never known here; our constitution was not a new one, it was in the intelligence of the people from the first, and its exponent was George Washington.

People with their own destiny thrust upon them can do nothing with it. Men have brooded for years under evil government, and when that falls a thousand quacks are ready, each with his panacea for the cure of the nation’s woes, and one is as likely as another. As for the nation at large, it wants to be governed. It cannot sit down and think, the matter out, rejecting this and choosing that. The first that is ready, if it happens to be good, good; if not, so much the worse. They have already knocked one government on the head; why should they stop at a second, or a third, or any number? And so step in cruelty and oppression on the one side, lawlessness in every form on the other. It is better to cure than to kill; better to reform than to overthrow; and if we must overthrow, let us do it like men and not like fiends. If the joint is rotten ere you displace it, see that you can replace it. The monarch is the key-stone of the constitution in lands where monarchy prevails. Remove that, and the whole fabric is shattered. You must build anew. You may build better; at all events, time is lost; most likely you will build worse; strengthen, reform the old--beware how you destroy it.

OFFICIAL CHARITY.

FROM REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.

In these times, all is laical--that is to say, in accordance with modern language, everything is bound to bear the stamp of the state. No contract is possible without the intervention of the state; no marriage exists without the ratification of the state; no school can be opened without the sanction of the state. In short, the state puts its iron clasp on all that man possesses, even his personal liberty and right. Henceforth, then, in the name of those immortal principles which consecrated the absolute and illimitable liberty of the human family, are abolished the most sacred rights of man--liberty in the bosom of the family and individual rights. In the name of liberty, the state confiscates all; it proclaims itself, without ceremony, the original author of all its laws. It is the god-state.

It is astonishing that, following a parallel exaggeration, the state has come to proclaim itself alone capable of exercising charity, as it is alone capable of teaching it! Logic ought to forcibly bring about this result. The state which adjudicates to itself the monopoly of direction, can it not also adjudge to itself the monopoly of the charity?

Yes, charity has become a monopoly of the state. What is it, then, other than _official_ charity? Give alms if so be, but do not forget to pass them through the hands of the state. It is it alone that can distribute your generous gifts. Found hospitals if you will, but on the express condition that you are to abandon them to the hands of the state, who will administer them as masters. Such is in substance the idea of official charity, centralizing in the hands of the state, and administering through its functionaries, the benefits and alms given in a spirit of self-sacrifice.

Very well! The church has never exercised a similar tyranny. She has crushed the heathenish proposition of the _Syllabus_, “39. The state, from being the source of all good, enjoys a right which is not circumscribed by any limits,” and, always free from the errors which she points out, the church has never imposed any act that even appeared as a simple pretext to accuse her of inconsistency. Though divinely commissioned to guide men, enlighten and direct their intelligence, their will, and all their steps, the church has never believed it her right to say to her faithful: “Put your alms into my hands; I alone know how to properly distribute them.” No! assiduous in stimulating charity, active in giving it birth, the church contents herself with encouraging the sacrifices that holy love inspires, and to show herself happy in having children who evince in so tender a manner the sentiment of Christian brotherhood. An exquisite sense reveals to her that charity delights in secret and mystery; a marvellous delicacy teaches her that the poor and the unfortunate neither consent to pour out their griefs indiscriminately, nor to have their wants relieved by every hand.

Thus, in reference to works of charity, the supremacy of the church consists in helping to accomplish that which the spontaneous piety of her faithful confides to her, and to exercise an exact surveillance over the faithful accomplishment of the charitable dispositions shown by her children who are numbered among the dead. Inviting, encouraging, thanking, and supervising--such is the _rôle_ of the church. If she welcomes with gratitude the faithful who select their pastors to dispense their bounty or for a go-between in their good works, she does not impose it upon them as a duty to confide alms to the care of bishops or of priests. And all doctrine tending to create a similar obligation is rejected by canon law as tainted with an odious exaggeration. Now, then, we have a right to reject the pretensions of the state over charity. Under what title does it place itself between the man who gives the alms and he who receives it? Is the sanctuary of charity less sacred than the domestic hearth? And if the home is inviolable, should not the secrets of charity be equally so?

We protest against official charity with all the energy of indignation. We proclaim it as an injury alike to the rich who give and to the poor who receive. The demonstration does not appear difficult.

Nevertheless, before undertaking it, we hope to interest our reader in placing before his eyes the sentiments of a judge whose views modern politicians do not ordinarily challenge. Portalis, every one knows, elevated the rights and prerogatives of the state high enough. “The state is nothing if it is not all,” said he, one day, before the legislative body. Here is certainly a witness unsuspected of partiality for the theory we are about to defend. Listen, then, to what he said himself to the proposition of official charity.

I.

Let it be remembered here, that one of the most constant preoccupations of Napoleon I. was to centralize everything into his own hands. The emperor wished to the letter to know all and to govern all. Not content with having created the formidable monopoly of the universities, he had even dared to try his hand at flattery in pretending to treat religious affairs as a simple department of his vast administration. Could it, then, be hoped that his ambition respected the liberty of charity? Napoleon, then, dreamed very seriously of controlling its exercise. Portalis hindered him.

The good sense of this celebrated counsellor of the emperor refused on this occasion to consent to the caprices of his master. Portalis declared fearlessly that official charity was the product of a hollow, weak brain, altogether an Utopia of one’s own creation to amuse the leisure hours of some philosopher seeking a distraction.

“Certain men,” wrote he to the emperor, “more jealous of their own attributes than of the public good, believe in finding abuses in all establishments that are not of their own creation. They scorn the good in the hope of finding the better; they imagine that all is resolved by calculation, and that, with two or three general maxims, they could reconstruct the world. With such ideas, states are disorganized. Such minds exhibit a greater power to destroy than an ability to construct.

“It is said with truth that the laws would be nothing without morals. It is, then, in the morals that the power of the laws will be sustained, that is to say, it is necessary to study the direction of the minds of men; that they should know the common affections of the human heart, and not govern by metaphysical abstractions and submit to cold calculation those things which cannot be other than the result of zeal, devotion, and of virtue.”[89] This was adroitly cautioning the emperor against the deleterious influences of that sad philosophy which sought to control him. Applying these principles to those hospitable communities that irreligious passions wished to banish, Portalis subjoined:

“The associations with which are connected so many touching memories were recommended to the considerate attention of your majesty by the gratitude of the people. Experience speaks loudly in favor of the imperial decrees which have authorized these associations. It is not, then, to balance between the vain theories of an infatuated sophist and the real assistance that charity administers to suffering humanity.”[90]

“These miserable objections derive their source ... in the vain theories of which experience has demonstrated the illusion.”[91] It is, then, clear that official charity found no advocate in Portalis. It presented to him the too evident imprints of a lying and anti-Christian philosophy. We will continue our citations.

II.

Portalis was convinced that religion only could induce charity. He believed that in this case religion only is capable of receiving and executing the mandates of charitable bequests.

“Your majesty,” wrote he again, “in your great wisdom has desired to leave the care of the poor under the guard of religion. She has undertaken the service that is accompanied with so many sacrifices and discouragements, which could not be guaranteed but by the most elevated and the most generous sentiments. She has dispersed the false systems of men who would wish to enjoy the benefits of the great work we see in operation under our eyes, in draining with as much imprudence as ingratitude the source from which they are furnished.”[92]

The experience he had besides superabundantly apprised him of what reason made him sensible. He had seen the works of the state and that of the religious bodies. Doubt, then, was no longer possible. It became manifest to him that, generally speaking, charity could only be duly administered through consecrated hands. Listen to his grave remarks:

“His majesty, in his travels, has convinced himself that all the hospitals confided to simple civil administration languish; that the poor there are often treated with negligence, and even with cruelty, by mercenary agents. In consequence of this, he has directed me to send the Sisters of Charity to all the departments beyond the Alps, and in all other places where they have not been.”[93]

Is it properly to Napoleon that the honor of such an initiative reverts? Was it not Portalis who inspired him? He sent very few. It is always the imperial counsellor giving, under his report, absolutely all the confidence to the clergy and to the church.

“It is constantly urged that the ecclesiastics and the bishops have appropriated to their own benefit; but are laic functionaries impeccable? Men, wherever they may be, commit abuses because they are men; but it is clear that there will be less abuse in all things when each kind of administration shall be left to men who by their office and their position have the largest means and the greatest interests for right administration.”[94]

“It is argued that the needs of the poor are sufficiently guaranteed by the civil administrators of the hospitals. I am not only surprised, but also grieved at this assertion. They overlook, then, all the great good for which humanity is indebted to the Sisters of Charity, to the hospital nurses, and also to many societies of estimable women who, by their tender piety, have consecrated themselves to the service of the poor. The public administrators are forced to depend upon the care of agents, to those mercenaries whose frauds are beyond scrutiny, and who possess no virtues. The spirit of charity cannot be supplied by the spirit of administration. Other management must disburse the revenues, other means must console or help the sick.... One must be possessed of very little philosophy to believe that the cold solicitude of an administrator can replace the generous care of ardent charity.... The service of the poor, as they are attended to in the hospitals and outside of them by religious associations, is not a simple administration or the effect of a simple management. It requires a continual succession of night-watching, privation, danger, nausea, painful and disinterested fatigue. This service demands a great abnegation of self, which could not be sustained save by motives superior to all human considerations. In an association, forces are combined to multiply resources; they encourage each other by example, and are enlightened by counsel; they are directed by rules which call them to duty and guarantee its observance. They receive novices whose health, character, and disposition are tested, and to whom they transmit with the knowledge of the subject the daily lessons of experience. All these means of recruiting and encouraging, of direction and perpetuity, are wanting when the service of the poor rests upon passing administrations, or with salaried agents who can be arbitrarily replaced at any moment by others. To achieve a permanent good we must have permanent institutions.”[95]

This is certainly a complete and beautiful explanation of religious associations. The experience of more than half a century has not lessened the value of these reflections of Portalis; on the contrary, it would be easy to enumerate the frauds, the misrepresentations, and the wastefulness which too often occur in administering to the wants of the poor, but we forbear the recital of the afflicting details. Portalis had but too much reason to condemn.

III.

In another point of view, Portalis reproved official charity. It seemed to him irreconcilable with the rights of donors to the poor, who wish to feel free in the distribution of their alms, and also with the rights of the poor, who do not consent at first sight to make acknowledgment of their misery.

“This would be,” said he, “destroying the character of charitable commissions, and perhaps even destroying their usefulness, in transforming them into exclusive institutions. Benevolence breathes as it wishes and where it wishes. If you do not let it respire freely, it stifles or becomes weakened in the midst of those who are disposed to its exercise. I argue that it would show a false estimate of the interests of the poor to isolate them in any way from the religious souls who would protect and assist them. Such people desire to place their alms in a religious organization, which will not dispose of them in any other establishment. Far from prescribing limits and imprudent conditions to benevolence, I would, on the contrary, open all avenues that benevolence might select for itself, and through which it shall choose to extend itself.”[96]

“The administration of alms is not and cannot be the exclusive privilege of any establishment whatever. Alms are free and voluntary gifts. He who gives can do no more. He is the one to charge the dispenser of his own liberality. The man who is able to give alms, and has shown his willingness to do so, can ask himself the simple question, To whom belongs their administration? To him or to them whom the donor will have charged to make the distribution? There is not and there cannot be any other rule in a similar matter. To do away with this rule would be to dry up the source of the charity.

“How is it possible to think that religious organizations should be excluded from the right of administering the alms which they receive? Under such a system, they might as well assert that they are not allowed to receive alms, that is to say, they would have to destroy the natural liberty of those men who lay aside a portion of their income to devote to charity, from charging the agents of their own alms and their liberality.”[97]

As for the poor themselves, Portalis thought, with reason, that many among them refused to receive assistance from any administration whatever, and this is why he wished that a portion of the accumulated alms might be left to the disposition of the curates of the parishes:

“Because these alms could be profitably disposed of to those poor who from circumstances and misfortunes have met with reverses and change of position, and who, not wishing to acknowledge their misery to the administrators of benevolent institutions, their equals and sometimes their enemies or rivals, go to seek from their pastors the consolations that sustain their courage, and obtain assistance that does not humiliate them. It is to this interesting use that the alms are generally consecrated by the religious organizations and the priests.”[98] Thus Portalis reasoned that, even for the interests of the poor, official charity should be energetically repulsed.

IV.

Meanwhile, if the objection should arise that, after all, these are but opinions, and that simple opinions are not sufficient always to impede the action of the state in what it believes to be its rights, Portalis meets this objection, and in a decided tone he asserts clearly that the state enjoys no right over the exercise of charity. Here are his own words, which we recommend to the minds of modern statesmen:

“The principal office of authority is to dispose of to advantage the gifts that are offered to it, to cause them to prosper in protecting them. It rarely originates them. We have not yet replaced among a multitude of reforms the institutions that have been overturned. Experience brings us back every day to the principles that we have too easily abandoned.”[99]

“This would be but imperfectly to understand the human heart, and hinder its free respiration in the things that law can protect indeed, but which sentiment alone commands. The office of a magistrate is to watch over the essential duties of a citizen, but, in works of supererogation, he must allow great latitude to a liberal arbitration.”[100]

A remarkable avowal, above all, from a lawyer of the temper of Portalis, who willingly elevated into a dogma the omnipotence of the state. He has, however, said: “No, the omnipotence of the state does not go so far as that; and that for the very simple reason that the state could exact from its citizens only the observance of precepts imposed by the natural and divine laws. It can never compel them to submit to obligations that nature has never created.”

Is it to say that we refuse to the state the right of showing itself benevolent and charitable? God forbid! If the state would practise boundless liberality, we would bless it. If it would be the protector of all the works destined for the relief of unfortunate humanity, we would exalt it with transport. But never to make this protection a monopoly, otherwise the benefaction would change to tyranny.

Listen to M. Charles Périn, who has treated with as much depth as sincerity the difficult problems of political economy:

“The action of the state in giving assistance will not be free from danger, inasmuch as it would have a purely preventive character.... That the state intervenes to assure by its civil existence the duration of those institutions founded by the free inspirations of private charity; that it assures itself that the conditions of the foundations for which it calls its meetings contain nothing which repudiates the rules of public order; that it exercises over the administrations of those foundations a watchfulness that prevents abuses and which secures the observation of the essential rules of the institution, without annulling the free action of those who have received the mission of donators to represent them among the poor, and continue the work of charity which has inspired them--under these conditions, the intervention of the state will become a benefit, because then she does no more than aid liberty.”[101]

Here is also the doctrine of the great Bishop of Arras, Mgr. Parisis:

“That which governments can and ought to do to aid charity is not to disfigure, to dry up, and to destroy it in making it entirely legal, but to reanimate it by all possible means in maintaining it Christian, in preserving the sentiment, and everywhere encouraging efforts in its regard, to make not rulers, but auxiliaries, not oppressors, but friends.”[102]

Admirable formula, that the politicians of the present day should study a little more!

We have placed before the reader the sentiments and doctrines of Portalis touching official charity. We do not think that we could give higher authority. We have found in the alleged proofs good and solid reasoning. We record a true demonstration.

We have been reluctant heretofore to discharge this great duty. Why we take up the subject at this late period is to expose the vices and the dangers of official charity.

FOOTNOTES:

[89] _Travaux sur le Concordat, etc., Rapport du 24 Mars, 1807._

[90] _Ibid._

[91] _Ibid._

[92] _Ibid._

[93] _Rapport sur les Fabriques d’Eglise, Juillet, 1806._

[94] _Ibid._

[95] _Rapport du 24 Mars, 1807._

[96] _Rapport du 16 Avril, 1806._

[97] _Ibid._

[98] _Rapport du 16 Avril, 1806._

[99] _Ibid._ _Rapport du 24, Fructidor an XIII._, 11 Sept., 1805.

[100] _Ibid._

[101] _De la Richesse dans les Sociétés chrétienne_, t. i. p. 498.

[102] _La Democratie devant l’Enseignement catholique_, p. 107.

THE CHURCH AND THE PRESS.

The following item of news is clipped from a recent number of a leading New York publication:

“The proposition is under discussion to establish in this city a new anti-Catholic paper, partly devoted to opposing the religious tenets of the Romanists, but still more their supposed attempts to secure political control in the country. It will support the ultra-Protestant position of the Bible in the public schools, and will be backed, it is expected, by a large subscription among the three or four secret anti-Roman Catholic societies that exist in this country.”

We do not know what truth there may be in this report. It is intrinsically probable that the establishment of an “anti-Romanist” periodical is in contemplation, because there is always a large politico-religious party in the United States whose chief principle is bitterness against the Catholic Church, and there are certain reasons why such a party just now should be especially active. The Catholic element in our population is rapidly increasing, and many circumstances have recently combined to bring its numerical strength into prominence. A moderate estimate makes it not less than six or seven millions. The published returns of the census of 1870 have not thus far furnished any statistics of religious belief, but they give some facts from which we can get at least an idea of the rate at which the church in America is growing. There were, for example, in 1870, no fewer than 1,855,779 persons of Irish birth in the United States, and of these the preponderance of Catholics over Protestants was so large that the Protestant element may as well be disregarded. In Ireland, the ratio of Catholics to Protestants is at least as high as four to one, and here the proportion is still greater, because emigration is largely from the Catholic counties; probably the whole number of Irish-born Protestants in the United States does not equal 200,000. The German-born population, according to the same census, is 1,690,533. In Germany, about three-fifths of the inhabitants are Catholics, but emigration takes place rather more from the Protestant than from the Catholic districts, so that competent judges estimate that the Catholic Germans in this country are only two-fifths of the entire number. That would give us, for Catholics of German birth, 676,213. Then there are 193,504 natives of other Catholic countries, including 116,402 Frenchmen, but not counting Swiss, Poles, Canadians, and others of whose religious belief we have no means of making an estimate. A great many of the French and Italian immigrants are either Protestants or people of no religious profession at all; and, upon the whole, we prefer to leave out of consideration these 193,000 settlers of the Latin race, balancing with them the Protestant Irish. Now, the census shows that for every foreigner in the country there are two native-born inhabitants of foreign parentage. According to this rule, we ought to have 3,711,558 descendants in the first generation of Irish immigrants, and 1,352,426 descendants of Germans. Supposing, therefore, that the children are brought up in the faith of their parents, there ought to be the following numbers of foreign-born Catholics and Catholics born in this country of foreign fathers and mothers:

Irish birth 1,855,779 Irish parentage 3,711,558 --------- Total Irish 5,567,337 German birth 676,213 German parentage 1,352,426 --------- Total German 2,028,639 --------- Grand total 7,595,976

This, of course, is too high an estimate. Unfortunately, a great many of the descendants of Catholic immigrants are not brought up in the faith. Protestant associations, mixed marriages, the want of priests and churches in a large part of our territory, the general deficiency of schools, the influence of an overpowering Protestant tone in society, politics, and literature, and the inadequacy of the Catholic press thus far to meet the intellectual needs of the day, have robbed us of many of the descendants of the Catholic settlers--how many it is impossible to say. On the other hand, it must be remembered that the figures we have given refer only to immigrants and a single generation of their descendants. Irish and German Catholics, however, have been pouring into the country ever since the Revolution, and their descendants in the second, third, and later generations must be counted by hundreds of thousands. Then we have the offspring of the original Catholic settlers of Maryland and of the French posts along the Mississippi Valley from the Lakes to the Gulf of Mexico, and the Spanish Catholics along the Pacific coast; and, finally, we have thousands of converts, whose number is increasing in a constantly growing ratio. All these elements must far outweigh the loss by neglect and perversion.

Then, the movement to extend Catholicism among the colored people of the South has occasioned no little alarm in the Protestant sects. It was thoroughly discussed at the General Council of Baltimore six years ago, and especially attracted, as our readers know, the Christian zeal of the late Archbishop Spalding. The English Church has come to our aid by sending us missionaries for this special work, and there is every reason to believe that in this long-neglected field, now open to us by the abolition of slavery, we shall reap an abundant harvest. Everybody perceives that for a long time to come, if not permanently, the colored people will hold a preponderance of power in several of the Southern States. As they advance in education and material welfare, their influence will enormously increase. In many districts, they are evidently destined to be the ruling race, for they are improving in culture, and can no longer be overlooked by the social or religious philosopher. Whether they shall be Catholic or Protestant is a momentous question, not only to their own souls, but to the country.

But not only is the formidable number of the Catholics of the United States a subject of increasing anxiety to the sects, their attitude towards political parties presents some new and perplexing problems. Heretofore they have exerted no special influence as Catholics upon political affairs. As a general rule, at least in large cities, an immense majority of them have adhered to the Democratic organization, but without giving the slightest Catholic tendency to Democratic principles and objects. They have been swallowed up and lost in the party rather than incorporated with it; they have given it votes, and got little or nothing in return. Why this has been so we need not now inquire; for it has become evident that a general reconstruction of parties is close at hand.

The next Presidential election will not be so much a contest of principles as a trial of strength between the personal adherents of the rival nominees; and before the end of another four years we may expect on both sides a new declaration of political faith, a new setting up of standards, a new mustering of opposing camps, so that the fight hereafter shall be not for a candidate, but a cause. Republicans and democrats alike are looking for a new departure, and we cannot help being interested in what the new symbols of party orthodoxy are to be.

Of course, as a religious body our duty is now, as it always has been, to keep aloof from partisanship. We have observed this duty religiously in the past; we shall observe it no less strictly hereafter. But Protestants do not comprehend our position in the matter, and they are watching eagerly for indications of the new alliance which they take it for granted we must contemplate. More than this, certain sections of them are acting upon the assumption that we must naturally rank ourselves as their political enemies, and are striving to give a distinctly anti-Catholic tendency to state and national legislation. What are we to do if they succeed? What must be our attitude if the school question, for example, become a leading topic in state politics, or if the broad question of national education be incorporated with the dogmas of the coming political parties? Leaders on the Republican side have already been trying the temper of the people on this point, and it is not at all impossible that organizations may be made so uncompromisingly hostile to us that we shall have to raise our own standard and define our lines. Protestants see all this more clearly than Catholics, and hence the instinctive gathering together of the sects, the renewed bitterness of some of their leading journals, such as the New York _Times_ and _Harper’s Weekly_, the attempt to exclude our charities from the state aid to which they are fairly entitled, the attacks upon our schools, and the plans for an anti-Catholic crusade by the establishment of no-Popery organs. A paper of the class indicated in the extract at the head of this article would not, indeed, be a formidable enemy. The people at least have no taste for the violent, old-fashioned style of controversy; but, as one indication among many of the drift of Protestant sentiment, the establishment of a professedly and distinctively anti-Catholic paper as a political engine would be significant.

If evil times are coming, how are we prepared to meet them? If our schools are to be attacked, our asylums and hospitals starved out, our children led away from the church and the parish school by the strong arm of the government, our young men and young women corrupted by hostile literature, the newspapers given up to falsehood and misrepresentation about our faith and practices, we who are seven millions strong are surely not to sit idle and strike no blow in our own defence. The pulpit cannot be our only guardian. Before the altar we listen to instruction in our religious duties, we learn of the mysteries of our creed, we are roused to penitence, to charity, to the love of God and man; we do not look there for guidance in our duty as citizens, or for the answer to the slanders of our enemies. Our priests have a more sacred function to perform; there is still a work which, from the nature of the case, they cannot do. The Catholic cause must be upheld not only in the shadow of the sanctuary, but in the very midst of the hostile camp. The most eloquent sermon cannot reach a man who will not go to church. The most complete refutation of a slander will do no good if the slanderer and those who believe in him never hear the answer. But newspapers go everywhere. Their readers are not confined to any one sect or any one party; and when disputes arise which affect the relations of Catholics to the secular government and to their Protestant brethren, the heaviest of the fighting must always be done by the daily, weekly, and monthly press.

In an article published over a year ago, we touched upon this subject in connection with the duty of American Catholics towards Catholic literature. Our remarks were generally approved, we believe, but they called forth some little criticism of an unfavorable character which, upon the whole, we were not sorry to see. It is an encouraging sign of development when the religious press shows vitality enough to discuss something else than the commonplaces of controversy which have formed the staple of Catholic and Protestant polemics for generations. It is high time for us to apply to our own publications a little of that free examination which we have bestowed upon others, and to let argument among Catholic writers be something more than the foolish wrangling of ambitious rivals. In the article to which we have alluded, we said that few of the Catholic papers had a circulation of more than 10,000; and some people found fault with us for that. We wish we could give them 25,000 or 50,000 apiece; but it will not mend matters to say that all Catholic papers are powerful organs of public opinion, when we know that they are nothing of the sort. Most of them are doing excellent service within their own sphere; but why affect to deny that their sphere is a narrow one and their means are small? We have tried to impress upon the Catholic public the duty of supporting the Catholic press to the utmost of their ability. We have shown that where Protestants attack us in a million printed sheets, we give a feeble answer in perhaps ten thousand. We number 8,000,000 souls, yet our newspapers with very few exceptions languish for want of readers, and our colleges are not creating a literary class among the laity. This is one side of the picture, but there is another. If the public is doing little for the papers, are the papers doing much more for the public? We dare say they are doing what they can; but how much is that? What Catholic journal have we capable of meeting _Harper’s Weekly_, for instance--we do not mean in argument, but in influence? As we write, the current number of that periodical is laid upon our table. It contains a long article on “Romish Cruelty,” telling how in a Pennsylvania town “the Roman Catholics formed a plot to murder” a school-teacher. “The priest aided in encouraging the dangerous spirit of the people, and the assassins seem to have been urged on to their dreadful deed by the open countenance of the Romish Church.” The writer comes to the conclusion that “no one’s life is any longer safe who ventures to doubt the divinity of Mary or the supreme prerogatives of the Pope.” This is only a sample of many similar slanders which the unprincipled publishing firm of the Harpers are spreading all over the country. What are we doing to counteract them? Surely, we cannot afford to let them go unanswered, and we leave it to any Catholic to say whether there is a single publication of our creed in the United States which we can depend upon for a prompt and thorough reply to such falsehoods, in such form and manner as to convince not merely the Catholic, but the Protestant public. We must confront our assailants on their own ground. If they tell us that a priest and his parishioners in an obscure Pennsylvania town have conspired to murder Protestant school-teachers, we must be able to show, and to show at once, that the incidents never occurred, or that the interpretation placed upon them is unwarranted. We ought to have our sources of information as well as our enemies. We need our news-gatherers and investigators, who shall answer falsehood not with indignant invective, but with fact. This is not the work for a monthly magazine, but for a much prompter sort of publication. Long before the true story of such an affair could be told in THE CATHOLIC WORLD, it would have been succeeded by a new slander. The poison would have run through the public veins, and it would be too late for the antidote to overtake it. Newspapers ought to do this work, and we suppose they would do it if they had the money; but investigations are expensive, and when the force of a Catholic organ consists of nobody but the editor, who writes all the fourth page, and the assistant, who makes up the rest of the forms with a paste-pot and a pair of shears, there is of course no reporter who can be sent away on excursions. The New York _Times_, which has long rivalled _Harper’s Weekly_ in bigotry and anti-Catholic malice, allows a correspondent to take up this story, repeat it as a well-ascertained truth, and enforce the lesson that “a faithful son of the Romish Church cannot be a law-abiding citizen of this free Republic.” We dare say scores of Union newspapers will follow the example of the _Times_; and, meanwhile, if a few weekly Catholic papers succeed in getting at the truth of the incident, we may depend upon it their refutation of the falsehood will never reach Protestant ears. It is time for us to understand that calumny cannot be conquered by such means as we now employ, and that practically our enemies are having everything their own way.

Catholic questions of the most momentous character are now agitating the whole continent of Europe. Germany is shaken by the problems of education; Italy, by the contest between the rights of the Vicar of Christ and the usurpations of the godless Sardinian monarchy. The Döllinger party are encouraged by some of the secular powers to attempt a new heresy. France and Spain are both vexed by infidel and persecuting political factions. England even and Ireland have their Catholic difficulties arising out of the relations between the state and the schools. All the intelligence which reaches us on these important topics comes from the worst sources. The cable reporters who collect European news for transmission through the telegraph are usually not well informed on Catholic subjects, and not always honest. When they touch upon religious matters, they are habitually, even though not intentionally, untruthful. The impression conveyed by their meagre and blundering dispatches is almost always the direct reverse of the right one, and the press telegrams from Rome especially are marvels of ingenious and bold falsification. All the European dispatches printed in American newspapers are sent from London. They are dated at various cities on the Continent, but they all come from one central office in the English metropolis, and they are obtained there from a Jewish news-agency which has relations with the Continental press. Thus, they really give merely the statements of a few French, Italian, Spanish, and German journalists, and these are almost invariably journalists of the anti-Catholic party. In Italy, the mendacity of the anti-Papal press is almost beyond belief; and probably there is no class of persons anywhere so utterly unscrupulous, so wedded to lying, as the radicals of Italy when they speak of the Pope or the Papal Government. The German Liberal and Protestant press is only a little better. It has magnified and misrepresented the Döllinger movement, and distorted, in the grossest manner, the story of the school question in Prussia. Elsewhere, on the Continent, the difficulty is the same. A vigorous press is constantly battling against us, and it is from this press and this press alone that we get our European news. The mail correspondence of American secular newspapers is colored by the same influences which deform the telegraphic summaries. The lie which is insinuated to-day by a cable dispatch will be rubbed in by a letter in due course of the post. Here, again, our enemies have things all their own way. The best of our weekly papers, indeed, do something to correct the falsehoods of the daily journals, but the great difficulty still remains; they cannot reach the general public. Fisher Ames said that “a lie will travel from Maine to Georgia while the truth is putting on its boots.” But, if the lie has the advantage of a daily newspaper and a telegraph under the Atlantic Ocean, whilst the truth must trust to steamships, and post-offices, and a small weekly paper or a monthly magazine, what hope is there that the lie can ever be overtaken?

Secular literature is almost entirely in Protestant hands, and in a thousand unsuspected ways it is infusing into our intellectual system the poison of indifferentism, or infidelity, or miscalled liberalism, and teaching our young people to divide themselves between two incompatible lives--an active Protestant life, which absorbs all their busy and productive hours, and a sluggish Catholic life, which is confined to Sunday mornings and a few great festivals. What is the Catholic press doing to correct these literary influences? What is it doing to cultivate the art of criticism? If we want to know the characters or the literary merits of a new book, shall we turn to the journals of our own faith, or to the _Tribune_ and the _World_? Our periodicals (with a few honorable exceptions) rarely give any notice at all to the productions of secular book-houses, while magazines and books bearing the imprint of a Catholic publisher are generally reviewed in some such style as the following:

“This sterling periodical has now reached its eleven thousandth number, and has improved with every issue since it was started. The present number alone is worth a year’s subscription. No Catholic family can afford to be without it. Price 25 cents.

“The enterprising publishers, Messrs. Jones & Robinson, have just got out in the elegant style for which they are celebrated a new edition of _Barney O’Toole: a Tale of ’98_. This is a work of great learning, and no Catholic library is complete without it. We are deeply indebted to the liberal publishers for sending us a copy. It is elegantly gotten up. For sale, in this city, by Michael Smith. Price 50 cents.”

This sort of journalism is worse than a waste of ink and paper. It is a direct injury to the cause it is intended to serve. There is no reason why a book that is badly printed and shabbily bound should be described as “elegantly gotten up”; nor why every number of a magazine should be called the best ever printed; nor why everything published at a Catholic house should be declared essential to the spiritual welfare of every Catholic family. But there is a reason why Catholic journalists should tell the plain truth, and sometimes the whole truth, if they expect to obtain influence in an intelligent community.

The time has come when a vigorous, enterprising, well-conducted press is essential to every community in the United States. No man in this country can do without his newspaper. He must keep abreast of the age; he must know what happens in politics, finance, trade, literature, art, and society, and he must know it promptly; otherwise the current of the world flows past him, and he is left idly floating in the pools by the shore. We cannot afford to ignore this imperative want; it is a necessity created by conditions of society far beyond our control; and it is by no means a necessity which we ought to regret. Our task should be not to oppose this demand for newspapers, but to satisfy it more thoroughly than it has ever been satisfied yet. We are numerous and rich enough to create a Catholic periodical literature which shall be the glory of America, and, next to the church and school, the noblest defence of Catholic principles. We are numerous and rich enough to make newspapers which shall meet every demand of the most active and intelligent and best educated citizen; which shall give our own people the most palatable as well as the most nourishing intellectual food, and enforce from our adversaries a respect which is not now paid us. In the providence of God, we believe such a press will some day be built up in America, and then we shall wonder how we lived and kept our faith so long without it.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

THE HOUSE OF YORKE. By M. A. T. 1 vol. 8vo, pp. 261. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1872.

A thoroughly good American novel was, we suppose, a literary event which was looked for by nobody who had much knowledge of what had been done in that direction, or who had thought much about the causes which produce the painful thinness of most of our native literature. It is true enough, as Dr. Holmes says, that Protestantism in its last analysis means “none of your business,” and what it means at the root it means more or less in every branch and stem, every leaf and flower. And in America especially, which has, so to say, no history and no traditions, and whose vast material resources tempt its children to believe that the world has been started afresh for them on a different basis from that which underlies older civilizations, one of the most patent and most unpleasant results of the theories on which the new civilization was founded has been the barrenness, the hopeless mediocrity, of the literature which it has produced. How was it possible that a people who, as a people, recognized no absolute authority in any matter whatsoever, even in those of fundamental importance, and who had engrained in their minds the conviction that everybody’s opinion, especially in matters of taste and of religion, was as likely to be true as his neighbor’s, should produce a characteristic and thrifty national art and literature? Lawlessness, a lack of respect for authority, and, in most instances, a provincial ignorance that in these matters there was any recognized authority, were what made the weakness of our efforts in this direction. There were a few writers and a few works of acknowledged ability. In fiction we have had Cooper, and we had also an _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_, but that the latter owed much of its success to the local evil with which it dealt was evidenced by the inferior merit of the works from the same hand which preceded and which followed it. In the limits of a book-notice it is, of course, not possible to do more than to intimate a conviction that literature and art, like civilization and public morality, rest securely only when they are built upon Catholic truth. Here in America there was ample room and opportunity to prove the opposite proposition if it could be proved, and to show that on a foundation of criticism and negation a strong and sightly structure could be reared. There was no lack of ability in our writers, and there was occasional genius; but, when what they did was not an evident imitation of some foreign model, it generally showed incompleteness, a lack of definite conceptions, and an unpleasant awkwardness and indecision of purpose. We are speaking now only of what is known as light literature--essay-writing, fiction, and poetry.

To find, therefore, a distinctively American novel which one can honestly praise as a work of art, is something at which one may be legitimately surprised as well as pleased; and that we have, at last, in _The House of Yorke_, such a novel, is what nobody who has read it attentively will be at all likely to deny. The true story intertwined with the fictitious one is, as it should be in a work of fiction, so skilfully subordinated to the main current of the novel that it in no way mars the catholicity which is the first element in all genuine art. Pettiness and provinciality are the two rocks on which novels “founded on fact” are most apt to strike; particular facts get such a prominence in them that the larger truth which art demands is lost sight of. Our author shows, however, a thorough mastery of her materials and an accurate perception of what are the proper means to an end. She shows, too, an unusual degree of insight into character and a trained skill in delineating it. All her personages live: not one of them is an imitation of some other novelist’s creation. Their individuality is preserved, too, without recourse to tricks of speech and gesture--they are always themselves, because in the mind of their creator there existed a clear and definite image of each of them. That she has studied herself and other people very closely is evident as well when she brings her characters into action as when she analyzes their motives. The book is full of bits of delicate insight, as, for instance, where she says of the impetuous Dick Rowan that “his soul had, indeed, always been more tranquil than his manner.” The whole of this character, though, and especially the story of his vocation, may well enough be given as an instance.

She knows, too, how to be dramatic without becoming sensational, and how to be thoroughly delicate and reserved and yet make an interesting love story. Her style is easy and unembarrassed, and always level with the occasion, whether in dialogue, description, or moralizing, and her book is one to be as well liked by the ordinary novel-reader, purely for the interest of the story, as by those who are more attracted by its lofty purpose and by the skill with which that purpose is carried out.

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DISCUSSIONS AND ARGUMENTS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS. By John Henry Newman, sometime Fellow of Oriel College. London: Basil Montagu Pickering, 196 Piccadilly. 1872. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

This is another volume of the uniform series of Dr. Newman’s works. It contains an essay on the manner of catholicizing the Church of England, one on Anti-Christ, one on the analogy of Creed and Scripture in respect to the difficulties of each, one on Secular Knowledge as a means of moral improvement, one on the Defects and Excellences of the British Constitution, and one on the argument of the _Ecce Homo_--the last two essays only having been written since the conversion of the illustrious author.

The republication of Dr. Newman’s Catholic writings is only something which might have been expected, and which would be considered by all as desirable. The same might be said of his previous works, so far as these contained no heretical or uncatholic statements and opinions. But the entire republication of his Anglican writings was something novel in its way, and rather calculated to startle the mind of one who had not considered the very weighty motives which have induced the author to make this bold stroke. These writings could not have been suppressed. To a very great extent, they are substantially sound, as well as masterly in thought and style, with only an accidental mixture of error. Even those which are in their substance and scope directly anti-Catholic are important documents in the history of polemics. By their incorporation with a complete series of the doctor’s works, they are reduced to the category of those arguments and objections against the faith which are incorporated into systems of theology for the purpose of exhibiting both sides of the controversy, and bringing out the truth in its contra-position to error. The work of Dr. Newman’s life has been a most remarkable and providential one. He has reasoned himself up from Protestantism, through Anglicanism, to the Catholic Church, speaking aloud, and in tones to command attention, during the whole process. It is impossible to estimate the influence for good which he has exerted as an instrument in the hand of God in bringing back Protestants to the fold of the church. The preservation of the complete history of his intellectual progress is therefore something which tends entirely to advance the cause of truth, and to illustrate the glorious conclusion which he finally drew from his premises and proved with such power of reasoning and charm of rhetoric. The present volume contains many things of the greatest intrinsic value, besides what is valuable for the reasons above given, especially the essay on Creed and Scripture, in which the present downward slide of the English toward infidelity is distinctly predicted.

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CONSTANCE SHERWOOD. An Autobiography of the Sixteenth Century. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton. 1 vol. 8vo, pp. 284. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.

Our first feeling on reading this book was regret that we have so few similar publications in this country, where the subjects so admirably discussed in it are of such deep and lasting interest. To English-speaking people at least, no matter in what land, the persecution of Catholics during the reign of Elizabeth, the malignant attempts of her able courtiers to destroy utterly the old faith among her subjects, and the heroic struggles and sufferings of the people, particularly of those of the better class, form one of the most interesting, if painful, chapters in the entire modern history of the church. The rebellious and anti-christian spirit of the Eighth Henry descended with fourfold malice on his not unworthy daughter, and a host of recreant prelates and rapacious nobles had sprung up around the throne whose abject subserviency to royal authority was in proportion as they possessed or expected lucrative church livings and the spoils of dismantled schools, convents, and almshouses. Her penal laws made even the secret observance of the forms of worship an offence punishable by torture, death, and confiscation, while the minister of God was legally proclaimed a traitor, hunted down by professional informers, and, when caught, summarily executed with all the cruelties of the most barbarous ages. But while the fagot and the gallows had no terrors for the devoted priest, the loss of court favor, beggary, imprisonment, and the rack were as persistently disregarded by a large number of the nobility and commoners with a steadfastness and resignation which remind us of the days of the early martyrs.

It is to illustrate this period in English history, this contest between ill-gotten and despotic power on one side, and constancy, zeal, and piety on the other, that _Constance Sherwood_ has been written by one who has already done good service in the cause of our holy religion, to the great credit of her sex and country. As a work of art, the book does not exhibit that strong dramatic power or depth of coloring which characterized the efforts of Sir Walter Scott when treating of the same epoch in _Kenilworth_; but it more than compensates us for these deficiencies in the greater truthfulness of its portraiture of historical personages, and its exquisite delineation of those purely fictitious, who, with all their human weaknesses and spiritual strength, are fittingly held up to us as types of Christian excellence. So delicately, indeed, and so nicely defined are some of Lady Fullerton’s touches that we have sometimes found ourselves going back over the pages of her tale to be assured that we had caught aright the gentle allusion or implied meaning in all its significance. Constance Sherwood, who is supposed to relate the story of her life and times, appears to us a most attractive creation of the author, but the character of Ann, Countess of Arundel and Surry, we venture to say could only have been drawn by a highly gifted, sympathetic, and virtuous woman, so conformable is it in its leading features to well-authenticated facts and so delicately finished in its imaginary details.

Though an historical novel, necessarily devoted to grave and often painful matters, and plentifully strewn with moral and theological reflections, there is just enough of romance and feminine gossip in its pages to enlist the attention and excite the sympathies of the more sentimental and less seriously inclined readers. Human passions, hatred, jealousy, and remorse, friendship, love, and all the other concomitants of everyday life, are neither ignored nor obtruded, but are made subservient to the main design of the work, which is to teach us true Christian principles by exhibiting to our view the virtues and constancy of our co-religionists of other times. The style of the autobiography, as the design of the book required, is slightly tinged with the quaint phraseology of the period, which, however, does not lessen, but rather adds to, its attractions, and the illustrations which accompany this edition are excellently designed and executed. As a well-written book, uniting amusement with sound instruction and pure morality, we consider it every way worthy to be placed in the hands of Catholic readers. Particularly feminine in its tone and healthful in its tendency, it is in every way vastly superior to even the best works of fiction of which the secular press has become so prolific.

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THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF ST. FRANCIS XAVIER. By Henry James Coleridge, S.J. Vol. I. Burns, Oates & Co. 1872. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

Father Coleridge has a happy talent for biographical composition and historical sketching. The letters of St. Francis give to this biography a most decided advantage over all others with which we are acquainted, and the original portion of the _Life_ is equal in merit and interest to the best specimens of biography which the English language possesses. We would be greatly obliged to the author if he would collect and publish in a volume the various sketches of distinguished persons, such as Suarez, De Rancé, etc., which he has from time to time printed in _The Month_.

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THE WORKS OF AURELIUS AUGUSTINE, BISHOP OF HIPPO. A New Translation, edited by the Rev. Marcus Dods, M.A. Vol. III.--Writings in Connection with the Donatist Controversy; Vol. IV.--The Anti-Pelagian Works of St. Augustine. Vol. I. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. 1872. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

The first two volumes of this series containing _The City of God_, received a favorable notice in a former number of this magazine, in so far as an examination which was distinctly said to be only “cursory” warranted us in expressing an opinion. A very opposite criticism, accompanied with some strictures upon THE CATHOLIC WORLD for its favorable notice, from the pen of a learned and acute writer in the _Boston Pilot_, occasioned a considerable stir for the time, and we were requested by several persons to re-examine the work more carefully, and express a more matured and decisive judgment. We took the trouble to make the examination, and take this occasion to reiterate the opinion we at first expressed. A similar judgment was expressed by the _Dublin Review_, and, as there seems to be a general consent among critics on the subject, we think that all those who wish for a good translation of _The City of God_ may consider it certain that the one edited by Mr. Dods is not only an elegant but an accurate version of this splendid work. There are one or two mistakes in the translation, and we remember noticing one decidedly anti-Catholic note, but these slight faults may be pardoned in a work of such great excellence and value. We have had no time as yet to collate any portion of the translation of the two new volumes before us with the original text. The quality of the translation of the preceding volumes, however, is a fair guarantee for the fidelity and elegance of the present one. The scholarship and reputation of the editors are a sufficient security that they will spare no pains to do their work well, and the works of St. Augustine afford very little room for any serious mistakes in regard to his real meaning. It is in the interpretation of his meaning and deduction from his principles that there is room for error, and that the grossest heresies have been manufactured by Lutherans, Calvinists, and Jansenists from a perversion of his doctrines on original sin, grace, and free-will. These heresies are now very unpopular and not at all dangerous. In respect to the constitutive principles of the Catholic Church, as opposed to every species of Protestantism, there is no room for mistaking or perverting the doctrine of St. Augustine. We cannot think of any way of convincing educated persons in England and the United States of the identity of the modern with the ancient Catholic Church more efficaciously than that of giving them the chance to read extensively in the works of the great Doctor through the medium of a good translation. We are rejoiced, therefore, that English scholars should engage in this work and in those of a similar kind. The quantity of pure Catholic literature thus disseminated by Protestants and among Protestants in England, and to some extent in America also, is truly inspiring. The republication of choice specimens of old English literature by an antiquarian society in London, the translation of the Venerable Bede’s _History_, the abbreviated _Lives of the Saints_ from the Bollandists, and other books of the same character which are multiplying with an inconceivable rapidity, show what an avidity the English palate is acquiring for this most wholesome and pleasant medicine. The editors frequently seek to counteract the effect which their inward misgiving warns them these books must produce, by remarks of their own in notes and prefaces, for which their readers will care but little. Sometimes they avoid almost or altogether this futile procedure, and provide the Catholic reader with a valuable book in English which is a considerable accession to his library, and is free from anything which can offend his eyes--a service for which they have our sincere thanks. The volumes which are at present under notice are not, we regret to say, unexceptionable in this respect. The Preface to the anti-Pelagian works speaks in a very inexact and misleading manner upon the supposed differences of the Eastern and Western theology, upon the judgments of the Pope in the case of Pelagius, and the relation of the teaching of St. Augustine to Protestant doctrine. The very meagre sketch of the Donatist schism prefixed to Vol. III. is long enough, nevertheless, to permit the author to indulge in the only amusement which can make an English Protestant perfectly happy, and to get off the little squib he always carries in his pocket, “the despotic intolerance of the Papacy, and the horrors of the Inquisition.” A Catholic scholar cares nothing for the flippant and superficial cavils and sneers of theological amateurs who venture to criticise and judge the Fathers, the Popes, and the church of God. But he does not like to have a book in his library which has such blots on it. The editors may say that they consult the tastes and convenience of Protestants and not of Catholics. Very well. It is convenient, however for Catholics to have certain works of standard value in an English translation, and it is the interest of _publishers_ to provide them with the same. If the publishers could furnish an edition in which the text alone was given, without the disfiguring incumbrance of prefaces and advertisements, for the convenience of Catholic purchasers, their splendid series of patristic works would undoubtedly find a much more ready and extensive sale than it is now likely to have among the clergy and studious laity of the Catholic Church in Great Britain and the United States.

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THE BETROTHED. By Alessandro Manzoni. 1 vol. 12mo. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1872.

“The Catholic Publication Society” has done a good work in publishing a new edition of Alessandro Manzoni’s world-renowned _I Promessi Sposi_, which has been for many years before the public. It was first published in 1827. Since then the author has increased the size and interest of the volume by a thrilling description of the devastations of the plague in Milan in 1630.

While the author charms by the ease and simplicity of his style, the story is no less remarkable for originality and vigor.

Above all, the purity of the pages and the religious tone that pervades the narrative give an additional interest to the story of the rustic life of the hero and heroine.

This is the best known of the author’s works, and deservedly popular.

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FRENCH EGGS, IN AN ENGLISH BASKET. Translated from Souvestre by Miss Emily Bowles. London: Burns, Oates & Co. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

This book comprises some fifteen short, readable, and well-varied stories, illustrating life and manners among the humbler classes in France, originally written by a very successful _littérateur_ of that country, and accurately translated by the English editor. They are not moral tales in the usual acceptation of that much misused term, for the writer neither puts prosy sermons in the mouths of babes nor interlards the discourse of simple peasants with profound theological reflections, but they are natural and healthful in their tone, humorous as well as pathetic in design, and the reader will be dull indeed who is not able to draw his own moral from them. As a gift to young people, this volume would be very appropriate, and, if not exactly suited to the breakfast-table, will no doubt be found worthy a place in the boudoir or drawing-room.

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SERMONS BY FATHERS OF THE SOCIETY OF JESUS (in England). Vol. II. By the Rev. Thomas Harper. London: Burns, Oates & Co. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.) 1872.

These sermons are very peculiar and original, and are specially adapted for the perusal of the most intelligent and educated persons. The first series, composed of discourses for Christmas-tide, is on “Modern Principles,” as contrasted with truly Christian principles deduced from the great fact and doctrine of the Incarnation. The one on “The Last Winter of the World” has especially attracted our attention. The second series is a condensed and yet eloquent _résumé_ of a great part of Catholic philosophy and theology respecting the great first truth of the being of God. The volume is a remarkable and an admirable one, most suitable for the times, and we earnestly recommend it to those who desire to find religious reading of the highest intellectual quality, which is at the same time really profitable for the spiritual good.

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MAGGIE’S ROSARY, AND OTHER TALES. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 208. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1872.

We know of no book of this class recently issued from the press which contains more pleasing and useful reading than this. Equally instructive and entertaining, its perusal cannot prove otherwise than acceptable to those for whose especial benefit it is published. It is admirably adapted for a premium, and we hope that in the coming distributions it will occupy that prominent place which its intrinsic merits deserve. It is a handsome volume of over 200 pages, got up in that style which “The Publication Society” was the first to introduce--a style of mechanical excellence and simple elegance.

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VIA CRUCIS; or, The Way of the Cross. Translated from the German of the Rev. Dr. Veith, Preacher of St. Stephen’s Cathedral, Vienna. By the Very Rev. Theodore Noethen. Boston: Patrick Donahoe. 1872.

Did any one ever see a book on the Passion of Christ and not wish to buy it? The very title appeals to the heart. It is because we would go on for ever trying--but in vain--to sound the depths of that fathomless ocean of divine love and mercy.

We cannot have too many books on this great theme, that there may be some adapted to every cast of mind: now emotional, again embodying every tender legend and the pious imaginings of saintly hearts, or full of profound reflections on the great scheme of salvation through the sufferings of our Lord. Every person should have at least one such book in which to bathe his world-weary soul from time to time. In these days, when ease, luxury, and self-indulgence of every kind seem to be the great aim of life, the image of the Divine Sufferer cannot be too constantly presented to the mind, with its lesson of mortification and self-crucifixion.

Protestants often say the Blessed Virgin has been made by Catholics to supersede our Lord in the economy of grace. Let such read this book, and see on whom we rely for salvation, and how Christ and him crucified is preached in all the purity of the Gospel in the great Catholic centre of Vienna.

This book is the last of a series of works on the Passion which have already been noticed in our columns. The author being now blind, it was dictated to his amanuensis. Under such circumstances, his great familiarity with the Holy Scriptures is the more striking, showing that a knowledge of the sacred volume is not quite a Protestant monopoly.

A calm, dignified, thoughtful tone pervades the whole volume. The piety is not strained; it is elevated, but not _exaltée_; there is no false sentiment, nothing to offend the most fastidious taste. A few quotations will give an idea of the author’s style and suggestiveness:

“He who lives within and for himself, who only makes use of others for the sake of adding to his own pleasure, is ignorant of the first principle of charity or of true life, which cannot be obtained without sacrifice and without entering morally into communion with thee.

“It is by no means necessary that true humility must spring forth from the consciousness of guilt, like a flower whose root grows only in the mire; its true foundation is the acknowledgment of the relation in which spiritual beings find themselves to their Creator, Lord, and gracious Ruler.

“Whether or not my bodily life shall one day bloom again in the transfigured state of happiness, will depend upon my moral fidelity, which keeps my spirit, while on earth, in thy holy grace.

“Fall not into the common error of imagining that a negative state of existence is compatible with the duties of a Christian.”

“This narrow gate, which alone leads to true life, but which many do not wish to enter because they shun the work of self-denial and privation, what is it but the entrance into the communion of thy death and life--into thy grave!”

This work was intended particularly for Lent, but is suited to any season. As the church, on the most joyful of festivals, never fails to show forth the Lord’s death at the altar, so the thought of the Passion should never be absent from the soul. The heroine of _The House of Yorke_, alluding to a picture of St. Ignatius of Loyola, says: “He looks as though he were present when our Lord was crucified, and could not forget the sight.” “We were all present,” exclaimed Rowan. “How can we forget it?”

So, too, when three old men came to the Abbot Stephen to ask what would be useful to their souls, he was silent awhile, and then replied: “I will show you all I have: day and night, I behold nothing but our Lord Jesus Christ hanging from the wood.”

This ably translated work, with its excellent binding, its soft paper so grateful to the eye, and its clear print, is a credit to our enterprising New England publisher.

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THE POPE OF ROME AND THE POPES OF THE ORIENTAL ORTHODOX CHURCH. An Essay on Monarchy in the Church, with special reference to Russia. From original documents, Russian and Greek. By the Rev. Cæsarius Tondini, Barnabite. London: Longmans & Co. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

The conversion of Count Schouvaloff, a Russian nobleman, and his profession in the Barnabite order, was the occasion of awakening a great interest in the conversion of Russia among his religious brethren. The most conspicuous among them for his zeal and efforts in this direction is F. Tondini. In the present volume he has given a full and accurate account of the organization of the Russian Church, supported by numerous citations, and evincing the thorough knowledge of the author on the subject. The utterly secular character of the Russian state church and the degrading enslavement of its hierarchy under imperial authority are clearly shown. The efforts which have been made to throw dust in the eyes of the American public on this subject make this book quite seasonable, and we recommend it to the attention both of our Catholic readers and of the amateurs of Russo-Greek Christianity.

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THE PASSION PLAY. By the Rev. Gerald Molloy, D.D. Boston: Patrick Donahoe.

Dr. Molloy, of Maynooth, has described the Ammergau Passion Play with great skill, accuracy, and beauty of language, and has enriched his work with a number of very good photographs, which add much to its interest. The republication has been executed in very pretty style, and the volume is in every sense attractive and interesting, worthy of a place on every table, and most appropriate as a premium or gift book. We trust it may have the wide circulation it deserves.

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THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Boston: J. R. Osgood & Co.

A most reverently, carefully, and skilfully executed reduction of the evangelical narrative within a small poetical picture. The greater portion is an almost literal translation of the sacred text, and there are also a few passages of exquisite original poetry. Mr. Longfellow has in no way tampered with or marred the beauty of the divine original, and his copy is itself a masterpiece. All Catholics may read this poem without fear of finding anything which is not in perfect consonance with their faith. It is a beautiful offering to Christ from a place where he has received many insults, and we trust that he may give the best of all rewards to the one who has made it.

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A MANUAL OF ENGLISH LITERATURE: A Text-book for Schools and Colleges. By John S. Hart, LL.D., Professor of Rhetoric and of the English Language and Literature in the College of New Jersey.

The arrangement of this work is simple and adapted to practical use, and one may see at a glance the whole history of the English tongue. The different authors are well grouped in connection with conspicuous public events, which show at once the time in which they flourished, and the influences, political or educational, with which they were surrounded. Living writers have also received their share of attention, and are appropriately classified according to the subjects they have treated. There are a few authors omitted (among others Gerald Griffin, the most _characteristic_ of Irish novelists) who deserve mention, and who will no doubt receive attention in another edition. We think that Dr. Hart deserves the thanks of the community for his valuable labors. Among many studies, surely there is none more important than that of our own language. There are many of our public men who would do well to learn better the genius of their mother tongue. It is certainly desirable to know and speak foreign languages, but far more necessary is it to understand the wealth and beauty of our own--so little known and so poorly appreciated by many of our speakers or writers. We are glad to learn also that Dr. Hart has in preparation a book upon American literature.

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HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH IN CALIFORNIA. By W. Gleeson, M.A., Professor in St. Mary’s College, San Francisco, Cal. In two volumes. Illustrated. San Francisco: A. L. Bancroft & Co. 1872. pp. 446, 351.

A work of this size on the church in California excites astonishment, so recent does the growth of that State seem; but the history of the church in California dates far back, and is full of interest and edification.

The discovery of the country, the strange journey of Cabeza de Vaca, the adventurous exploration of the Italian Franciscan, Mark, of Nice, and of those who followed him, and an account of the Indians, form the opening chapters of Mr. Gleeson’s work. He then devotes some space to the question whether St. Thomas ever visited America, a point discussed some years since by the Count Joannes when simple George Jones. Another chapter is devoted to the examination of early Irish missions on the northwest coast of America, the object of the author being to show the possible source of certain Christian traditions found among the California Indians. Garcia in his _Origen de los Indios_, Lafitau in his _Mœurs et Coutumes_, Boudinot in his _Star in the West_, and many other writers, have traced these analogies, but it seems to us were often misled by taking as primitive Indian traditions ideas acquired after missions were established.

The remainder of the first volume is devoted to the great Jesuit mission in Lower California, founded by the German Father Kühn or Kino and the Italian Father Salvatierra, a mission which excited so much interest that a special fund was gradually formed by devoted Catholics for its support, and which, under the title of the Pious Fund of California, long maintained religion there, and will still do its part if a sense of justice prevails with the Mexican Government. Of this mission, which lasted to the suppression of the order, Mr. Gleeson gives a valuable account. Three works exist on it, that of Fr. Venegas in Spanish, of Fr. Begert in German, and of Fr. Clavigero in Italian, and there are also some communications on the _Lettres Edipantes_ and other collections.

The second volume is devoted to Upper California, or what is now the State of California. After the fall of the Society of Jesus, the Spanish government sent the Dominicans and Franciscans to continue its labors in California. The Dominicans took Lower California, but our author does not dwell on their labors, apparently not having met the _Tres Cartas_ giving an account of them.

The labors of the Franciscans, who, under Father Juniper Serra, peopled Upper California with missions that were the wonder of that age of unbelief, for they began and rose during the latter part of the last century, is given in a most interesting manner. No missions ever rose with greater celerity, and, though missionaries laid down their lives in the struggle, the land was christianized and the wild savages became thriving Christian communities, self-supporting and gradually advancing in civilization.

If their rise is one to cheer the heart of the believer, there is nothing in history so sad as the utter destruction of missions and people in a few short years. The happy Indians who by thousands filled the missions in peace and plenty are represented by a handful of debased and fast vanishing outcasts. The civilization of the nineteenth century may be a very fine thing, but it is only necessary to read the history of the California mission to accept the Syllabus heartily.

If we find any fault with this portion of Mr. Gleeson’s work, it is that he has not given place enough to the linguistic labors of the missionaries amid the perfect Babel of languages in California. Several of their grammars and dictionaries have been printed by one of the first Catholic writers who treated in English of this mission, and it cannot be that the great California libraries do not contain the works of Father Sitjar, Cuesta, and others, or of the distinguished living missionary of California, Father Mengarini, whose philosophical study of the Selish language makes him the highest authority with American and European scholars.

The sad state of the church both as to its white and red children during the Mexican rule, and the erection of the See of California, are next treated of by our author.

The annexation to the United States and the discovery of gold brought in an entirely new element. The Mexicans were but few; the incoming tide of emigration was both Protestant and Catholic, the new government Protestant. Of this, the actual church of California, the reverend author gives an account full of edifying details, although he has allowed himself too little space to give such sketches of some of the various institutions as we should desire.

The Appendix is a partial review of the accounts of the American mounds and an attempt to show a similarity between the mound-builders and the _Tuatha dè Danaans_ in Ireland; but such theories have been too often raised and fallen to accept this. Our Indian is the type of primitive man; as he was found by our first explorers, he used stone arrow and spear heads and knives; made his shell-beads; boiled and cooked by heated stones, just as the earlier races on the Eastern continent did, if we are to believe the lessons from the tombs of that part of the world. Side by side, you cannot distinguish the stone arrowheads and implements of America, Ireland, France, Denmark, and Germany, and we can only conclude that all men were of one family, and ascended the scale of civilization by similar steps.

This work is enriched with many illustrations, a portrait of Father Salvatierra, many views of the missions as Duflot de Mofras found them, the quasi-portrait of the venerable Father Juniper Serra in Palou’s life of that great missionary, and diagrams of some Western mounds.

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HISTORY OF THE KINGDOM OF GOD UNDER THE OLD TESTAMENT. Translated from the German of E. W. Hengstenberg. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. (For sale in New York by Scribner & Co., 664 Broadway.) Vol. I.

The highest encomium we can pass upon the works of Hengstenberg is to mention the fact that they are several times referred to in terms of great praise in the _Theology_ of the illustrious Jesuit, F. Perrone. He is certainly equal to any Protestant theologian of this century in learning and critical ability. In regard to soundness of doctrine and the actual value of the results of study contained in his works, we consider him to be far superior to any of those Protestant authors with whose writings we are acquainted. Indeed, we may say that his works are almost indispensable to the student of those departments of theology concerning which they treat. The great and praiseworthy end of Hengstenberg was to destroy German neology with its own weapons, and he has effectually accomplished the task.

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LECTURES ON THE CHURCH. Delivered in St. Francis Xavier’s Church, New York. By Rev. D. A. Merrick, S.J. New York: P. O’Shea.

Fr. Merrick’s _Lectures_ are logical, solid, and, at the same time, easy to be understood. He refutes the Protestant doctrine on the Rule of Faith, and establishes the Catholic rule, ending with the culminating point of the supremacy of the Pope in government and doctrine. The proofs of the latter from English history are remarkably appropriate and well put. The style of the reverend author is pure and pleasing, and the book, which is of very moderate size, is tastefully printed. It is therefore admirably suited for general use, and we bespeak for it a wide circulation.

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THE RELATION AND DUTY OF THE LAWYER TO THE STATE: A Lecture delivered before the Law School of the University of the City of New York, February 9, 1872, by Henry D. Sedgwick.

This is an eloquent and philosophical contribution to the question of questions in this city: Are we advancing or retrograding in legal and judicial probity and learning? The author speaks like an honest lawyer jealous for the high name of his profession; but proclaiming the follies of men or corporations in the lecture-room never has nor ever will put an end to them. The lawyers on and off the bench are no more corrupt than other classes of the community, but they are more conspicuous, and more reprehensible in consequence. Corruption, like all _catching_ diseases, when it finds shelter among legislators, will soon find its way to the lawyer’s library and to the bench of the judge.

We cordially endorse the admonition and compliment contained in the following:

“Set before you, rather, if you need an example, those who, with an earnestness and a determination never surpassed, have grappled with and overthrown the band of thieves who had seized the public coffers. No future enemy of the commonwealth can be more wily, nor can be entrenched in his lair with greater cunning, than the men who lately possessed our municipal government. Whoever that future enemy shall be, however warily he spring, however secretly he strike or stab, O’Conor can exclaim, ‘Contempsi gladios Catilinæ, non pertimescam tuos.’”

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PHYSIOLOGY OF THE SOUL, etc. By Martyn Paine, A.M., M.D., LL.D., etc. New York: Harper & Brothers.

Dr. Paine is a very venerable gentleman who is a remarkable instance of intellectual activity and industry continued into a very advanced age. We sincerely admire the boldness with which he denounces materialism and professes his belief in the Bible. We do not agree with him in his opinion that the Holy Scripture requires us to reject the common theories of modern geologists, and therefore regard his attempt at a scientific refutation of those theories as something which we may leave to the consideration of experts in geological science. That part of his work which has most value in our eyes is the one which treats of the distinct existence and spiritual nature of the soul, a subject which is handled in an able and ingenious manner.

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SPECTRUM ANALYSIS. Three Lectures by Profs. Roscoe, Huggins, and Lockyer. New Haven, Conn.: Charles C. Chatfield & Co. 1872.

These lectures are very interesting, and give an excellent account of what is perhaps the greatest real discovery of modern science; also of its application to the determination of the chemical and physical constitution of the sun and other celestial bodies. Their authors are men eminent in the scientific world, who have specially distinguished themselves by their researches in this particular department of investigation.

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REPORTS ON OBSERVATIONS OF THE TOTAL SOLAR ECLIPSE OF DECEMBER 22, 1870. Conducted under the Direction of Rear-Admiral B. F. Sands, U.S.N., Superintendent of the U. S. Naval Observatory, Washington, D. C. Washington: Government Printing Office. 1871.

These reports, like those on the eclipse of the preceding year in the United States, noticed in THE CATHOLIC WORLD of April, 1870, form a valuable contribution to the literature of solar science. They are by Profs. Newcomb, Hall, Harkness, and Eastman, the first of whom was stationed at Gibraltar, the rest at Syracuse. The observations were in all cases somewhat interfered with by clouds, which, however, broke away sufficiently at the moment of totality to allow the skilful and practised observers to obtain many interesting results. It is on such occasions that the qualities required for a good practical astronomer are put to the most severe test; a moment of nervousness may lose that for which he has spent months in preparing. It hardly needs to be said that, in this instance, the test was well sustained. Prof. Harkness considers his conclusions as to the composition of the corona, spoken of in our previous notice, to be borne out by his observations on this occasion. The sun really seems to be the wearer of an iron crown. The descriptions of the general appearance and effects of the eclipse are of course the most interesting to unscientific readers.

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HALF-HOUR RECREATIONS IN POPULAR SCIENCE. No. 1. Strange Discoveries Respecting the Aurora, and Recent Solar Researches. By Richard A. Proctor, B.A., F.R.A.S., author of _The Sun_, _Other Worlds than Ours_, etc. Boston: Lee & Shepard. New York: Lee, Shepard & Dillingham.

This, as implied in the title, is the first of a series of papers on subjects of modern science by various well-known writers in that department. It is expected to publish one such “recreation” every month, at the price of twenty-five cents, which would seem to be enough, or $2 50 a year. Enough, at least, it will be for the speculations of such men as Mill, Spencer, Huxley, and Darwin, who are promised among the “eminent European scientists” in the prospectus. The present number, however, is a very good one, having in it a great deal of information, some valuable suggestions, and no humbug; and the next will be, perhaps, even better, as it will contain an explanation of the wonderful modern discovery known as “Spectrum Analysis.”

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HALF-HOURS WITH MODERN SCIENTISTS--Huxley, Barker, Stirling, Cope, Tyndall. New Haven, Conn.: Charles C. Chatfield & Co. 1871.

We have in this a publication somewhat similar to the _Half-Hour Recreations_ noticed above; there are, however, five numbers instead of one bound up together. It might be said of them, as of other such, that their facts and strictly physical theories are interesting, and their philosophical ones rather otherwise. Professors Barker and Tyndall furnish the best papers of the five, particularly the latter, who is a thoroughly scientific man, having, besides his talent, the great advantage of prudence.

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LEGENDS OF THE PATRIARCHS AND PROPHETS. By the Rev. S. Baring-Gould, M.A. New York: Holt & Williams.

This collation of Rabbinical and Mohammedan legends has been made with great judgment and taste. The legends are very curious and interesting, some of them very poetic and beautiful. The book is one of very great value to the scholar, and most entertaining and amusing for the general reader.

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CHRISTIAN FREE SCHOOLS. The Subject Discussed by the Rt. Rev. Bernard J. McQuaid, D.D., Bishop of Rochester. At Rochester, N. Y. (New York: For sale by the Catholic Publication Society.)

We can only call attention to this important pamphlet at present, hoping to take up the subject in earnest at a future time. The pamphlet is replete with important testimonies of statesmen and Protestant ministers, which make it very serviceable to those who wish to write or speak on the same subject.

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WALKS IN ROME. By Augustus J. C. Hare. New York: George Routledge & Sons, 416 Broome Street. 1871.

This, in a qualified sense, is a readable and valuable guide to the Eternal City. It contains a great deal of information about the historic sites of old Rome, a good deal about the galleries in which the intelligent Protestant visitor is supposed to be interested, and something also about the restaurants, livery stables, etc., to which it would be rash to assume that he is indifferent. It likewise contains a good deal about the churches and holy places, giving some interesting facts, together with various remarks and stories characterized by the usual dense ignorance and stupidity as to the dogmas and practices of the Catholic Church which may be said to be the special glory of the “reformed” Anglo-Saxon. The principal value of such commonplace productions is that they suggest the necessity of having a good manual on a somewhat similar plan for the use of people who really want to see and understand Rome when they visit it.

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TRAVELS IN ARABIA. Compiled and arranged by Bayard Taylor. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1872.

This is another volume of the _Illustrated Library of Travel and Exploration_ series, and is nearly all taken up with Palgrave’s narrative of his travels in Arabia. It is well illustrated.

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LITTLE JAKEY. By Mrs. S. H. De Kroyft. New York: Hurd & Houghton.

A simple story and a sad one of the short yet not uneventful life of a little German, an inmate of the New York Institution for the Blind. It is written in a pleasing and unaffected style.

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AUNT FANNY’S PRESENT; or, The Book of Fairy Tales.

WOODLAND COTTAGE, and Other Tales. Philadelphia: Peter F. Cunningham.

We recommend these neat little volumes with pleasure to those about to select books for their children.

P. F. CUNNINGHAM announces as in press: _Marian Howard; or, Trials and Triumphs_. _The Divine Life of the Blessed Virgin Mary_: Being an Abridgment of the _Mystical City of God_. _Life of St. Augustin, Doctor of the Universal Church._

THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XV., No. 88.--JULY, 1872.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by Rev. I. T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.

THE PROGRESSIONISTS.

FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.