Part II.

She Sang.

I.

I heard his voice, and I was dumb Because to his my spirit cleaved: He called to me from far. I come. Because I loved him, I believed.

He said, “Though love be secret yet, Eternity its truth shall prove.” It seemed not gift, but ancient debt Discharged, to answer love with love.

II.

Thy herald near me drew and knelt: I knew from whom the missive came Ere yet I saw, ere yet I felt Thy sigil‐mark, or kissed thy name.

I read—’twas like a thousand birds, Music confused of Paradise: At last the words became _thy_ words; Thy voice was in them, and thine eyes

Above them shone in love and power, And flashed the meaning on the whole: We were not severed, friend, that hour: One day shall blend us, soul with soul.

III.

That face is valorous and grave: To it, despite thine unripe spring, Thy spirit’s might the painter gave: It is the countenance of a king.

Look down, strong countenance, strong yet fair, Through all this weak, unstable soul! Like stars sea‐mirrored, kindle there _His_ virtues—truth and self‐control!

Not beauty, nor that youthful grace Uncareful girlhood’s natural dower, Suffice. A child of royal race, A hero’s wife should walk in power.

IV.

Like some great altar rises vast That rock whereon our City stands, With gray woods girt; with shade far cast At morn dividing distant lands.

Nor war she fears, nor summer drouth, By runnels pierced whose sparkling tide Is drawn from mountains of the South O’er myriad arches far descried.

Around her cliff‐like, stony zone, From tower to tower, from gate to gate, At eve, when sunset changes stone To gold, her princes walk in state;

And priests entoning anthems sweet, The people’s strength; and maiden choirs That, passing, make them reverence meet; And orphaned babes, and gray‐haired sires.

High up, with many a cloistered lawn, And chapelled gallery widely spread, Extends, flower‐dressed at eve and dawn, The happy “City of the Dead.”

There musing sit I, day by day; I sing my psalm; I pray for thee: “If men could love, not hate,” I say, “How like to heaven this earth would be!”

V.

Love bound a veil above my brow; He wrapt it round me, o’er and o’er; He said, “My little nun art thou, My solitary evermore.

“Where hid’st thou when the falcons fly; The flung jereed in music shrills? When sweep the Arab horsemen by In valleys of the terraced hills?

“Where are thy childhood’s blithesome ways? The tales, the dances, and the sports? The bards that sang thy beauty’s praise Amid the hundred‐columned courts?”

Love took from me all gifts save one: The veil that shrouds me is his gift: Love! say to him I love, “Alone That veil of severance thou canst lift.”

VI.

On crimson silk, ’mid leaf and flower I traced thy name in golden thread; A harper harped beneath my bower: I rose, and brought him wine and bread.

He sang: methought he sang of thee! “_My_ prince!” I cried—“how knew’st him thou? His victories in the days to be? His heaven‐like eyes, and king‐like brow?”

“O maid! I have not seen thy prince: Old wars I sang; old victories won In my far‐distant land long since; I sang the birth of moon and sun.”

VII.

He culled me grapes—the vintager; In turn, for song the old man prayed: I glanced around; but none was near: With veil drawn tighter, I obeyed.

“Were I a vine, and he were heaven,” I sang, “I’d spread a vernal leaf To meet the beams of morn and even, And think the April day too brief.

“Were he I love a cloud, not heaven, I’d spread my leaf and drink the rain; Warm summer shower, and dews of even Alike I’d take, and think them gain.”

“I would not shrink from wintry rime Or echoes of the thunder‐shock, But watch the advancing vintage‐time, And meet it, reddening on my rock.”

VIII.

I often say, now thou art gone, “How hard I seemed when he was here!” I feared to seem too quickly won: Love also came at first with fear.

I sang me dear old songs which proved That many a maid had loved ere I: No secret knew I till I loved: I loved, yet loved reluctantly.

My heart with zeal more generous glowed When he I loved was Danger’s mate. Great Love in this his greatness showed— He lifted thee to things more great.

IX.

My childhood was a cloistered thing: No wish for human love was mine: I heard the hooded vestals sing The praises of their Love Divine.

The village maids with rival glee, Flower‐filleting their unclipt hair, Sang thus, “The meadow flowers are we”: I thought the convent flowers more fair.

Yet false I am not. Still I climb Through love to realms this earth above: And those whom most I loved that time Only for love’s sake fled from love.

X.

Dear tasks are mine that make the weeks Too swift in passing, not too slow: I nurse the rose on faded cheeks, Bring solace to the homes of woe.

I hear the Vesper anthems swell; I track the steps of Fast and Feast I read old legends treasured well Of Machabean chief or priest.

I hear, on heights of song and psalm, The storm of God careering by: Beside His Deep, for ever calm, I kneel in caves of Prophecy.

O Eastern Book! It cannot change! Of books beside, the type, the mould— It stands like yon Carmelian range By _our_ Elias trod of old!

The Farm Of Muiceron. By Marie Rheil. Concluded.

From The Revue Du Monde Catholique.

XXII.

During these terrible events, I dare say the combatants were not the most to be pitied. They, at least, were in action, in the midst of powder and noise; and if they fell, wounded or dead, they scarcely had time to know it. But think of the poor friends and relatives who remained without news, and almost without strength to seek any information! They were to be pitied.

Perhaps you may live in a city, which does not prevent you from sometimes going to the country; and so you can understand how certain villages are isolated from all daily communication. Our hamlet of Ordonniers, although near the large city of Issoudun, was, in this respect, worse off than many other places; for when M. le Marquis was absent from the château, there was no daily paper, none of the villagers being liberal enough to indulge in that luxury. The Perdreaux, in their time, subscribed for a paper, which came every other day, and gave the market prices and a jumble of news of people and things here and there about a month old. Even this resource no longer existed. M. le Curé was the only one who cared for what was going on; but as his means were very limited, he contented himself with a little paper which only came every Sunday.

Judge, then, of the terrible anguish at Muiceron; above all, when they saw all the able‐bodied men of the commune leave; for you remember that then, for the first time, the provinces showed their teeth at the news of the horrors in Paris, and rose _en masse_ to go and punish the rebellious children of a city that, in her selfishness, disturbed the whole of France without any just right.

The women displayed great bravery. They fitted out their sons, husbands, brothers, and betrothed, and let them leave for the dreadful struggle without wincing. But the next day—but the following days! What anxiety and what tears!

It was touching to see them each morning run before the country stage or speak to the letter‐carrier, in hopes of hearing some words to reassure them. Generally, the stage drove rapidly on at a gallop; for stage‐drivers are not patient, and the poor creatures’ only information was an oath or rough word. As for the letter‐carrier, he knew nothing positive, and was content to give the flying reports, which were not enough to quiet those troubled souls.

Jeanne and her mother kept at home. They prayed to God and wept, poor things! It was the best way to learn patience; but their hearts sank within them. It was a hard blow to have been so near happiness, and then suddenly to see it fly, perhaps for ever.

Old Ragaud was miserable that he could not go off with the other men of the neighborhood. He was too old, and this only increased his vexation, as he was but three or four years older than Michou, and he was in the battle! The sadness and ill‐humor of the poor old fellow rendered Muiceron still gloomier, and the women neither dared stir nor sigh before him.

The little they knew was very terrible; and when the private letters began to arrive, all the families were plunged in despair and sorrow. Our commune alone lost three men; among them Cotentin, the miller, an honest peasant, and father of four children. He was shot dead, almost at the moment of his arrival; and the next day came the news of the death of Sylvain Astiaud, son of the head‐forester, one of our bravest boys. Each one trembled for his own at the announcement of these misfortunes, and at last silence was considered a sure sign that mourning should be prepared.

Jeanne felt all her courage fail. She could no longer either eat or sleep, and even feared to question the passers‐by. Certainly the good God, who wished to sanctify the poor child, and make her a perfect woman, did not spare her any suffering. He acted with her like a father who is tender and severe at the same time; who corrects the faults of his child, knowing well that they are more hurtful than death, and then recompenses her when petting can no longer spoil her.

Therefore this little Jeannette had to go to the end of her trial before relief came and her tears were dried. And this happened through that giddy, wild Pierre Luguet, who had left, like the others, singing and blustering, assuring the people around that he did not believe a word of the current rumors, and that, in one hour after his arrival in Paris, he would find out the whole truth, and send them all the news. But, behold! as soon as he was in the midst of smoking and bleeding Paris, he lost his senses, imagined himself killed before he had fired a shot, and wrote in pencil, on a scrap of blood‐stained paper, a letter to his parents, all sighs and tears. He bade them farewell, and begged them to pray for his soul, as he would be dead before night; for no one could live in such a terrible conflict. If he had only spoken for himself, it might have passed; but he added that M. le Marquis, Jean‐Louis, and Michou were certainly dead. He had sought for them everywhere, asked everybody, and no one could give him good news. To crown his stupidity, he added that, among the great heaps of corpses that lay yet unburied, he had recognized Jean‐ Louis’ blouse of gray linen bound with black; and therefore they must weep for the death of that good, brave boy.

Poor Mme. Luguet ran straight to Muiceron to show that foolish letter. If there had been the least degree of cool good sense among them, it would easily have been seen they were the words of a brain addled from fear; but in the mortal anxiety of the poor Ragauds, they took it all for good coin. Jeanne fell on her knees, sobbing aloud, and, losing the little courage she still possessed, wrung her hands in despair. Pierrette threw herself beside her daughter, trying to comfort her; and Ragaud wept bitterly, although he had said a thousand times a man in tears is not worthy to wear breeches. In the evening, the true religion which filled those poor hearts came to support them and give them some strength. They lighted tapers before the crucifix and around the Blessed Virgin, and all night this afflicted family prayed ardently for the repose of the souls of the supposed dead—who were never better.

The next day you would have been shocked to have seen the ravages grief had made on their honest faces. Jeannette, wearied out with weeping and fatigue, slept in the arms of her mother, paler than a camomile‐flower. Pierrette restrained her tears, from fear of awakening the child; but her hollow eyes and cheeks were pitiful to see; and the sun shone brightly in the room, without any one taking the trouble to close the shutters.

It was in this state that M. le Curé found the Ragaud family. His entrance at Muiceron renewed the lamentations; but Jeannette was calm, which greatly pleased the good pastor, as he saw that his lessons, joined to those of divine Providence, had borne their fruit.

He took the little thing aside, and, much affected by her deathlike appearance, spoke gently to her, and asked her to walk with him on the bank of La Range.

“My daughter,” said he, “it is not right to sink into such utter despair about news which is yet uncertain. Show a little more courage, for a while at least, until we hear something positive.”

“He is dead,” said Jeannette. “May the will of God be done! Alas! I should have been too happy, if I had seen him again.”

“Why are you so certain? As for me, I confess Pierre’s letter would not make me lose all hope.”

“They were three together,” said she. “Pierre has written; could they not have written also?”

This argument was not bad. The _curé_ could not reply; for, without acknowledging it, he did think the silence very strange. He made the poor child sit down by the side of the swift‐running stream that glittered in the bright sunshine, and spoke to her for a long time in such soothing, touching words, Jeanne listened with profound respect and piety. He spoke of the happiness of this world, which is but for a short time; of the necessity of living and regaining her strength, that she might console her parents; of the beautiful day of eternity; of the heavenly home, where we will meet again the loved ones gone before us, never again to be separated.

At another time, Jeannette would not have understood these words, and perhaps might have even found them out of place; but now they fell upon her heart like soft caresses.

“Oh!” said she, “it is only now I understand how dearly I loved him. Father, tell me, can he see us from above?”

“You will have it, then, that he is absolutely dead,” said the _curé_, smiling.

Jeannette, in spite of her grief, smiled in her tears.

“That is true,” she said; “perhaps he is not dead.”

Hope had re‐entered her soul with the consolations of the holy priest. They walked down the road to the farm, and Jeannette thanked him with much tenderness, and remarked, as it was near sunset, he must return home.

“One moment,” said the good _curé_; “you are a little egotist. I can’t go without saying a word to father and mother.”

“Oh! yes,” said she, “of course you must; but, dear father, I will remain here, and say my rosary in the shade under the trees; the air will completely restore me.”

“Very well, dear child,” replied the _curé_; “and may the Blessed Virgin console you, my daughter!”

Jeanne retired under the heavy foliage, and really took her little rosary out of her pocket. But this wood recalled many sweet reminiscences. It was there Jean‐Louis had found her and saved her life on that stormy night the year before. She looked for the spot, near the woodman’s cabin, where he had taken her in his arms with a father’s care; and as the remembrance of all this past happiness, which she had then slighted, came back to her heart, she leant against a tree, and hid her face in her hands.

Whether they were tears of repentance, of regret, of love, or of prayer that fell from her eyes God only knows; and surely, in his infinite goodness, he waited for this moment of supreme anguish, which could not have endured much longer, to say to that heart‐broken child, “You have suffered enough; now be happy!”

For in that same hour Jean‐Louis, wild with joy, leaped from the imperial of the country stage on the highroad, and ran, without stopping to take breath, toward his beloved Muiceron.

He also remembered the stormy night, and, from a sentiment you can well understand, wished to see again the little hut, if only to throw a passing glance.

He reached the spot, and was soon near the tree where Jeannette leant motionless. He recognized her. The beating of his heart almost suffocated him; for, with a lover’s instinct, he immediately knew, if she had come to weep in that spot, it could only be on his account.

He advanced until he stood close behind her.

“Jeanne!” said he, so softly he scarcely heard his own voice.

Jeannette turned, and gave one scream. Her eyes wandered a moment, as if she had seen a phantom, and she fell half‐dead into his arms.

“Jeanne! dear, dear Jeanne! don’t you know me?” said he, pressing her to his breast. “I have caused you much sorrow, but it is all over—oh! it is all over; tell me, is it not?”

The poor child could not speak; her emotion and joy were too great. But such happiness don’t kill; and gradually she revived, although she still trembled like a leaf.

“O Jeannet!” she said at last, “they wrote word you were dead.”

“And was that the reason you were weeping here all alone in this wood, my poor, dear darling?” he tenderly asked.

“Yes,” said she, looking down; “I could not be consoled. Why did you not send us some news?”

“I wished to surprise you,” said he, with simplicity; “and now I see I did wrong.”

“One day more, and I would have been dead also,” said she, leaning on his arm. “Cruel boy, go!”

She looked so lovely, still pale with grief, and yet as lively and coquettish as before, Jeannet was obliged to clasp her once again in his arms, and even kissed her, for which I hope you will pardon him, as I do.

“How good God is,” said he, “to permit us to meet again in this very place! This is the second time, dear Jeannette, that I have saved you when in great trouble; and I hope it is a sure sign that poor Jean‐Louis will be able to comfort and assist you all the rest of his life.”

“You will never leave us again; you will promise that?” she replied. “When you are away, all sorts of misfortunes happen. Oh! how much we have suffered.”

And as these words suddenly recalled the sad events of the last six months, her flirtation, her thoughtless conduct, and the lamentable scenes that followed, she blushed, sighed, and leant her face, down which the tears were streaming, against Jean‐Louis’ shoulder.

“My own Jeannette,” said he, “you must no longer think of all that sorrow, now that God has made us so happy again. There is no misfortune which does not carry with it a profitable lesson when we recognize in it the hand of the Lord; and, for my part, although I have been nearly dead with grief, I say that my present happiness has not been too dearly bought, and I would consent to pass again through the same trials, on condition of possessing a second day like this.”

“Oh! no,” said Jeanne, “I have had enough. I have not your courage, and I will pray to God that I may be spared from such great trials. Come,” added she, taking Jeannet’s arm, “we must go and surprise our parents. And the dear _curé_ is just now with them! He told me so—the good, holy man told me you were not dead.”

“But who set such a report afloat?” asked Jeannet. “For really I was not even in danger.”

“Oh! what a story,” cried Jeanne. “You were in the fight; it could not be otherwise.”

“Certainly,” said Jeannet, “I fought, and did my best; but I never for an instant imagined the good God would let me die without seeing you again.”

“It is very well to have such happy thoughts,” said Jeanne joyfully; “if I could have had them, I would not have been nearly dead with anxiety, and hopeless from such great fear. Now I regret my tears, and would like to take them back.”

“You would not be the richer for it,” said he, laughing; “but, Jeannette, don’t laugh at me. It was neither presumption nor carelessness made me think so. The good God put the faith in my heart; and then, didn’t I have round my neck the silver medal you gave me the day of your first communion? Wasn’t the image of the Blessed Virgin powerful enough to turn aside the balls?”

“What!” said Jeannette with emotion, “have you still my medal? Is it the very same one? Have you always worn it, in spite ... in spite of all.... Jeannet, show it to me; let me kiss it!”

“No,” said Jean‐Louis, blushing, “not now. I will show it to you later.”

“Right away; I won’t wait,” said she in the peremptory manner which so well became her. “I like to be obeyed.”

“But,” said Jeannet, much embarrassed, “I can’t, because....”

“Because what?” she replied. “Don’t think you are going to be master here! No, no, not more now than before, when, you remember, my mother said, ‘Jeannette is the boy....’ ”

“Really,” answered Jean‐Louis, “you have a good memory. Well, then, since Jeannette is the boy, and I am the girl, I must submit to her wishes.”

And as, in spite of all this talk, he made no attempt to show her the medal, another idea entered her head.

“You are wounded,” said she, “and you don’t wish me to see it.”

“That is not the reason,” he replied, unbuttoning his vest. “I don’t wish you to believe any such thing.”

On opening his shirt, he showed the medal on his breast, and then the curious Jeannette understood his resistance; for, near the blessed image of our dear Mother, she recognized the long tress of blonde hair which had been cut off during her illness.

“It has never left me,” said he; “but I dared not let you see it. Do you forgive me? Your poor hair! I said to myself, While it rests upon my heart, it is as though my little sister were watching over me. And in the fight, I thought that, as the medal of the Blessed Virgin and your precious souvenir were also exposed to the fire, I could not be killed; and you see I was not mistaken.”

“Oh!” cried Jeannette, with tears in her eyes, “my dear Jeannet, I do not deserve such love.”

They reached Muiceron, arm‐in‐arm. Oh! how refreshing was the shaded court‐yard and the fragrant hedges! And then, the dear house looked so gay in its new white coat, its green shutters, the fresh young vines that hung from the trellis, and its slate roof newly repaired, all shining in the soft rays of the sinking sun. The songs of the bullfinch and robin were more joyous than the trumpets and horns on a patronal feast; and it seemed as though the good God in heaven were well pleased, so beautiful was the blue sky, flecked with golden‐edged clouds! Was it really the house we saw six months ago? Jeannet, who had long loved it, scarcely recognized it; he was mute with admiration, and, although he had left it in despair, he accused himself of having neglected to look at it until now; for surely his memory did not recall anything as joyous and beautiful as he now beheld in his beloved Muiceron.

Shall we ask the reason? There is a great artist who can paint, with colors of unparalleled brilliancy, whatever he chooses to place before our eyes. He is called happiness; and God wishes him to walk beside us, both in this world and the other.

The two dear children began to run as soon as they entered the court‐yard of Muiceron. Jeannette was the first to spring across the threshold, and fell speechless into her mother’s arms. Jean‐Louis quickly followed her, and stood in the door‐way, holding out his hands to his parents. Then there were cries, and tears, and confusion of kisses, and questions without end and without reason. Their hearts overflowed. The little one, as they always called the tall, handsome boy, was covered with caresses, stifled with embraces quite overpowering; for country‐people drink in joy by the bucketful and don’t put on gloves when they wish to show their love. But you can imagine Jean‐Louis did not complain. M. le Curé alone kept aside, with clasped hands, from time to time putting his handkerchief to his eyes, and thanking God, while he waited his turn.

Gradually their happiness toned down a little; but the excitement was so great, each one showed his joy in some particular manner. Old Ragaud whirled around the room, took off his cap to smooth his hair, and replaced it, all the while laughing as though he did not know precisely what he was about; and Pierrette forgot to ask the children what they wished to eat, which was a sure sign her head was completely turned. As for Jeannette, I must tell you that, like all innocent, warm‐hearted young girls, she dared act, in presence of her parents and M. le Curé, as she would not have done alone with her brother; she threw her arms around his neck every half‐ second, and clung to him so closely he could not stir an inch. Jeannet did not show greater timidity; seeing her act with such _naïveté_, he neither frowned nor looked sour, but accepted willingly what was so sweetly offered him.

Fortunately, Marion, whom no one thought of, and who bellowed with joy in chorus with the others, came to her senses sooner than any of them, and thought of the supper. Jeannet smelt the butter frying on the stove, and acknowledged he was very hungry. This covered Pierrette with confusion. She felt very guilty that she had so neglected her duties, and asked a thousand pardons; but Jeannet laughed, as he kissed her, and told her not to be excited, as he could easily wait until the next day, being only really hungry to see and kiss her.

Ragaud would not let the dear _curé_ go home. It was right that he should wait until the end of the feast; and as the good pastor, who always thought of everything, expressed a fear that old Germaine might be anxious about him, they despatched a stable‐boy, with the wagon and quickest mare at Muiceron, to fetch her.

What a fine supper that was! All these good people recovered their appetites, and ate and drank as they had not done for a long while. I leave you to imagine the stories that were told of the revolution. But Jeannet, not wishing to cloud their present joy, was careful to relate events as though all had been a kind of child’s play. Jeannette, however, paused more than once as she was about to take a mouthful. She felt that Jean‐Louis stretched a point now and then for love of her, and she showed her gratitude by looking tenderly at him, while she pressed his hand under the table.

At the dessert, they formed plans. They talked of re‐establishing the old order of things, of living together again in peace and harmony, and that there should be no more separations. Ragaud, especially, dwelt at length, and very particularly, upon the happy future in store for all of them; threw meaning glances right and left, in which could be remarked much hidden meaning and not a little white wine. Jeannette smiled, blushed, looked down; and, I fancy, Jean‐Louis’ heart beat high with hope and expectation of what was to follow.

The good man ended by being much affected, though he endeavored to pass it all off as a joke; for it was his wish always to appear deaf to any kind of sentiment.

“After all,” said he, tapping Jean‐Louis on the shoulder, “here is a boy upon whom we cannot depend. He is here now at this very moment; but who knows if to‐morrow he will not be out of sight as quickly as the stars fall from the sky on an August night? Isn’t it so, M. le Curé?”

“It is just as you say, Ragaud,” replied the _curé_. “ ‘He who has drunk will drink again,’ says the proverb; and as this little one went off once without giving warning, how can we know but he will do it again?”

“Oh! what nonsense,” said Jeannet. “My dear parents, I will never leave you again!”

“Hum!” replied Ragaud, “you said that a hundred times before, and then what did we see? One fine morning, no Jeannet!”

“We must tie him,” said old Germaine, laughing; “when Jeannette misbehaved in school, I used to tie her by the arm to an end of the bench.”

“I remember it well,” said Jeannette; “and more than once I broke the string.”

“Then we must find some other means, if that will not do; think of something, Germaine,” replied Ragaud, winking over at the children.

“Think yourself, M. Ragaud,” said she. “Are you not master here?”

“That depends,” replied Ragaud. “If I were master, I would say to Jean‐ Louis, Marry, my boy; when you will have a wife and children, they will keep you in the country more than all the ropes, even that of our well. But Jeannet has declared he will not hear of marriage; and here is Jeanne, who can’t be relied upon for advice, as she said the same thing not more than a month ago, in presence of M. le Curé; so we can’t sing that tune any longer.”

“But how do you know? Perhaps by this time they have both changed their minds,” said the _curé_, smiling.

“Let them say so, then,” replied Ragaud, his eyes beaming with paternal tenderness that was delightful to see.

“O father!” said Jean‐Louis, rising, “if I dared to understand you, I would be wild with joy!”

“If you can’t understand me, little one, Jeannette perhaps can be a little quicker. Speak, Jeanneton!”

The child instantly understood his meaning. In a second she was beside Jeannet, took his hand, and both knelt down before their father.

“My children, ask M. le Curé’s blessing before mine,” said Ragaud solemnly. “He is the representative of the good God, and it is God who has conducted all.”

It was a touching scene. The good _curé_ extended his trembling hands over Jean‐Louis and Jeannette, who bent low before him, weeping; then Ragaud did the same with great simplicity, which is the sign of true piety, and then Pierrette took each of their dear heads in her arms, kissed them, and said:

“My poor darlings! May God protect you all the days of your life! You have wept so much, you deserve to be happy together.”

The poor children were overwhelmed with joy so deep and tranquil they could neither move nor speak. They kept close together, and looked tenderly at each other with eyes that said much. M. le Curé left them for awhile to themselves and their new‐found happiness. He knew enough of the human heart to understand that great display of affection, loud weeping, and noisy parade of words and actions are often marks of a very little fire in the soul; while love which has been proved by deeds, and which is scarcely seen, is always very ardent. As he had never doubted that Jeannet, hitherto so perfect, would show and feel sincere affection as a lover, he was glad to see he was not mistaken, and regarded with much pleasure this young couple, who were so well matched.

However, it was very easy to see our _curé_ had something to say. Jean‐ Louis and Jeannette had softly retreated to the corner near the sideboard, a little out of sight of the parents; and we must imagine that, feeling themselves a little more at ease thus sheltered from observation, the faculty of speech returned to them, as they could be heard whispering and laughing like children at recreation. It was so charming to see them thus relieved from all their difficulties, and swimming in the full tide of happiness, like fish in the river, no one had the courage to disturb them.

But our _curé_ had his own idea, and would not leave until he had made it known; so, as he saw Jean‐Louis and Jeannette might chatter away a long while, he rose, as if to say good‐night, which made all the rest rise; for, although intensely happy, they did not forget to be civil.

“My children,” said the pastor, addressing the old as well as the young, “I will go to sleep to‐night very happy. For forty years, come next All‐ Saints, that I have been your _curé_, never have I assisted at a betrothal as consoling as yours, for which I will return thanks to God all my life. You are going to marry as is seldom done in the world nowadays; that is to say, with hearts even more full of esteem than of love, which enables me, in the name of the Lord, to promise you as much happiness as can fall to the lot of mortals here below. You know already that a house built without foundation cannot stand, and that the grain sown in bad soil bears no fruit. It is the same with the sacrament of marriage, when it is received by a soul that is frivolous and vain, and feels neither regret for the past nor makes good resolutions for the future. Oh! how happy I am I cannot say this about you; and how my old heart, which has pitied all your sufferings, now is gladdened at your happiness, well deserved by the piety and resignation of the one and the sincere repentance of the other—this is for our betrothed. Great disinterestedness, and all the domestic virtues of a Christian life is the praise I unhesitatingly bestow upon you, the good parents! But if this reward is beautiful, if nothing can exceed it, since it is the pledge of a whole life of peace and happiness, know that the Lord will not be surpassed in generosity, and that he has prepared a delightful surprise by my mouth, which will be like the crowning bouquet on the summit of an edifice just completed.

“My dear Ragaud, I speak now to you. Twenty years ago, when your generous heart received, without the slightest hesitation, a poor, abandoned child, it was an honorable and religious act, which deserved the warmest praise; but to‐day, when you give your only daughter to this same child, from pure esteem of his noble qualities, without regard to the gossip of the people around, this second action surpasses the first in excellence, and deserves a special recompense from our good God.

“Well! you will soon have it. Jean‐Louis, my child, as it is generally said, there is no sky without clouds. Perhaps even at this moment your heart may have a little secret grief; for it is not forbidden to feel an honest wish to give the woman you love all possible honor; and that cannot be done when one comes into the world without family or name.

“Alas! for the name. I cannot repair that misfortune; but for the family, know, my friends, that the blood of him whom you call son and brother is equal to yours. In the name of my conscience, I here declare that Jeannet is the son of Catharine Luguet, who died in my arms sincerely repentant, and most piously giving me perfect license to reveal this secret, confided in confession, when I should judge it necessary. I have waited a long time, and I do not regret it. At no other time, I think, could you have been happier to hear me tell such good news. So, Ragaud, embrace your nephew; and you, my daughter Jeannette, in taking a perfect husband, you gain, at the same time, a good cousin. Too much happiness never hurts any one!”

“Ah!” said Germaine, wiping her eyes, “it was worth while staying so late to‐night. I have been tempted half a dozen times to tell what M. le Curé has just made known; for I also received the secret from poor dear Catharine, and even before my master, although I do not pretend to interfere with his rights.”

“M. le Curé,” said Ragaud, “if I am very happy to learn that our dear child belongs to us by nature as much as by friendship, believe me when I say that I am most grateful to God that, without my knowing it, he allowed me to repair the too great severity with which I formerly treated my niece. Alas! I well remember it, and most sincerely do I regret it; and if she gave us this handsome boy a little too soon, according to the laws of God and man, I have no right to blame her, as I was the cause, from want of gentleness and kindness! Come, my son,” added the good Christian, extending his arms to Jeannet—“come, that I may ask your pardon in memory of your poor mother.”

Jean‐Louis threw himself on his father’s breast, whom he could not yet call _dear uncle_, while Jeannette added her embrace, giving herself up to the full joy of _cousining_ her future husband. Pierrette had her full share of kisses, you can well fancy. It was so delightful to feel that he really had a family, and was bound to the country by ties of flesh and blood, and also to know that he belonged to the best people in the neighborhood, the Luguets and Ragauds, that Jeannet, who in his whole life never had a spark of vanity, felt a little glow of excitement and satisfaction, perfectly natural, flame up in his heart. But his beautiful soul quickly drove out such a feeling, to which he already reproached himself for having listened, even for a moment, although it could be easily understood, and was honorable in itself. The remembrance of his unknown mother, dying in sorrow and want, and who would have been so happy could she have witnessed his present joy, surmounted any personal satisfaction. He questioned M. le Curé, and spoke in the most tender and respectful manner in memory of his poor mother, and wished to know every detail of her death, which was sad, but very consoling at the same time.

Every one listened with much emotion to poor Catharine’s story. I doubt not that God then permitted her to know something of the loving sympathy and compassion that filled those kind, good hearts, which most certainly must have added to her happiness; for, since the church commands us to believe that souls cannot die, can it be wrong to think that they see and hear us, when the Lord allows them?

Jeannette, while the _curé_ spoke, was often much confused when she thought of the dangerous result of coquetry, wilfulness, and too great love of one’s own pretty face and fine dresses. She felt how kind God had been to her, that she had not gone the same way as Catharine Luguet; for she had walked down the same path, and had nearly fallen as low as she.

By way of recovering her spirits, she embraced Jeannet, and promised she would be a good housekeeper, and nothing else.

“And also a pretty little wife, that will make me very happy,” replied Jeannet, pressing her to his heart.

“Now,” said Pierrette, who for several moments had been very silent and thoughtful, “I have just found out something that makes me feel how stupid I am. I never before noticed that Jeannet is the living image of his dear departed mother.”

“It is fortunate, Mme. Ragaud,” said Germaine, “that you have just perceived it, after seeing him twenty years; for, in truth, the likeness is so striking it has caused M. le Curé and me much embarrassment. It was so easily seen that I prayed God would protect him in case of discovery; and if there is one miracle in the whole story, it is that such a strong resemblance did not sooner strike you.”

As it had just been mentioned, in the course of the story, that Catharine Luguet, in her day, was the most beautiful girl in the country, this declaration made Jeannet blush, and I dare not affirm it was not from pleasure. They discovered, also, that Solange had a strong family likeness, and Pierrette, more and more astonished, acknowledged it was true, and that she was as stupid as an owl.

They had to separate at last, although no one felt the least fatigued; but they had had enough for one day, and a little sleep after these heavy showers of happiness would injure none of them.

As the surprises were not yet over, Jeannet had another charming one when he saw his room newly painted and papered, and his bed, with white curtains, perfumed with the iris‐root that our housekeepers love to use in the wash. They installed him like a prefect on a tour of inspection, with a procession of lights, and wishes of good‐night, and what do you want, and there it was, and here it is; and if he slept quietly is something I cannot say positively; but, at any rate, you needn’t worry about his eyes, whether they were open or shut. What I can swear to is that his good angel watched joyfully by his bedside, and took care to drive off all bad dreams.

XXIII.

Now, I might make my bow, and wish you good‐night in my turn; for I think you are satisfied with the fate of the little ones, and need have no further anxiety on their account. But just as two beautiful roses in a bouquet appear still more beautiful when they are surrounded by other flowers and green leaves that rejoice the eye, so our friends will lose nothing if I represent them to you for the last time among the companions of their adventures who have served as an escort during the whole recital. Consequently, if you will be patient a moment and listen to me, I will tell you what became of the people and things that have remained in the background for some time.

In the first place, according to the proverb, “Give every man his due.”

So we will commence with our good master, M. le Marquis, whom we left, if you remember, wounded in the arm and seated on a log near the barricade in the bloody days of June.

This wound, which was believed to be nothing, became inflamed and very dangerous, owing to the great excitement of the patient and the extreme heat of the summer. The poor marquis was obliged to keep his bed for a long time, and they even feared they would be obliged to amputate the arm. When the physicians made the proposition, he sprang up with a start on his couch, and, weak and feverish as he was, did not hesitate to tell them, in the most emphatic manner, that the first one who mentioned it again would go out of the window with one turn of the hand that was still sound. They advised him to be quiet and calm himself, all the while giving him to understand there was no hope for him—which, in my opinion, was not the best means of soothing him; but doctors never wish to be thought in the wrong, and, without meaning to offend any one, I may say very many of us are doctors on that point.

Our master was brave. He contented himself with saying:

“I prefer to be buried with two arms, rather than to live with one.”

“That depends on taste,” replied Michou, who nursed his master with loving fidelity; “but he must not be contradicted.”

When the doctors left, M. le Marquis said to Michou:

“Come here, old fellow; these idiots of Parisians know as much about revolutions and medicine as planting cabbages. Send for Dr. Aubry. I can get along with him.”

M. Aubry was summoned by telegraph, and God so willed it that scarcely had he seen the wound of M. le Marquis than he shrugged his shoulders, and said he would answer for him; and added, with much satisfaction, that one had to come to Paris to find doctors that talked like asses and acted like butchers.

He made them bring him a quantity of pounded ice, which he applied to the wounded arm, and took care that our master always kept a piece in his mouth. In that way his blood was refreshed, and there was no longer danger of the flesh mortifying. He added to this remedy another potion not less wonderful, which was to distract the mind of the marquis by telling him night and day—for he never slept—all kinds of stories, sometimes lively, sometimes serious, but always suitable to his state; and so kept him constantly amused and interested, which prevented him from thinking of his poor arm. At the end of a week, he was out of danger, and he could get up, eat the breast of a chicken, and think of going out in a few days. If I would be a little malicious, I could tell you that the Parisian doctors were not very well pleased at the triumph of their country colleague, and perhaps would have been more content to see our master dead than their prophecies frustrated; but I had better be silent than wanting in charity, and therefore I prefer to let you think what you please about them.

Poor mademoiselle and Dame Berthe, during this painful time of anxiety, acted admirably and showed great devotion and love. It was then seen that, although they had their little defects on the surface, their souls were generous and good. The old governess forgot her scarfs and embroideries, and devoted herself to making lint, and no longer indulged in dreams of the king’s entrance into Paris, but constantly recited fervent prayers, which had not, I assure you, “the cause” in view. Mademoiselle received a salutary blow. She became, through this trouble, serious and recollected; began to see that in Paris nothing is thought of but pleasure and fine toilets, and that, after all, at Val‐Saint there were a thousand ways of passing her life in a pleasant way worthy of a Christian whom God had so liberally endowed with riches.

One day, when she had gone out to pray and weep in a neighboring church, she returned with her eyes radiant with joy, and said to Dame Berthe:

“All will be right. My father will be cured. I cannot explain to you why I am so confident, but I am sure of it. When I was in the church before the altar of the Blessed Virgin, the idea entered into my head to make a vow; and I have promised to return to the country, and remain there the rest of my life, to work for the poor, and to occupy myself with all other kinds of good works, as my mother used to. I have too long neglected to follow her example, and henceforth I will act differently. I depend upon your assistance.”

Dame Berthe nearly fainted with admiration of her pupil’s saintliness. As she was naturally very good, she was impressed with the beauty of the project, and promised to do all in her power to aid her.

After that, mademoiselle looked like another person. She visited churches and chapels, conferred with pious priests; and as monsieur improved every day, he could accompany her in the carriage; and she took great pleasure in confiding to him her new plans, proving to him that he could be much more useful to “the cause” by instructing the peasants in politics than by fighting the rabble in Paris; that, by his great wealth and the high esteem in which he was held, he could make himself still more beloved; and that, when they loved him, they would love the nobility which he represented; so that when the time came—and it would not be far off—for the triumph of his hopes, he could offer to the king a faithful population devoted to good principles, which was scarcely possible in the present state of affairs.

As she was in this happy frame of mind, you can imagine with what joy mademoiselle received the news of the engagement of Jean‐Louis and Jeanne. She immediately wrote a letter on the subject which deserved to be put under glass and framed in gold; for not only did she congratulate the Ragauds with the greatest affection, but she humbly accused herself of having nearly ruined the happiness of her god‐daughter, and thanked God he had directed all in a manner so contrary to her wishes. When you think that this high‐born young lady spoke thus to the little daughter of a farmer on her estate, we must admire the miracles of the religion which teaches us that those who humble themselves shall be exalted; and I add, for the benefit of those who fancy themselves lovers of equality, and talk all kind of nonsense about it, that there never would have been the slightest chance of planting a seed of it in the hearts of men, even though it were no bigger than a grain of millet, if they had not beforehand received instructions on that virtue from our dear mother, the church.

About a month afterwards, M. le Marquis being perfectly cured, they all returned to Val‐Saint; and it is unnecessary to say how universal was the joy. It is equally useless to tell you that their first occupation was the marriage of our children, which was so beautiful, so joyous, so enlivened with the music of violins and songs, it resembled that of a prince and princess in Mother Goose. During a whole week, the boys of the neighborhood beat tin pans and fired off guns under the windows of Muiceron, as signs of honor and rejoicing. With us peasants, joy is always rather noisy, but, at least, it can be heard very far; and, besides, as we don’t often have a chance of amusing ourselves, it is best to let us have our own way.

There remains very little more for me to say, except that mademoiselle persevered in her laudable resolutions, and became the angel of Val‐Saint. One of her first good acts was to buy the house of the unfortunate Perdreaux, which, since the sad end of its masters, had remained deserted and shut up, no one daring to put it up at auction. Mademoiselle sent for workmen, who soon transformed it into a fine school‐house, divided into two parts by a garden, where nothing was spared in fruit‐trees, flowers, and vegetables. The following year the school was ready for occupation, and the Sisters were placed in charge of the girls, and a good teacher over the boys. By good luck, they were able to obtain Solange, who came among the first. Thus all our friends met again, and formed one family, of which the good God was the true father.

M. le Curé was very old when he died, and Germaine soon followed him. This good pastor left many regrets which are not yet assuaged; but he departed from this world happy that he saw all his children around him leading good, holy lives; and at the moment he expired, they heard him softly repeat the _Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine, secundum verbum tuum in pace_—which is a prayer of compline, printed in all the Breviaries.

Muiceron continued to prosper under the management of good Jeannet and his dear wife. The Ragauds passed their old age in a dream of happiness, free from clouds, amidst the love and respect of the community. Pierrette, who had never sinned but from weakness of heart, was never cured of this defect. On the contrary, it increased; and she devoted herself so completely to spoiling the beautiful children that Jeanne gave her, that more than once the parents had to cry, Stop! But aside from these little troubles, which did not cause much difficulty, peace and concord never ceased to reign in this house of benediction.

As the last flower in the crown, I will tell you that M. Aubry, who was not remarkable for devotion, was taken in hand by Sister Solange, and quietly converted. He swore a little at first, as might have been expected, and said it was a shame, at his age, to fall into the net of a doctor in _cornette_ and petticoats, at whose birth he had been present, and whom he had vaccinated; but the end of all was, the _cornette_ led him by the nose to Mass and confession, where he was seen to weep, although he tried to be very firm. As he was a good man, frank and open in all he did, once the step was taken, he did not go back; and I knew him a long while, and never saw him act but like a perfect Christian.

And now, at this late hour, I pray that God may send down upon you, as well as myself, his choicest blessings, without which, you may truly believe, there is nothing worth living for here below.

Public Worship.

Few observing persons have failed to remark the great change which within a few years has been wrought in the ideas of people at large in regard to public worship. It is not confined to any one of the religious denominations around us. It pervades all, from the High‐Church Episcopalian to those who still cling to the law of Moses. Insensibly, it may be, but surely, the growth has all been in one direction, as surely as the germ in the earth pushes towards the light.

Time was when the plain, unadorned meeting‐house of the Society of Friends seemed the type all sought to attain in architecture; painting and decoration would have caused a thrill of horror; Gothic architecture, with groined roof and stained glass, were as far removed from the thoughts and ideas as the Crusades; and if the sister art of music was admitted within the portals of the room reserved for worship, the execution was of such a fearful character that Old Folks’ Concerts make it a sure guide to success, to mimic, for the amusement of this generation, the strange religious music of half a century ago.

Then religion, as expressed in public worship, was plain, stern, hard, unsympathetic, responsive to none of the finer feelings, the loftier aspirations, the panting hopes of human nature feeling its misery, but still looking heavenward.

Now the change has come. Insensibly, almost unconsciously, they have all more or less come to confess their error. Just as they are returning to the genuine Lord’s Prayer, after inflicting a spurious one on their votaries for three centuries; just as they are returning to the true reading of the Greek Testament, after three centuries’ bondage to the Received Text, so they are returning, after three centuries of dry, hard, formal worship, to something more in unison with man’s nature, man’s soul, and man’s heart.

But how? The Reformation, that stern, matter‐of‐fact revolt, not only stripped religion of all its poetry, whether manifested in the carven stone, the painted glass or canvas, the strains of more than earthly music, but it did more: it struck at the life of worship; and the present movement which has made synagogues into temples and meeting‐houses into churches—the work of men who “builded better than they knew”—yet is but a factitious life; it is placing artificial fruit and leaves and flowers on a dead trunk that has no vivifying sap to send through all the full, gushing tide of life.

What is public worship?

Is there really a question of the day that can be brought home to practical men like our American countrymen more distinctly than this? Long creeds and the discussion of their various points, the old controversies and chopping of texts, seem to have become singularly distasteful to the men of our day. But the divine worship is a point that, presented squarely and plainly, is easily grasped, and really involves in itself everything. It is the generating principle, the fountain of faith and works.

About a century ago, in London, the question of worship was debated by some of the leading ministers of the day, and the pamphlets form volumes. A more vague series of arguments on all sides can scarcely be found; all seemed to turn round and round the text that men were to “worship God in spirit and truth,” but in what precise way was a matter none seemed able to approach, even in the most remote manner. What constituted practically the public worship of the Almighty seemed to be a point that was utterly indefinite and indefinable.

Suppose, now, we were to ask the clergymen or laymen of the denominations around us, What is the essential element of public worship, as distinguished, on the one hand, from preaching, and on the other from family worship of prayer? What would the answer be?

Public worship has, in common ideas, come to be almost identical with preaching. The preacher makes the church; his popularity is its success; with his decline in health, vigor, or voice, the church begins to melt away, and a new preacher has to be evoked to give it life. But oral instruction of the people, laudable as it may be, is not public worship; it is addressed to the people, while worship is addressed to God. The prevailing confusion of ideas on this point has turned the extemporaneous prayers which in form are still addressed to the Deity really into appeals to the people; so that the reporter who spoke of a prayer as being the most eloquent ever addressed to a Boston congregation was correct in fact, though the form was against him.

Preaching does not constitute public worship. The object of preaching is the people; the object of worship is God.

What, then, is the essential element? Prayer recited or chanted—prayer extemporaneous or in forms grown venerable by use, is common alike to public and private worship, to the worship of the individual in his closet, the family, or the gathering of families. It cannot be the essential element of public worship. What, then, is the essential element, or, if there be none, how can this public worship have any claim on the individual that may not be satisfied by him alone, as in the case of Dr. Bellows’ preferring isolation on the steamer’s deck to joining in the religious exercises carried on below?

But there is certainly an obligation to render public worship to the Almighty. The Sabbath rest prescribed by the Mosaic law was negative and subsidiary to the positive command to worship God. It did not tell what was to be done; that was provided elsewhere with the most detailed injunctions.

Even as ideas have changed on one point, so they have on another.

With the Reformers of the XVIth century, faith was all and everything. Now we have reached a time when faith has lost its ground; and, in the thousands around us, nine out of ten will tell you that it makes no difference what a man believes; if his life is right, he is safe. But yet they make a distinction in works. It is not all works that have value in the eyes of the world; it is those of benevolence—the corporal works of mercy. They will shrug their shoulders and allow some little value to the spiritual works of mercy, but it will not be much. Yet these works of mercy, whether corporal or spiritual, have for their object our neighbor. There is, however, a higher class of works—those which have God for their object.

Good works towards God! some will exclaim; what need has God of our good works? The need may be on our side, and the question is not one of need, but of duty on our part.

Love is the fulfilling of the law—“he that loveth me keepeth my commandments.” The Commandments to be kept, the works to be done, are written on the two tables of the law; and the works to be done towards God form the first and greater Commandment, and foremost on it—first of the good works of which God is the object—is worship, public and private.

Have not common ideas, then, perverted the whole order? With the higher appreciation of good works that is growing so visibly will come a logical placing of them. The first table will reassert its rights; the great good work towards God, public worship, will take its rightful place, and be regarded as the great, imperative act on the part of man.

If so important, it must have its distinctive characteristics, its essential elements—some thymiama exclusively assigned to it, never given, we say, not to any mean use, but to high or holy use or honor of anything that is not God.

Should no one around us tell what this element is, we must go back to the past. The first Commandment, in its positive form, is: “The Lord thy God thou shalt adore, and him only shalt thou serve.” In what essentially does this adoration and service consist?

If we open the two oldest books we have—the Bible, record of a people who preserved their faith in God; Homer, describing the life of a nation fallen so early into idolatry that it preserved no tradition of the time when the unity of God was acknowledged—if we open these to see what in the earliest ages constituted divine worship, we find the answer clear and plain—Sacrifice.

Leave the shores of the Mediterranean, strike to India, China, the islands of the Pacific, and ask what constitutes public worship, the answer still is, Sacrifice. Reach the western shores of America, question every tribe, from the more savage nomads of the north and south to the more cultured Aztecs, to the subjects of the Incas, and the answer never varies; it is, Sacrifice.

Cross the Atlantic as you crossed the Pacific, the Celts of the Isles and of Gaul, Scandinavian and German, repeat the burden, Sacrifice, till you come again to the tents of the patriarchs on the plains of the Euphrates or Jordan.

And what was sacrifice? A rite cruel, repugnant to all our ideas—one that could not spring from man himself. It was the offering of an inferior life to the offended Deity as a substitute for man’s life forfeited by sin—a substitute deriving its value from a human life that was one day to appease the Almighty absolutely.

The whole system is strange, yet the whole is universal. Before man slew the beasts of the field for food, he slew them on the altar. Not Cain, unaccepted of God, offers this bloody sacrifice. Doubly the type of sinful man—sinful by descent and by act—Cain offers the fruits of the earth—badge of sin and toil and sweat of brow; while Abel, pure and gentle, slays the lamb that gambols affectionately around him—slays it to find favor with a God of love. It could not have entered into the heart of man to conceive this. Nothing less than a primitive revelation and command can explain sacrifice—that offering of domestic animals as a type of the great atoning sacrifice of the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world.

No matter how widely removed from the original seat of the race, no matter how low in the grade of civilization, every known tribe on earth has a worship and has sacrifices. The red men of our own land were long considered as an anomaly in this respect; but they really had the whole idea of sacrifice. One example will show it. When F. Jogues, the pioneer priest of New York, was taken by the Mohawks in 1642, and reduced to the condition of a slave, he attended a hunting party of the tribe. Ill success in war and hunt had befallen the Mohawks, and, ascribing it to their offended deity, they offered to this demon Aireskoi two bears with this prayer: “Justly dost thou punish us, O demon Aireskoi!... We have sinned against thee, in that we ate not the last captives thrown into our hands; but if we shall ever again capture any, we promise to devour them as we now consume these two bears”—recognizing the idea of substitution and the efficacy of human blood as the great means of reconciliation. And the missionary, to his horror, saw two women sacrificed and eaten in fulfilment of this vow.

While the temple of Jerusalem stood, the Greek, the Roman, the Egyptian, the Gaul, and the German would, on entering, have seen naught removed from their ideas in the sacrifice offered. They might have wondered at the size and beauty of the temple, the rich vestments of the sons of Aaron; they might have been filled with awe at the absence of the image of the deity worshipped there so grandly; but in the great rite of sacrifice, there was nothing that was not familiar to them. In this the pagan nations were still in harmony with the divine institution; and in default of the Mosaic revelation, its appositeness could be proved by the common consent of mankind in a matter inexplicable except on the supposition of a primitive revelation.

The nearer and more striking the resemblance between the pagan sacrifices and those of the people of God, the greater the evidence they bear to corroborate it. Error may be old, but truth is older.

What, then, is the meaning of this ancient worship? The answer is plain: “Jesus Christ, yesterday and to‐day and for ever”—“the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world,” whose death was, when once accomplished in act, to be thenceforward shown forth until he came.

The offering on Calvary alone gave life and efficacy to all the sacrifices of Adam, of the patriarchs before and after the Flood, of the sacrifices of Abraham, and those who, in his day, still believed in the true God, in the sacrifices of the law promulgated by Moses.

Their sacrifices were but types and figures—substitutes for that which was to be accomplished in the person of the Messias; when that was once accomplished, it became the act of public worship, to be offered by man to the end of time.

The public worship of the new law is the sacrifice of Calvary, not renewed, not repeated—for “Christ dieth now no more”—but “shown forth,” made sensible.

The essential element of public worship is the death of the Man‐God on Calvary; and under the new law, this must be shown in something higher and nobler than the types and animal sacrifices of the old law. It is the one sufficient act of worship, fulfilling all the intentions and designs of the ancient typical sacrifices—adoration, praise, thanksgiving, propitiation, and impetration. No public worship that does not directly connect itself with this great sacrifice can be at all a public worship acceptable to God.

The Almighty has certainly instituted a worship showing forth this death, and that alone will he accept.

Man cannot set up a public worship for himself. Worship is a debt which man owes to the Most High, and it is not for the debtor to fix the mode of paying that debt. In the discussion alluded to already, they frequently quoted the words of Jesus to the Samaritan woman, but overlooked the great lesson of that whole incident. When that erring woman, pressed hard on her moral delinquency, changed the subject, with womanly adroitness, to the great religious division between the Jews and Samaritans, she asked: “Our fathers adored on this mountain; and you say that at Jerusalem is the place that men must adore”—meaning, evidently, “offer the sacrifices of the law.”

Christ answered: “Salvation is with the Jews.” The Mosaic church was the ark, and out of it there was no salvation. And yet the Samaritans had, according to modern ideas, every requisite. They had the law of Moses, and revered and followed it closely; they had priests of the sons of Aaron, won to their side; they offered all the sacrifices commanded by the law, and as the law commanded; and they had and exercised the right of private judgment in the matter of the place. And precisely this last point vitiated the whole, and made their sacrifices utterly worthless in the eyes of God. They did not conduce to salvation. To be in the way of salvation, they must be in communion with the high‐priest at Jerusalem, and their sacrifices could not be vivified by man or angel. They were worthless. “Salvation was with the Jews.”

The essential element of public worship is, then, the sacrifice of Calvary; and the public worship of the new law must be connected with that act by divine institution. No institution devised by private judgment, however seemingly fit to human eyes, can have any real value. It is not for man to make, by his private judgment, a form of public worship that will avoid the sentence, “Salvation is not in it.” As the figurative sacrifices of the old law derived their value from divine institution as typical of Calvary, so the public worship of the new law must be connected with Calvary by divine institution.

Now, in the popular forms of public worship in our days, there is no essential element, either of divine or human creation, to connect it with Calvary. It is inferior even to the Samaritan worship, which Christ so decisively condemned. What claims, then, can it have?

The Catholic who is asked why he cannot attend a Protestant worship finds his answer here. “Why,” it will be said, “there can be no harm in it. Reading the Scriptures, singing psalms out of Holy Writ, and a moral explanation of some part of Scripture cannot but be good.” Even supposing the explanation to contain nothing contrary to faith, a Catholic cannot accept it. It is not of God’s institution, and, as unauthorized and human, must be rejected of God. There was no detail in the Samaritan worship that a Jew could condemn, yet he had to condemn it as a whole; for, by God’s institution, all this, done on Mount Sion, was acceptable to him and contributed to salvation; done elsewhere, was repugnant and availed not.

So absolute is the necessity of adhering to divine institution to give any value to our religious acts that we see in the Acts that the Jewish priests, whose authority had been so fully sustained, were, by the institution of the priesthood of the new law, superseded; and when they attempted to exercise functions under the new law, the very devils laughed them to scorn. If men of a priesthood instituted by God had thus lost power, how could men self‐constituted make themselves more acceptable, or create a form of worship that could be acceptable, to God?

Nor can any such power exist in the civil authority, be it emperor, king, parliament, or congress. Saul, usurping the headship of the church and the functions of the priesthood, only drew down judgment on himself, and his race ceased to rule over the people.

The only example in the old law that even remotely resembles the liberty assumed in the last centuries by men to form modes of worship is that of Michas in the Book of Judges, who made his own god, his own temple, his worship, and constituted one of his sons as priest till he was able to obtain an apostate Levite.

Man, of himself, would have as much right to make his god like Michas as to make his worship. He can make neither, and cannot give saving power to his form of worship any more than he can divinity to the deity his brain may devise.

Let us, then, see whether there exists under the new law an institution in which the one great sacrifice of Calvary is made perpetually present to the end of time. The Reformers, before introducing their own experimental forms of public worship, since so varied—now reduced to the plainest form, then more cheering, but all based on the synagogue service of the Jews, which was not divine worship, as the temple service was—rejected a form of public worship coeval and coextensive with Christendom, full of the spirit and echo of the temple service of Jerusalem, that was really and solely divine worship—they rejected the Mass.

The Jews even now recognize that their synagogue service is not worship; they still admit the necessity of a sacrifice, as witness one of the most common forms of prayer offered up in the synagogue: “O Lord, in the time when the temple stood, when a sin was committed the guilty one brought sacrifices, and it was atoned unto him; but now, through our sins, we have no temple, no altar, no priests to offer up sacrifices which shall atone for our sins. Let the remembrance of our prayers, of the many prayers we offer up, O Lord, be acceptable in the place of sacrifices.”

There had been heresies and schisms before the XVIth century. They had been almost countless; but Arian and Pelagian, Donatist and Nestorian, all retained the Mass, the authority of all tradition, in Asia, Europe, and Africa, making it too daring an attempt for any to endeavor to modify or abolish it. By the concurrent testimony of all Christians of every tongue and land the Mass was the public worship of God, instituted by the apostles under the command of Jesus Christ and the direction of the Holy Ghost; and to this day it is retained in the Oriental lands, where the apostles and their immediate successors preached, although many of those countries have for centuries rejected the spiritual authority of Rome, and would not adopt the slightest form or ceremony peculiar to the Latin Church.

A movement against the Mass could not arise in any of these lands. It could arise only in nations just emerged from the darkness of paganism, with its spirit still strong within them, and with no apostolic tradition to inspire them with reverence.

The German race, last to accept the Gospel, was the first to reject it. The Real Presence was denied, and with that dogma they cast aside the Mass as the great act of public worship, and the whole theory of the Christian priesthood. In England alone an attempt was made to keep a hollow form and a compromise which James I. sneeringly styled an ill‐said Mass.

In each country, government or individuals then attempted to get up something to take the place of the public worship which had for fifteen centuries gathered Christians around the altar of God, and, while all cried for liberty, made the new forms obligatory by civil law; and in England, the government, by fine and imprisonment, compelled men to go to the churches torn from Catholic worship, in order to follow the newly‐ devised common prayer; and in New England, men who turned with loathing from this, punished just as stringently all who dissented from the standing order or refused to attend the congregational form of worship. Yet both were confessedly mere human inventions, to which no more divine sanction could be ascribed than to the form of opening a court of justice.

Of course the first generation of the Reformed recollected the old Catholic worship, and kept up some resemblance to it; but as the memory died away, one point after another was cast aside, till every original trace was lost, and everything was made as bald and plain as possible.

Then a new great discovery was made. Satisfied with their own position, they looked at the Catholic worship, now become strange and wonderful in their eyes, and they discovered a striking analogy between it and pagan worship. Middleton, in the last century, expatiated wonderfully on the point; and our readers know how offensively our fluent, superficial Prescott, in his _Conquest of Mexico_, draws the comparison. But these men never seem to have thought that God might have his own views of his own worship, and that he could not have left the world without a guide on this point; they forgot that one fully explained type of worship of the ante‐ Christian era was before us to guide us in our search.

Take one of our average countrymen, from Prescott’s own State, and set him down in the temple of Jerusalem while the high‐priest was still offering the sacrifices of the law. What would his impressions be? He would certainly deem it a very pagan affair; the architecture would, in his eyes, be unsuited to a meeting‐house; the vestments heathenish or—what to him would perhaps be synonymous—popish; the incense clearly so; and a radical defect in the whole would be, in his eyes, that the congregation took no part, and that the building was not adapted to preaching.

If, at the morning hour of prayer, or when the shadow of Mount Sion fell lengthening towards the Mediterranean, he entered the sacred enclosure, and beheld the priest, in rich robe, enter, incense in hand, to offer it on the golden altar, while the people were kept rigorously without, he would have found it sadly at variance with his ideas.

If, as the sun began to gild the golden face of the tower, he saw a devout Jew coming with his wife and little ones, bearing in his arms a lamb, to have it offered in sacrifice for him or some sick child at home, and taking back part to eat as part of the religious rite, he would think all this needed reforming, and that it was very nearly as bad as the popish way of having Masses said.

The only question would be whether the Almighty was wrong, or whether his own stand‐point was utterly wrong.

Certainly, neither in the Jewish temple service nor in the worship of any pagan nation could he find the type of his own. The pagan had strong and striking resemblances with the Jewish; the worship of Christendom grew out of the Jewish temple service.

To this day chants echo through Catholic aisles that were first heard on Mount Sion. To the Catholic the old temple service would be intelligible; the edifice, the vestments, the incense, the priestly performing of a great act, would all be in harmony with ideas with which he had been imbued from youth; to him there would be the most natural of natural things in having sacrifice offered for him or his; he would kneel without in the crowd, offering, through the priest within, the smoking incense—offering it, as each one around him did, for his own wants of soul or body. In all the ideas of worship of the Jew he would be at home, and could join in the same spirit in every religious act that marked life from circumcision till the Kadisch, or prayer for the dead, poured forth beside the grave in the valley of Josaphat.

Those who find the Catholic worship too like the pagan would have condemned the divinely‐instituted worship of the Mosaic law as still more like it. That paganism bears its testimony to the Catholic worship is an argument in its favor, not against it; for the pagan worship was a divine institution, perverted more in its object than in its form. Had it been purely the coinage of man’s brain, of man’s private judgment—one of those ways that seem right unto a man, though the ends thereof lead to death—there would be no such resemblance.

Is it not a striking fact that the Catholic, trained to the worship of his church, would be at home in the temple of Jerusalem during that divinely‐ instituted worship, while to the Protestant it would be utterly repugnant?

The Mass in Latin, Greek, Coptic, Armenian, Abyssinian, Sclavonic, is almost identical, and in all rites claims to have been instituted by the apostles by divine authority. The form is the same, though varying parts have varied. The Jewish worship was simply action; the Christian worship has, from the earliest period, combined action and a form of words. The language of the Mass is older than any of the books of the New Testament. Is it unworthy of the great act? The answer will best be a challenge to produce anything, from the days of the Reformation, which can at all approach it in grandeur; in its recognition of all the attributes of God and of the nothingness of man in his sight; in all and everything that could embody the idea of worship. It has, perhaps, the most sublime thought ever written. Longinus quoted the “Let there be light, and there was light,” as a sublime thought that paganism admired. Yet this record of the creative act is less sublime than “We thank thee for thy great glory.” That man, the creature of God, should thank him for existence, for his intellect and body, for truth imparted, for life, health, happiness, for loved ones and their love, for all the blessings ever bestowed on him, or, soaring higher, ever bestowed on men and angels, might be admirable; but when man, losing sight entirely of himself and of all created things, looks up to God, and, overwhelmed with love, thanks him for his great glory, for his attributes, for being what he is, he soars from the depths of nothingness to the height of sublimity. One of the modern objections to religion is its selfish character; the Mass answers this by its utter abnegation of self, just as it formally disavows the sufficiency of human works.

The action is worthy of divine worship. A man stands at the altar, not self‐instituted, but called as Aaron and his race were—stands there with powers traced back through the apostles to Christ. He approaches as a sinner among sinners, acknowledging his unworthiness, striking his breast with the publican, not vaunting himself with the Pharisee. Then follow soon the glorious canticle, in which the sinner rises, in thought and hope, to God, prayer, lessons from the Old Testament or the New, a portion of the gospels, a solemn profession of faith. Then properly begins the Sacrifice, at which, in early days, only the baptized could be present, and not even such of them as were subjects of public penance.

Bread and wine appear on the altar. Even among the pagans, fruits of the earth were offered to inferior deities alone. In the Bible, they mark the sinful race, like Cain, or men without the chosen people, like Melchisedec. It is in itself an inferior offering, and bears the stamp of man’s fall. Bread and wine are doubly suggestive. It is not merely fruits of the earth raised by man’s toil and the sweat of his brow; it is food prepared by still further toil.

The priest stands there as the type of fallen man, with such offering as fallen man can give; but if this were all, his sacrifice would be but that of Melchisedec. His language shows that the sacrifice has, so to speak, no beginning or end; that it is one act, and that time is not regarded. The bread and wine are treated, not as what they are, but what they are to become. It is not that the sacrifice of guilty Cain may become that of the pious Abel, the sacrifice of the uncalled Melchisedec become that of Abraham the elect; not that this sacrifice of fallen man may become the Paschal lamb, but Christ our Pasch himself; and such it is in thought already when the priest offers the bread as an immaculate host, and the wine as the chalice of salvation—offers them for his own sins and those of all Christians; for the salvation of those present and that of the whole world. He offers it again in memory of the passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord, and in honor of all who have faithfully served him on earth.

He never separates himself from the people for whom he offers it. From the commencement to the end, it is their sacrifice and his; in fact, as if to prevent any forgetfulness of this, he turns, as the awful moment of consecration approaches, to say: “Brethren, pray that my sacrifice and yours may be acceptable to God, the Father Almighty.”

Then, with the Preface that sounds like the triumphant march of an approaching monarch, comes the consecration. The types of sinful man disappear, and Jesus Christ is all. He is the priest; he is the victim. He makes the only oblation that can take away sin. He offers the only victim which can render his Eternal Father due adoration, homage, and honor; which can alone call down graces and blessings.

The priest and people, adoring the divine High‐Priest and Victim, offer through him that sacrifice of Calvary for all mankind, for the living and the dead, for the church and all its members. Then, repeating the prayer he himself enjoined, the divine Victim is consumed, and the solemn rite hastens to a close.

Sublime in its conception, sublime in all its parts, sublime alike in action and in words, the world has never beheld a more adequate public worship of God. In itself, in its antiquity, its wide extent, it is one of the strongest arguments in favor of the church. Its wonderful adaptability to all nations and all conditions of social elevation are no less striking. A public worship, in which the most polished and cultivated minds of civilized nations can join, absorbed and taking part, while the poor peasant enters as well into its spirit, and offers it for all his wants; a sacrifice that can come home to the savage and the sage, to men of the frozen North and the parching tropics, which makes the church a home in all lands where not a syllable uttered in the streets falls familiar on the ear—such is the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass of the Catholic Church—a worship distinct from any other service, offered to God alone, and combining in the highest degree everything that can be conceived as fitting in that great act—divine institution, the character of sacrifice, identity with the oblation of Calvary—the only adequate worship ever offered to God.

The Answered Prayer.

“Mortal cannot make Conditions with the Creator.”—_Schiller._

Into my broken heart Pour gracious balm, Where the deep waters start Breathe holy calm; Over my weary life Shed deep repose, Shelter me from the strife, Baffle my foes!

I have not shunned my task Early or late; I have not turned to ask “Wherefore?” of fate. Only one cry went up, Hopeless at length— “Father! to drink thy cup Grant me thy strength.”

Now at the last I stand Waiting from heaven, Patient, with outstretched hand, Alms never given! Grant me, O God! I pray, One answ’ring sign Ere I withdraw for aye! Speak! Am I thine?

Cometh the sign at last— Bolt hot and red, Falling to crush and blast Desolate head; Driving the cowering form Wildly across Life’s heath, through flood and storm, On—to the cross!

The Veil Withdrawn.

Translated, By Permission, From The French of Madame Craven, Author Of “A Sister’s Story,” “Fleurange,” Etc.

IV.

From that day I resumed my former habits, and, except the liveliness of my childhood, which had disappeared never to return, I became almost the same as before. This sudden and unhoped‐for restoration brought cheerfulness once more to our gloomy house, and a ray of joy to the sad, anxious face of my father. I say anxious; for it was more so, if possible, than sad. There was an anxiety in his look, whenever he turned towards me, that was quite inexpressible. Had he so trembled for my life, and afterwards for my reason, as hardly to credit I was restored to him? Perhaps so; but if his anxiety had really outlived its cause, though that might explain his profound solicitude, it could not account for the coldness of manner he now manifested, instead of the warm affection to which he had accustomed me from infancy. And when I endeavored to fathom the cause of this change, only one reason occurred to me, which I repelled with terror, and on which my mind utterly refused to dwell!...

I had not seen my brother (the elder of the two children by my father’s first marriage) since my illness. When I went to the supper‐table for the first time, he was not there. But this did not cause me any great regret, for I feared Mario more than I loved him. I was glad, therefore, to find no one present but my father, my sister Livia, and Ottavia, who, from a waiting‐maid, had merited, from her long services, to be promoted to a duenna. I say _duenna_, and not governess; for she would scarcely have been able to teach us to read and write. But she knew many things much more important. She was one of those good, simple souls, so frequently met with in Italy among people of her station, uncultivated from a human point of view, but wonderfully conversant with everything relating to the principles of the Christian religion, the practice of charity, and the grandeur of the Christian’s hopes. Sometimes thoughts came spontaneously from her heart and lips which were far more admirable than are to be found in any book. Therefore my father, notwithstanding her undeniable ignorance in many respects, did not consider her useless in the training of his children, but treated her with a consideration bordering on respect.

Hitherto my life had been surrounded by, and, so to speak, permeated with a mother’s love; and when I was suddenly deprived of this light and warmth, an overpowering grief, as has been related, took possession of my soul, which at first it seemed impossible I could survive. Now I was calmer; but there was still a void, a wretchedness, a grief in my heart, which, though not as violent as at first, had become fixed and permanent. I thought sometimes of young birds, whose mothers had been caught in the fowler’s net, left pining alone in their nests, or of poor little fish drawn out of the water and left on the shore in the heat of the sun. I seemed to be like them: my heart and soul were out of their element and deprived of their necessary food.

In this state, Ottavia and my kind sister Livia were the only persons in the house who afforded me any comfort. I always sought shelter beside them; for the sight of my father increased my depression, and I was afraid of my brother’s stern and penetrating eye.

Mario, at this time, was twenty‐seven years of age. He was remarkably handsome at first sight; but his stern, gloomy face, seldom expressive of kindness, and never of affection, greatly modified this first impression, and it was nearly impossible to feel entirely at ease with him. Nevertheless, he had many noble qualities, and in some respects resembled my father; but he had not inherited his kindness of heart.... My brother was unyielding and jealous, and, if not bad at heart, at least had an unpleasant disposition, and was often in an insupportable humor. He made me habitually feel that he regarded me as the child of a different mother, and could not forgive Livia, who was his own sister, for loving one who, according to him, had come to rob them of the full share of their father’s love.

At the time of Fabrizio dei Monti’s second marriage, Mario, then only twelve years old, had manifested so great a repugnance to it, and so much ill‐will towards her who was about to take his mother’s place at their fireside, that Fabrizio decided to send him away; and for several years Mario lived away from home, only returning from time to time for an occasional visit. It was only within a year he had become a permanent member of the household. At that time the malady that was to prove fatal to my mother had begun its ravages, and the remaining days of her life were already numbered. Whether it was this knowledge, or because he was softened and disarmed by the charm of her beauty and the angelic sweetness of her manner, it is certain he became quite a different person, and, in her presence at least, was never harsh or severe towards us. Perhaps this change would have been complete could he have remained longer under the sweet influence we were all so unhappily deprived of!

On the 15th of July—the day that ended so fatally—Mario was absent. He had left home the evening before, and, when he returned, he learned, at the same time, the calamity that had occurred and that which so speedily threatened to follow. I have been assured that he manifested a lively grief at my mother’s death, and had inquired about me, not only with interest, but even with anxiety. But the recollections of the past were still vividly impressed on my memory, and it was not to him my heavy, bleeding heart turned for consolation at such a time.

At the end of our gloomy repast, my sister was informed that there were several visitors in the drawing‐room. It was the hour when my father received his friends and the clients he had not been able to see in the morning. Livia immediately left the table, and I was about to follow her, when my father stopped me, and kept me beside him till he had looked over some documents which had just been brought him. He then gave me his arm to the _salon_. This was certainly done with kindness and an air of affection, but with a kind of gravity constantly perceptible as he kept me beside him the remainder of the evening. How gladly I would have exchanged this affectionate solicitude, that could not lose sight of me, for one such look as I used to receive!...

It was strange! but when I thought of my mother, no remorse was mingled with so affecting a remembrance. I felt as if a constant communication was maintained between her soul and mine; that she _saw_ my repentance, was aware of my resolutions, and, to sum up my impressions—childish, perhaps, but so lively and profound that they have never been effaced—that _peace had been made between us_. But the thought that my father might be aware of all that took place during that hour of fearful memory, or the possibility of his knowing the foolish act I committed in my mother’s presence, alas! while she was dying, and that he might attribute the dreadful catastrophe that followed to that act, inspired me with genuine terror, which was only checked by a secret, constant conviction that my mother had not been able, during the few short hours of the following night, to divulge my secret to any one, even to him. But then, who could have told him, or what other reason could there be for the change that made me feel as if I had lost my father as well as my mother, and that the heavens were darkened on that side also?

The next day I was alone in my chamber, collecting my books in order to resume my studies, as if my mother were still alive to direct me, when my sister came in breathless, as if from running. She stopped to take breath, and locked the door before speaking.

Livia was two years younger than her brother. She was not handsome; but her form was noble and graceful, her eyes were strikingly beautiful, and her smile, though somewhat sad, was incomparably sweet. But a nose somewhat too long, a chin a little too short, and thick hair parted on a forehead a little too low, made her rather unattractive at the first glance, and perhaps caused the absurd notion I shall soon have occasion to refer to. But all who knew Livia regarded her as an angel of goodness, and forgot the defects of her face.

“Gina!” she hurriedly exclaimed, as soon as she could speak, “my dear little Gina! Mario has returned, and is coming up to see you. Listen to me,” embracing me as she continued. “I think he means to tell you something that will distress you—something I wish you could remain for ever ignorant of. But it is useless. He is determined you shall know it, and, after all, it may be as well. Only, _carina_, promise to be calm. If he scolds you, or speaks in his usual severe way, do not answer him. Control yourself. Let him go on, Gina mia! I beg of you. No matter if he distresses you for a moment; he will soon go away, and I will console you....”

I had no time to answer these incoherent supplications, for at that very instant I heard my brother’s steps in the gallery. He stopped at my door, and, finding it fastened, gave a low knock.

“You need not worry,” I whispered to Livia. “Remain here, and I will do as you wish, I assure you.”

Livia embraced me once more, and then opened the door. Mario entered. I advanced to greet him, and then stopped with surprise at seeing him so pale and altered. He looked as if he had been ill also. Neither of us spoke for a moment, for he likewise seemed to be astonished at my appearance. He must, indeed, have found me greatly changed since he last saw me. I had grown so tall during my illness that my face was nearly on a level with his, and the long black dress I wore made me appear even taller than I really was. I had lost the freshness of my complexion. The thick, fair hair of which I had been so proud no longer shaded my face, but was drawn back from my forehead, and confined under a black net. He had no reason now to chide me for too much attention to my appearance. He could not make any cutting jests about my hair, as he used to when I arranged it like a crown on my brow, or left it in long curls at the caprice of the wind, according to the whim of my vanity. He had left me a child—a child wilful and full of freaks, whom he only noticed in order to correct for some fault. He found me a young lady, whose sad, distressed, and somewhat austere look seemed the very reverse of the picture left in his memory. He seemed affected to find me so changed, and held out his hand with a cordiality much more affectionate than usual. Then, after a moment’s silence, he said with a kindness he had never before manifested:

“You have passed through a great trial, my poor Ginevra. I have felt for you, and participated in your grief, I assure you.”

I was touched by these words, and was about to reply, when he resumed:

“Yes, you have suffered, I see; but it seems also to have been a great benefit to you.”

My heart was ready to burst, and I at once drew myself up: “Benefit to lose my mother! O Mario! how can you say so?”

He frowned. “I do not mean in that sense, Ginevra, as you must be aware. But perhaps I am mistaken,” he continued, resuming his ordinary tone, which I only remembered too well. “It may be you have only changed exteriorly. I hope it is otherwise, my dear sister, and that your childish vanity and foolish coquetry....”

“Mario!” murmured Livia in a beseeching tone, scarcely raising her eyes from her work. This exclamation escaped her almost involuntarily; for she knew better than any one else that the least reply only acted as a stimulant when he was inclined to be ill‐humored or angry. Therefore this slight interruption only served to make him continue in a louder tone.

“Yes, it is possible her coquettish disposition may not be overcome, and it would not be right to spare it. I am only acting as a friend by speaking plainly about the misfortunes it has caused.”

O merciful heavens!... Did he know my fearful secret, and was he about to tell me what I dreaded more than anything else in the world to hear? My heart throbbed violently, but I breathed once more when he added:

“Thank God, Ginevra, in the midst of your tears, for having taken your mother out of the world without the least suspicion of your behavior.”

Though these words allayed my chief anxiety, they seemed far more insulting than I merited. A flush rose to my cheeks, and I haughtily drew up my head, as I replied: “I never concealed anything in my life from my mother, Mario. And now she is gone, who alone had the right to admonish me, it belongs to my father, and not to you, I beg you to remember, my dear brother.”

I sat down and leaned my head against my hand, that he might not perceive the heart‐felt anguish he had caused me. I was by no means prepared for what followed.

“You are mistaken, my charming little sister,” he said in a cool, ironical tone, “and it is well to tell you, as you seem to be ignorant of it, that when young ladies play a game that endangers their reputation and the honor of the name they bear, they often oblige their brothers to take a part in it.”

Notwithstanding my folly and defects, I was really nothing but a child at that time, and his words conveyed no definite meaning to my mind. I turned around and looked him in the face with an air of surprise that showed I did not comprehend him. The eyes that met mine were no longer full of mockery, but sad and stern.

“Look at that, sister,” he said in a grave tone, throwing on the table a small paper package that was sealed. “The contents of that paper may recall a circumstance you seem to have forgotten, and perhaps make you understand my meaning.”

I hesitated a moment. I was afraid without knowing why. But finally I took up the paper, and tore open the wrapper. A withered flower fell out, which I gazed at with surprise, but without the slightest recollection.

“Do you not recognize it?”

I shook my head.

“Nevertheless, that flower came from your hands.”

I shuddered. He continued in the bitterest tone:

“It is true it was then red, ... red as the blood that had to be shed to restore it to you.”

The horror with which I was filled at these words struck me dumb. I clasped my icy hands, and turned deadly pale, without the power of uttering a word! Livia sprang from her seat.

“Mario, you have no heart, or soul, or mercy! Go away. It was not your place to tell her about this misfortune.”

But Mario, excited as usual by contradiction, continued without any circumlocution, and even more violently than before.

“No, no. It is better for Ginevra to learn the truth from my lips; for I am the only person that dares tell her the real state of the case. And I will do it without any disguise, for it may cure her. She shall listen to what I have to say. It will do her good. And I shall conceal nothing....”

I will not repeat the words that fell from his lips like a torrent of fire!... Besides, I can only recall their import. All I can remember is that they met the very evening of that fatal day—where and how I do not recollect. Flavio was talking to several other young men, and, without observing Mario’s presence, insolently mentioned my name. My brother snatched the carnation from his button‐hole. The next day the encounter took place....

I felt ready to drop with fright and horror. “Oh!” I said in a stifled voice, “can it be that my brother has killed Flavio Aldini with his own hand? O my God. my God! My punishment is greater than I deserve!”

“No, no,” he eagerly replied, “it was not I who....” He stopped, ... and then continued in a calmer tone, but somewhat bitterly:

“Compose yourself, dear sister; it was my blood alone that was shed in this encounter.”

“May God forgive me!” I shudderingly exclaimed with the fervent, sincere piety I always manifested with the simplicity of childhood. “And may he forgive you, too, Mario; for you likewise have committed a deed forbidden by God.”

A faint smile hovered on Mario’s lips, but it immediately gave way to a graver expression; for notwithstanding his defects, he was by no means disposed to be impious.

“Forbidden by God! That is true, Ginevra; but it is, I would hope, a deed he sometimes excuses, especially when the person insulted gets the worst of the encounter.”

As he said this, he put his hand to his breast, as if suffering from pain. I was again struck with his extreme paleness, as well as other traces of illness in his altered appearance, and was penetrated with shame and remorse. A feeling more akin to affection than I had ever felt for him sprang up in my heart, and I said to him humbly:

“Mario, you have done right to be plain with me, and I thank you. What you have said will, I trust, effect my entire cure. At any rate, you have done your duty.”

He had never known me to yield to him before. I had always revolted against his ill‐humor and harshness, whether just or not, and sometimes replied with an impertinence that justified his resentment. He was touched at seeing me in this new attitude, and, for the first time in his life, clasped me in his arms and kissed me with real affection. He then left the room, making a sign for Livia to follow him. She did so, but returned in a few minutes. Tears were in her eyes, and her lips were slightly tremulous—a sure indication in her of some sudden and profound emotion.

Mario had not told me every thing. His anger had died away, and he left it for kinder lips than his to communicate the rest.

V.

The affliction and repentance that so speedily followed the brief moment when I saw Flavio Aldini for the last time seemed to have effaced the transient impression produced at our only meeting, as a stream, suddenly swelled by a storm, washes away every trace left on the sand. I should have met him again with indifference, and perhaps even with aversion; for he would have been always associated with the first misfortune and first remorse of my life. Nevertheless, when Livia, after considerable hesitation, uttered the words, “_Flavio Aldini is dead_,” a cry almost of despair escaped from my lips; and the horrible thought at once occurred to me that Mario had deceived me—that he was the murderer, and that this flower, a thousand times abhorred, had cost the life of him who had obtained it through my vanity and thoughtlessness!...

The terrible lesson I had already received was not, however, to be carried to such an extent; but it was some minutes before I could be convinced of it. Livia herself had some difficulty in clearly relating the account she was charged with. At length I comprehended that Flavio, while pursuing a successful career of pleasure, was no less careful to improve every opportunity of repairing the inroads made on his fortune. Among these was the proposal to marry a wealthy heiress, which he acceded to without any scruple. But though he thus triumphed over a large number of suitors by means of his good looks and captivating manners, it was, in his eyes, only a lucky bargain and another light vow. He had been engaged only a few days, and the marriage was about to be publicly announced, when he met me at the ball. The sight of a new young face, and especially the _naïve_ inexperience of a girl it would be easy to dazzle, inspired the wish to try his power once more. But he had been followed to the ball‐room, and watched, by one of the unsuccessful suitors of the beautiful heiress. His encounter with Mario a few days after confirmed his rival’s suspicions, and afforded him a pretext for gratifying his hatred and jealousy. Consequently, when Flavio, after leaving Mario wounded on the field, returned to the villa he occupied at a short distance from Messina, he found a new opponent to bring him to an account for his faithlessness to his betrothed, on the plea of a distant relationship that gave him the right to declare himself her champion. In this second duel, fortune was adverse to Flavio. He lived several weeks, however, and had only died that very morning from the effects of his wounds!... The news had just arrived.... And this was what Livia had been commissioned to tell me of....

If it is true that our souls are like precious stones that only reveal all their brilliancy after much cutting and polishing, it is certain that for both the first blow must be the most trying.... My soul, over which my mother had watched, and which she said was dearer to her than her own life, or even than mine, was now undergoing this painful process; or, rather, had undergone it. But during the last hour, it was no longer the knife, but fire, that had been applied to my bleeding heart!

Though I had no direct cause for self‐reproach concerning this new catastrophe, as I at first feared, I did not feel myself wholly irresponsible. This was sufficient to deepen the solemn gravity of my reflections, in which I remained absorbed so long—motionless and silent—that poor Livia was seriously alarmed.

“Speak to me, Gina, I implore you. Oh! why, tell me why, _carina_, you have kept all this secret from your poor sister? Who could have dreamed you loved this unfortunate man; that you loved any one unbeknown to us all? Could we imagine such a thing possible? You know, dear child, I have never found fault with you, and I will not now. So tell me if it is true that you eluded the vigilance of your mother and Ottavia, in order to meet Flavio in the garden? Was it there you gave him the flower you wore in your hair? And is it true that more than once....”

Excessive surprise completely roused me from my stupor, and I eagerly interrupted her with a face as red as fire:

“Never! never! never!...” I exclaimed in a tone that would have convinced the most incredulous, for it had the indubitable accent of truth. “I did not love Flavio Aldini, and I never met him alone in my life.”

Livia, in her turn, looked at me with astonishment. “Did not love him? Never met him alone? Never gave him a bouquet or a single flower?”

“I will tell you the truth, Livia: once, and then I did not speak to him, I threw him from a distance the carnation I wore in my hair.”

“Once? From a distance? Ah! then tell me when and where you did it?”

I made no reply. A thousand thoughts flashed across my mind with the rapidity of lightning.... It was evident that, by some wonderful chance, no one knew exactly what had taken place. A vague story had been circulated, founded on Flavio’s exaggerated boasts. My father, brother, and sister had accepted this version—so far from the truth—without understanding the real extent of that which had been alleged against me. I felt that they considered me guiltier than I really was. And yet I would not have undeceived them for anything in the world. They judged me more severely than I deserved, but of what consequence was it? Was I not sufficiently culpable to accept this injustice with humility? Was it not enough, without complaining of anything else, to be at last assured that my secret was safe with my mother in heaven? Ought I not rather to bear all their reproaches without a murmur? There was only one that would have overwhelmed me, and that I was spared. All others were easy to bear, and, moreover, were merited by what they were ignorant of, if not by what they supposed true.

Livia patiently waited for me to break my long silence.

“You know I am incapable of telling you an untruth,” I said to her at last.

“Yes, and therefore I always believe you.”

“Well, then, I implore you to believe me now, Livia, without asking me anything more. And, moreover,” I added in a supplicating tone, “do not repeat what I have just told you, and make no effort to justify me to any one.”

My good sister looked at me attentively for a moment, and then gently drew my head against her shoulder.

“Poor Gina!” she said. “It shall be as you wish. I believe everything you say, and love you too well to annoy you with any more questions.”

Livia knew me thoroughly; for, notwithstanding her apparent simplicity, she had an eye that could read one’s soul. She saw the sincerity and repentance of mine, and read in my pale face and distressed look the extent of my sufferings, and her kind heart melted.... I was, indeed, very young to experience such a variety of emotions, and was still too weak to endure them. The habit of duelling, so unfortunately prevalent in Sicily, had, of course, accustomed me more than would have been the case anywhere else to occurrences similar to that I had just heard about. But to have my name connected with so fatal an affair; to feel that I was the cause of the blood shed in one of these encounters, and that the other had resulted in the tragical end of one who had flashed for an instant across my path, like one of those meteors that are the ominous forerunners of misfortune and death, ... was more than my young heart and feeble frame could endure. Livia perceived it.

“Come, _carina_,” she said, “lean against me. You need rest.”

I attempted to make my way to an old sofa, covered with red damask, at the other end of the vast and scantily‐furnished room; but I had no sooner risen than my strength failed me, and I was obliged to lean against a table to keep myself from falling. Livia hastened to procure some cold water, with which she sprinkled my face. I soon recovered, but was still pale and agitated when Ottavia came in. She had left me quite well an hour before, and, finding me now in such a state, she exclaimed with mingled impatience and alarm as she advanced: “Good heavens! what has happened to her? She was so well this morning.”... And giving Livia a furtive, distrustful glance, she extended the index and little finger of her hand, closing all the others; turning around as she made this gesture, the meaning of which is only too well known in our country.(89) This was done so quickly that I hoped I was the only one to perceive it.

“How foolish!” I angrily exclaimed to Ottavia, seizing her hand and covering it with mine. “Are you going to treat me always as if I were an invalid or an old woman? _Thanks to Livia_”—and I emphasized these words—“I have entirely recovered.”

Ottavia, half angry, half sorry, was about to go away; but Livia made a sign for her to remain, and, pressing my hand as she embraced me once more, left the room without uttering a word.

VI.

The little incident I have just related will doubtless excite some astonishment, and be regarded as scarcely confirming what I have said before about Ottavia’s piety and good sense. But whoever has lived in the southern part of Italy knows there are hundreds of people in that region whose education, and even religious instruction, are in no way deficient, and who, nevertheless, are not exempt from the singular superstition I have just referred to.

I leave it to the erudite to prove that Magna Græcia derived it from classical Greece, the mother country; that remote antiquity made use of the same absurd gesture to avert the effects of what it was still more absurd to believe; and that in those days, as well as now, people multiplied this very sign under the form of protective amulets—not only as jewels to be worn, but in the objects that surrounded them. I likewise leave to them the task of explaining why this evil has resisted the influence of time and the progress of civilization, as well as the spirit of Christianity. All that can be said, it seems to me, is that in those regions this superstition takes the place of all those that abound in the North of Europe, and from which Italy is exempt. For instance, we do not hear people there, as in Ireland, Scotland, and Sweden, talk of strange, weird apparitions, fairies, or malign spirits, under the name of bogies or banshees. They are not afraid, as in Russia, of meeting people clothed in black, of the number thirteen, and a thousand other absurd notions which Catholicism has condemned without being able to eradicate, and which Protestantism has been much more powerless against. Nor are the ruins, as in Germany, associated with wild legends or haunted by spirits. But, to make up for all this, the jettatura holds there its baleful sway. Though frequently ridiculed, it is feared more than any one is willing to admit; and there is no one, even among the most reasonable, who would suffer this dreaded epithet to be applied to himself, or any one he loved, without manifesting his displeasure. It would be impossible to account for the cause of this prejudicial notion in individual cases, or explain why this fearful term is sometimes applied to men of special merit, and women who are young, lovely, and amiable, as well as to those whom a pretext is wanted to avoid, or whose appearance has something repugnant. Sometimes it is sufficient that a person has accidentally witnessed some misfortune, and, if the same thing is known to occur again, the word escapes from the lips, flies from mouth to mouth, and the foolish prejudice is established. This had been the case with poor Livia. An accident once happened to me in my childhood when she was with me; shortly after, she was present when another occurred to one of our young friends; and a third time, she happened, in one of her charitable rounds, to be in the house of a poor man at the time of his death. This was spoken of at first as a mere jest; but it gradually became a source of mortification and humiliation to her, though none of us were ever allowed to make the least allusion to it in her presence. The repeated troubles of the past few weeks had disturbed the faithful Ottavia’s equilibrium and good sense to such an unusual degree that when she found me, pale and agitated, leaning on my sister’s shoulder, the first thought inspired by her terror caused her instantly to make this involuntary gesture.

I was so vexed at this occurrence that for a moment I forgot everything else. I felt angry with Ottavia, and threw myself on the old sofa without speaking, in a fit of mingled sorrow and displeasure.

I had always been fond of Livia, and now all the repressed and pent‐up tenderness of my heart was poured out on her. She seemed to be the only person in the world that still loved me—the only one that stood between me and what appeared like a great void. Yes, my mother was right in what she said about the great necessity of my nature. As a flower dies, deprived of the sun, so without affection I should soon cease to exist. I placed no reliance on the durability of that which my brother had just manifested. As to my father, his love seemed extinct in comparison with that of former times. And now that I knew the reason of his coldness and severity, I had no hope of overcoming them; for I felt sure he would less readily excuse the truth, were it revealed to him, than the error which had caused such a change in his manner.

Therefore for any one to wound the feelings of Livia, my darling sister, my indulgent and faithful friend, was at this time like piercing my very heart. I remained with my head on the cushions of the old sofa, while Ottavia was bustling about the chamber, as if trying to divert my attention from what had taken place. At last she approached and tried to get hold of my hand. I withdrew it.

“Come, dear signorina,” she said, “forgive your poor old Ottavia. I did wrong.”

“Yes, very wrong, Ottavia,” I replied in a tone almost severe.

“I know it, and feel as if I were listening to the blessed spirit of Donna Bianca herself when I hear you and see you! You resemble her so much, signorina!...”

“Well, Ottavia, what would she say to you, if she had been present?”

“She would tell me that my fear of the jettatura is both foolish and wrong; and that is only what I know myself, what I believe and realize when I am on my knees before God!... Oh! at such times I really feel that his will alone is everywhere accomplished; I only love that holy will; I am afraid of nothing, because I am convinced that will must prevail. And yet, after all, ... when my dear signorina seems to be in danger, or I imagine some one is going to bring her ill‐luck....”

“Ottavia!... Ottavia!”... I cried, suddenly interrupting her with an outburst that almost frightened her, “it is I, it is I, and not she, who bring ill‐luck to all I approach....”

I burst into tears as I spoke. This sudden return upon myself effaced, with the mobility of youth, the impression previously received, and brought back, to my confusion and remorse, all the reality of the present.

Ottavia, like the rest, had been told of my supposed fault, and was ignorant of what I had really done; but she was by no means in a mood now to add any reproaches to those I had already received from my brother. On the contrary, she tried to soothe me, not by any direct reply, but by speaking of that which she could talk best about. I had always been more or less piously inclined from my earliest childhood. How could it be otherwise under the excellent influence that had hitherto been the life of my life?... This piety did not obliterate my faults, but it existed in spite of them, and was to exist through all the perils reserved for me in the future. But it was, if I may so speak, intermittent. Sometimes it grew dormant, if not absolutely extinct; at other times it was kindled to a lively and ardent degree. Therefore I frequently recited my catechism with indifference and _ennui_; but when it was explained by Ottavia in her peculiar way; when she spoke of the sacraments, or dwelt on the life and sufferings of our Saviour, and more especially on the life to come, I was filled with delight. The loveliness of the natural world around me seemed to assume an additional charm; and when I considered that this was only a faint image of a far more beautiful realm, I longed at once to exchange this life for the other....

It was by such means the good Ottavia now gently endeavored to divert me, by speaking of God, of heaven, and various other sacred topics. By degrees she came back to more indifferent subjects, and finally to Livia, promising to make her forget the mortification she had experienced, and almost persuading me she had not perceived what had taken place.

I allowed her to talk on in this way without interruption until her somewhat monotonous tone produced a drowsiness that was beneficial to my over‐excited nerves. As soon as she saw my eyes grow heavy, she placed one of the large sofa‐cushions under my head, closed the window‐shutters to exclude the dazzling light, and then, after remaining beside me till she was persuaded I was fast asleep, softly left the chamber.

I was not, however, asleep. But my attitude and the profound silence and solitude of the room were very soothing, and I remained a long time absorbed in a thousand complex thoughts. Long years have passed away since that day, and other and more dangerous temptations have assailed me, but I have never forgotten the reflections of that hour. My vanity had been for ever shattered like the congealed surface of some deep lake by some sudden blow. It had not really been a part of my inner nature, but rather on the surface, and therefore not the most dangerous trait of my character. During the remainder of my life, I can only recall a single hour—and _only one!_ ... when it again blinded me.... But that hour was long after the one of which I have been speaking. At this time I could say with assurance that Mario’s wish was fulfilled—that I was effectually and radically cured of my vanity. Associated with so many poignant recollections, it had become horrible in my eyes.

My health was somewhat affected by the agitation I had undergone, and I took advantage of this to remain several days in my room, only leaving it to take the air on the terrace. I only saw my father for a moment, morning and night. The remainder of the day I passed with Livia. Whether she had forgotten what had distressed me so much, or it was owing to her self‐ control, or she really had not noticed it, it was impossible to tell from her manner, and I finally persuaded myself it was as I hoped.

Livia, in spite of her amiable disposition, had great firmness of character. She never allowed herself to be induced to tell anything she wished to conceal, or to do what was forbidden by others or by her own judgment. But what especially characterized her was her self‐ forgetfulness. This did not strike me at that time. When one is only fifteen years of age, one receives impressions without defining them: one is repelled or attracted by certain natures without being able to analyze them. But in looking back, not only over the events of my past life, but what transpired in the inner folds of my conscience, I clearly see the difference between my sister’s nature and mine. From her very childhood she had lived a life of self‐forgetfulness (sublime and simple way to heights but little known!), regardless of her own tastes and inclinations, and even of her own sufferings. Whereas, I was constantly endeavoring to fathom the workings of my heart and soul and mind, and to find food for them, as one tries to appease one’s hunger and thirst when importunate. Not but that I was capable of forgetting myself, and, so to speak, of being absorbed in the heart of another, as I had been in that of my mother, but solely on the condition of being to that other, in return, the object of an infinite predilection; ... for this word of such vast import does not seem to express more than my heart craved. But in spite of this difference, or rather on the very account of it, Livia and I were always at ease with each other, and it was not without regret I was at last obliged to resume my usual life. I regretted this the more because it had been regulated by my father in a way that indicated only too plainly how much he distrusted me. Nevertheless, I submitted with humility and docility to this unaccustomed _surveillance_, the cause of which was so evident.

I was only released from it during the early hours of the day, which I spent in my chamber with Livia. I was not allowed to go into the garden, except under Ottavia’s escort; and I was not permitted to leave the house, unless accompanied by my father or Mario. All the rest of my time I passed in my father’s cabinet, where he had a table placed for me near his own. There, for hours together, I read, wrote, or worked, varying my occupations according to my own tastes, but without any other liberty. To have passed my days in this way beside my father would have been delightful once; but now, though he was often kind and affectionate, there was a certain gravity in his affection that made me feel I was the object of unjust suspicion, and tortured me beyond expression. But I submitted to this torture without a murmur, acknowledging, as I did so, that it was only a merited chastisement.

This cabinet was like a vast hall in form, and, like all the other rooms of that old palace, grand in its proportions, but only furnished with what was absolutely essential. One side of the apartment was entirely lined with shelves filled with books and papers, and at each extremity stood a row of arm‐chairs. In the middle of the room, opposite two large windows, was my father’s writing‐table, near which was mine. Between the windows hung a large painting, which was the only ornament in the room; but, to compensate for this, the garden could be seen, and further off, beyond the verdure of the orange‐trees, stretched the blue outline of the sea.

My father received many of his friends and clients in the morning, but seldom admitted any of them into the room we occupied. A servant half opened the door to announce the visitors’ names, and my father went into the adjoining room to receive them. It was only on special occasions he gave orders for any one to be admitted where we were.

During the long hours I was thus left alone, I sometimes busily employed my time, but more frequently remained with my arms folded, plunged in a profound reverie. At such times I always avoided looking at the large painting that hung on the opposite panel between the two windows. This was a fine copy of Herodias’ Daughter, by Guido, the original of which I afterwards saw in the Palazzo Corsini, at Rome. The sweet, charming face of the girl who is holding with a smile the bleeding head of S. John had a kind of fascination for me. It seemed like the personification of vanity in a new form, giddy and thoughtless in its course and fatal in its results, and often inspired me with many silent, gloomy reflections.... I preferred looking at the foliage of the orange‐trees in the garden below, or gazing into the blue, illimitable heavens above. I often amused myself, likewise, before a cage, prettily painted and gilded, that hung in one of the windows, and contained a bird whose company was a great diversion in the life of disguised punishment I was condemned to. This bird, whose melody surpassed that of the nightingale in sweetness and power, was one of those called at Sorrento, where they are chiefly found, the _passero solitario_. I was so fond of its sweet music that my father had allowed me to hang the cage here, and more than once in the day I climbed up on a bench in the embrasure of the window to see there was no lack of the singularly copious and solid food which this bird of angelic notes daily requires.

One day, while I was thus perched at a considerable height from the floor, the door opened much wider than usual, and the old servant that announced the visitors said with a certain emphasis: “His Excellency the Duca di Valenzano.”

My first thought was to descend from the post I occupied; but before I had time to do so, the visitor entered the room, and stood regarding me with an air of surprise. My father rose to meet so unexpected a client; but the latter held out his hand to aid me in my descent, and followed me with his eyes, without speaking, as I hastily regained my usual seat, blushing with confusion. My father conducted him to the other end of the room, where stood the row of arm‐chairs, and both took seats. During the long conversation that followed, I could only hear the tones of their voices as they rose and fell. Sometimes my father’s predominated, and at other times the deep, sonorous voice of his visitor. I saw it was a question of business, for my father rose several times to search for different papers among the books arranged on the shelves of the library. Finally the conversation ended, and the new client proceeded towards the door. But when he arrived opposite the cage where my bird was singing, he said: “Really, one’s ears are charmed here no less than one’s eyes. It seems more like a palace of fairies than a rendezvous for all the contentions of Sicily....”

He was then standing directly before me.

“Don Fabrizio,” continued he, “is not this your daughter, Donna Ginevra, of whom I have so often heard? Do me the favor of presenting me to her.”

My father’s face assumed a severe, dissatisfied expression, and mine was covered with a livelier blush than before. “Heard of me so often?” Alas! he had probably heard me spoken unfavorably of! Perhaps this was the very thought that clouded my father’s brow. Nevertheless, after a moment’s hesitation, he said: “Rise, Ginevra, and pay your respects to the Duca di Valenzano.”

I rose, but without uttering a word; for I was disconcerted by the fixed, scrutinizing eye that seemed trying to read my face. I lowered my eyes, without being able to distinguish the features of this new acquaintance. I only remarked that he was tall, and had a noble air, in spite of his peculiar garb, that made him look more like a travelling artist than a person of high rank.

To Be Continued.

On The Wing. A Southern Flight. III.

“Vedi Napoli, e poi mori.”(90)

We left Rome in a storm of thunder and lightning. The rain poured in large, cold drops, pattering against the windows of the railway carriage, and adding considerably to the feelings of gloom and apprehension with which we thought of Rome—as Rome is now. When should we visit the Eternal City again? And would the veil of sadness which now falls on all that is dear and sacred to the Catholic be raised once more in our time? Mary was very silent for some hours of our long journey; and while I, with my habitual curiosity, was peering through the rain‐washed window to discover the beauties of the glorious country through which we were rushing, she lay back with closed eyes, absorbed in thought; while Frank, with a fixed frown on his face, was reading and rustling, and finally crumpling up, in paroxysms of anger, the numerous Italian papers that he had bought by handfuls at the station. Presently Mary opened her eyes once more, and condescended to recognize the great fact that we were travelling further and further to the glorious South. I do not think I felt less intensely than my sister the sorrow that attends all reflection on the present condition of the great centre of Christendom and the position of the Father of the faithful. But my grief is apt to take another form from that of Mary’s or Frank’s. Mary grows silent and outwardly calm. Frank becomes gloomy. I am more irritable; and irritability leads to activity. My mind was working with an incessant rapidity, and the impulse to catch sight once more of every shred that could carry me back to happier times, and recall once more the memories of the past, kept me straining my eyes to get a glimpse of Albano, where we had spent a long, happy summer when the Holy Father was at Castel Gandolfo. Should I catch sight of Lavinia, Æneas’ own city, the object of so many excursions in those happy days? Should I see those hills covered with chestnuts, bare of leaves now, beneath whose shade I had so often rested? Even Velletri, though not in itself a specially interesting place, had the charm of association. I remembered how I had gone to spend a long day there, and had wandered to the gates of some private house with a large garden. I had stood looking through the iron bars on a little paradise, but, as usual in Italy, a paradise in disorder. Stone vases stood on a balustrade, filled with bright flowers, but also with weeds. The fertile valley lay below, and beyond the blue and purple mountains rose in tiers one above another, with soft, violet shadows and dim blue mists; and here and there a peak of rugged rock, on which the sun struck bright and keen. A long avenue of shady plane‐trees was to my right. A solitary peasant drove his mule, with balanced panniers and pointed ears like two notes of admiration against the sky, far as my eye could reach down the green distance. I longed to wander on; to follow the flickering lights along that silent road, and know that it would lead me out to the Pontine Marshes, with the rugged Abruzzi beyond. Here, too, rests the body of Hyacinthe Mariscotti, a Franciscan nun, who died in 1640, and whose life, less known out of Italy than it deserves, is one of the most marvellous in its union of great graces and great sufferings.

The rain pelted hard; the lightning made me, from time to time, shrink back suddenly; but still I strained my eyes to catch sight of the shifting scene, and allowed memories to reawaken and imagination to throw its glamour over the past and the future.

Many of the stations along this road are at some distance from the towns whose name they bear; and this, of course, diminishes a little the interest of the journey. For instance, Aquino, the birthplace of the great father of the church, S. Thomas Aquinas, is about a mile off. Near here we were, for a time, to take leave of Frank. He had made up his mind to visit the cradle of the great saint before proceeding to Monte Casino, where he had made arrangements to spend at least a week. Our readers are no doubt well aware that Monte Casino is no longer what it was. Its glories have been shorn by the present government, as the rays of the sun are shorn by the twilight. There are comparatively very few monks of the order of S. Benedict still allowed to reside there. Amongst them, however, Frank had formed a real friendship; and for a month previous, at least, Mary and I had heard him descanting upon all the charms that he was to find in that wonderful retreat of learning and sanctity. Partly to tease him, and partly to be revenged for the fact that I must be for ever excluded, I generally replied to his enthusiasm by making a wry face and uttering the words, “Kid, rancid oil, and garlic.” Then he would toss back that tiresome stray lock which is always trying to shade his beautiful violet eyes, and reply, with a smile, “Oh! I shall not mind.” The train stops a very short time at San Germano, the station for the Monastery of Monte Casino, and we had a hurried leave‐taking. I was endeavoring to collect a few of his newspapers, which I thought he had not half read, and put them into his hand as he left the carriage. “No, no, dear Jane. Do you think I would pollute those sacred walls by carrying there all that blasphemous stuff.” And he leapt out just as we began to move on.

“O Mary!” I exclaimed, “how dreadful it would be, if Frank were to become a Benedictine monk.”

“What else do you want him to do?”

“Why, live at home, of course, as an English country gentleman should do, marry, and bring up a son to rule after him.”

“What a thorough conservative you are, Jane!” said Mary with a smile.

“I am not so sure of that. I have a dash of the liberal in me at times. But I do love the dirty acres; and I like to see them going down from father to son without a break.”

“You are right there. It is that permanence which is the back‐bone of England. I do not believe in the lasting stability of any country where there is a perpetual and ever‐recurring division of property. What a man _has_ should always survive what a man _is_, in a sufficiently substantial form to make the cradle of a future destiny. And where no one is sure of inheriting a large fortune with the large leisure that it secures, it tends to make all men equally mercenary. There should always be a class apart who have no need to fret about making money, but can afford to spend it.”

“But what if they do not spend it well?”

“That is an answer which in one shape or another you may make to the laying down of any principle. What if it be abused? It does not prove the falsity of the principle, but only once more calls to mind the truism that everything is open to abuse.”

“I suppose you think there are so many objects on which wealth may be advantageously expended that it is well to have an hereditary body whose business it is to do so.”

“Yes; and I would certainly include the cultivation of hot‐house grapes, and the elysium of fat porkers who are washed and combed twice a week. It is every man’s business to produce the best he can of whatever he has in hand, including pineapples and pigs.”

“Well done, Mary. You are a worse conservative than I am. But do you really think that modern civilization, as it is called, has its uses?”

“By modern civilization, Jane, I conclude you really mean material improvements. Civilization is a term which is so misused that it has become hardly safe to use it at all. It ought to mean something much higher than increased railway facilities, more looking‐glasses and buhl, hundreds of daily newspapers, and a French cook.”

“Oh! of course. Civilization ought to mean the intellectual and spiritual development of mankind from out of the rough block of his animal nature and his uneducated mind. If you add to this the refinement which self‐ respect and a perpetual inner consciousness of a Being greater and higher than ourselves, keeping all the man’s actions in harmony with himself and with a higher law, you have a really civilized man as distinct from a savage.”

“That is not a bad description of what civilization ought to be. But that is very different from the idea most people have in their minds when they use the term.”

“In point of fact, Mary, I mean material progress. How far is it useful?”

“How people would stare at you, Jane, for that query!—people who think there is nothing more glorious than to have invented a new machine or a fresh adjunct to luxury.”

“Yes, those are just the people who would not the least know what I meant by my implied doubts about the value of material progress. But you know what I mean and why I question its nature and deprecate its increase.”

“It is a difficult question to solve. But I have long since come to the conclusion that there is never any very great and generally diffused advance made by mankind in any one direction without its having some definite purpose in the Eternal Mind for the ultimate good of his creation. The progress of science is only second in importance to the progress of religion; and after these two comes the progress of the useful arts, which are the offspring of science, and often seem only to pander to luxury, but are really subsidiary aids in that march, in the accomplishment of which man is to fulfil his destiny of possessing the earth and filling it. Mankind is in no way benefited by the discovery, for instance, of a new perfume, whereby some silly woman may add to the already exaggerated expenses of her toilet; but the process by which that perfume has been produced is, in itself, of the utmost value, and exhibits mechanical invention and scientific principles that are of the last importance to mankind. The perfume is an accident—a little of the golden dust scattered by the wheels of material progress.”

“Just so; and dust, albeit golden, is not a good atmosphere to breathe in.”

“Decidedly not.”

“Then do you think, dear Mary, that material progress, or what we generally call improvements, conduces, on the whole, to human happiness?”

“Ah! there lies the really difficult question, and one which I have again and again striven to answer satisfactorily to myself. Happiness is a term generally used to cover more than it has any right to do. There is only one real happiness, and that is what man finds in himself, in union with his God. That happiness is positive, and there is no other positive. We begin it here, but with great drawbacks and frequent interruptions. We complete it in the light of glory. But outside that, hanging on to the skirts and fringes of real happiness, there are contentment, pleasure, ease, and last, but not least, comfort. No one can impart happiness, pure and simple, to another. The nearest approach to doing so is in a reciprocal affection. But God alone can satisfy the soul of man. What we can confer on others and on ourselves are various degrees of those lesser goods which I have enumerated. Now, all these enter into the general plan of God’s dealings with his creatures. The animal world is susceptible of them in its degree, and we ourselves in a far higher degree. As they enter into the general scheme, I am at liberty to conclude, not only from my own sensations, which might delude me, but from that very fact, that they are of very great importance, and that everything which augments the sum of them is a blessing. They are the ore out of which we coin our charities to others. They are therefore essentially God’s gifts, to be given by us again.”

“I know what you mean, Mary. I shall never forget the pleasure I had in taking one of your air‐cushions to that poor woman at T——, who was dying of cancer, and to whom the slightest pressure of even an ordinary pillow was so painful. Now, air‐cushions are a comparatively modern invention. Dear mother used to say no one ever heard of mackintoshes and gutta‐percha in her day.”

“No, Jane, nor yet of lucifer matches. It was terrible work to have to nurse the sick through the night, with a flint and steel and tinder as the only way of striking a light. I think I see now my old nurse, with her large frilled night‐cap, hammering away for what seemed to us children a good three minutes, because the rush‐light had gone out, and baby was crying. I can remember I had for that flint and steel very much the same feelings an Indian has for his fetish. I used to wonder how the flint hid the fire in its cold bosom, and why sometimes it seemed to require so many more persuasive knocks than at others before it gave out its sparks. But for the matter of that, as a child I had secretly embraced the earliest form of religion, the _animism_ of the lower races of savages—and I lent a soul to all inanimate, and even all inorganic, matter. I believe, if we could but find it out, all children do so more or less. The external world is so wonderful to them that they vaguely imagine a personality and a consciousness to exist in everything. There is not a little girl who does not, in her heart, believe that her doll is something more than wax and sawdust; and I would not give much for her, if she did not. The exuberance of faith leads to an exuberance of tenderness; and the girl who believes in her doll has the germ of a good mother in her.”

“You seemed just now to attach a great importance to comfort, Mary. I am surprised at that.”

“It arises, in a measure, from my own personal experience. Besides which, comfort may mean almost anything; for it is generally whatever we are used to. I remember so well, years ago, when the sorrows of my life first threatened to overpower me, how thankfully I felt the warm, soft arms of mere outward well‐being so closely round me. To me they were no more than comforts, because all my life I had been used to them. To others they would have seemed luxuries. When I used to go up to London alone to my father’s house, and find all ready to my hand—well‐appointed servants, large, warm rooms, and a good table, with nothing of meanness, or sparing, or pinching in the unextravagant but perfectly organized home that was open to me—I used often to lean back in my easy‐chair, and say to myself, ‘I am very unhappy; but, thank God, I am not uncomfortable!’ Later on, you know, it was not so. I was a Catholic, and doors that had been open to me before were closed for ever. Then came the time for discomfort. If I wanted to go to London, I had to go to a lodging. The furniture was shabby and dirty; the fires smoked; the food was badly cooked. I drove about in hired vehicles, perished with cold, and shaken to death. I knew I was in no way degraded by it all; but it was new and painfully strange to me, and I _felt_ degraded by an amount of discomforts which in my youth I had never approached. It did not, in itself, make me unhappy, but it added a thousandfold to the suffering from real causes for unhappiness. I used to say they were the splinters of my cross, though not my cross itself. Ever since then, I never see a person in sorrow without being anxious to make them at least comfortable. There is nothing, you see, approaching to asceticism in my view, dear Jane; but, at any rate, one is not bound to be ascetic for others.”

Mary and I were sitting side by side in the railway‐carriage, I having come from my seat opposite in order the better to hear. But now I returned to my old place, just as we paused at the station of Caserta, and saw the largest palace in Europe, now empty and almost deserted, not far off.

The great object in our visit to Naples was to be as near as possible to our friends, the Vernons. We were to go first to a hotel, and then look out for a villa at Posilippo, near the one occupied by themselves, which was called Casinelli, from the family of that name to whom it belonged. We had written to Ida Vernon to beg she would choose our hotel and our rooms. She had lodged us at a very comfortable _pension_ on the Chiaja, and wrote us word we must, on reaching the station at 10 o’clock at night, look out for their servant, Monica; and that she would wear a red handkerchief pinned across, gold earrings, and a blue skirt. We were not to expect the universal black hair and eyes of the Italian woman, as hers were soft brown. The station is very large and very badly lighted. But as soon as I got out, I ran to the grating—a high iron railing, behind which stood the crowd of people, friends, servants, porters, and mere lookers‐on, all pushing and squeezing to catch sight of those they expected by the train. I soon made out the blue skirt, and red kerchief, and the amiable, smiling face of Monica. She welcomed us exactly as if we had been old friends, and that it was a personal pleasure to herself that we had arrived. She had brought a carriage for us the size of a small house, but which refused (through the coachman) to take luggage. That was to follow in another kind of conveyance immediately after us. Every sort of injunction was given as to its destination, and, persuaded all was right, we rumbled over the large flags of the streets of Naples to the far end of the Chiaja, where we were to lodge. There were flowers in our room and a note from Ida; and the next morning we were to meet, after a separation of seven years. Meanwhile, our _impedimenta_ was slowly grinding its way past our door, up the steep hill of Strada Nuova, on to Posilippo, where our friends reside—a good twenty minutes from our abode—down the hill, through the vineyard, and up to the door of the Villa Casinelli, where, arriving about midnight, they thundered and thumped till the tired Monica had donned once more the blue skirt, while Lucia was screaming that there were robbers. Ida came forth in a warm wrapper; Elizabeth’s tall figure was draped in white; Helen peeped out of the half‐open door; and the good Padre Cataldo, their chaplain, in _beretta_ and _soutane_, had to emerge from his little sanctum, at the furthest end of the long, narrow house, before peace could be restored, and our mountain of huge black trunks, portmanteaus, and leather bags could be induced to retrace their needless steps, climb again that zig‐zag road up the steep tufa rock, and reach us, worn out with waiting and feverish with impatience for night‐gear, at about one o’clock in the morning.

Brilliant sunshine, streaming into the room the next day, woke us up to the sense of the joyous, bounding life of these delicious climes. O noisy Naples! what clamorous cries, what vibrating shouts, what shrill feminine voices, fill thy glaring streets through the livelong day and far into the unrestful night. The horses neigh as they do not neigh in any more tranquil climes. The usually silent ass is here a garrulous animal. The dogs bark and snarl in a dialect special to Naples. The women scream like cockatoos, and never address each other in lower tones than as if shouting a word of command on board a man‐of‐war in a gale of wind. Their habits are not conversational, but _scream_ational; and the most cordial civility is communicated like a threat, while an affectionate compliment is conveyed in sounds sufficient to startle the most supine into lively attention. Young girls hiss and squeal; infants bellow and roar. It is noise, noise, all day long; and over all a remorseless sunshine on white, glaring pavements of flag‐stones a quarter of a yard square and more, like the pavement of the ancient Romans, such as we still see it in the Via Sacra near the Colosseum, and which resounds to the metallic tread of donkey, mule, and horse, or to the softer, shuffling pit‐a‐pat of the herds of bearded goats that traverse the city at early morn and eventide.

Mary’s bed‐room opened into a large _loggia_ full of flowers—geraniums, petunias, and carnations in full blossom, though it was only the month of March; but so had they blossomed more or less all through the winter. A few orange‐trees in tubs were there with golden fruit and star‐like flowers. Then the blue sky and the bluer bay! Yes, it was the plenitude of life that one only knows in the South, with the delicious sense of the pleasure of mere existence, which tempts one to adopt the _dolce far niente_, and makes living and breathing seem a full accomplishment of the day’s duties.

Ida and Elizabeth Vernon came early to carry us off to Posilippo; first to call on Mrs. Vernon at Villa Casinelli, and then to decide on a lodging as near to them as possible. We found them living in a house whose foundations are washed by the sea, and commanding a view of wonderful beauty. The descent from the main road was too steep for any carriage, winding in and out through vines and fig‐trees, oranges and Japanese medlars, ending in a closely‐knit avenue of the white mulberry, which in the summer makes a dense shade.

Our friends wanted us to take the villa next to theirs, if only the proprietor, a poor and proud _marchese_, would let it to us. We went over to look at it, but came away in disgust. There was scarcely any furniture, and none that would have satisfied even the most modest requirements. I do not remember seeing any beds, although it is certain the family come there from time to time for a few days. I asked Ida where they slept, and she pointed to some roomy sofas and wide divans, on which had been flung the ashes and the ends of cigars, as the probable resting‐place of the proprietors. We could only shake our heads in horrified astonishment, and think what a lovely place might be made of this quaint old house. It stands partly on the rock and partly on arcades, through which the sea comes rushing when the waves are high, but where, when it is calm, you may sit on silver sands or on the stone steps that lead down from the house and the upper terraced gardens. We had been so fascinated by the appearance of this residence, which looks outside like the fragment of an old feudal castle, and inside is bright with sunshine and the glorious view it commands, that we had requested Padre Cataldo to write and ask the terms before we had gone over it. On our return from doing so, shocked at the dirt and disorder we had witnessed, we were amused to find a magniloquent reply to the effect that the titled owner would “condescend” to let us his dwelling for (and here he named an exorbitant price), solely out of an amiable desire to make himself agreeable; and that he would call the following morning to receive the ten weeks’ rent in advance! We finally decided on the villa next but one to that of our friends—the Villa R—— R——. We did not require more than one floor of the house. The rest was occupied by the family, and had a second entrance. We came into our part straight from the Strada Nuova, down a few steps, and in at a large folding door flanked by a Stone seat and two vases with huge aloes. We had a lovely view of the bay in front, a little garden on a sloping bank on one side, full of oranges and lemons, now in full fruit and flower; a _loggia_—that great desideratum of an Italian house—and a view of Naples and Mount Vesuvius. On our return to our apartments, we were met by the woman who attends upon us, telling us that Ann was in her room with a bad headache. Little did we guess what had befallen her! We went in to see what was the matter, and found her flung upon the bed, with her clothes on, in a profound stupor. In vain we called her and shook her; we could not rouse her. The landlady presently came and told us that an hour previous poor Ann had been brought home by a _gendarme_ in a carriage; that she was unable to walk up‐stairs without assistance, and seemed completely dazed when spoken to. The _gendarme_ said he had noticed a young person sitting on a bench in the Villa Reale, the long, narrow garden which runs for a mile along the Chiaja by the sea‐shore; that she looked extremely ill; and that, noticing she had valuables about her (alluding to her watch and chain), he had asked her address, put her into a carriage, and brought her home. It was a mercy he had done so. The Neapolitan police are not always so honest. But our dismay was increased when at length, having awakened her, she did not know any of us. She kept entreating Mary, who held her in her arms, to take her back to her own Mrs. Gordon, her good Mrs. Gordon. In vain Mary replied, “But I am Mrs. Gordon, Ann. Look at me; don’t you know me?”

“No, no; you look something like her, but you have not her voice. Oh! where is she. Where is Miss Jane, and where is Lulu?”

Fortunately, Lulu, Mary’s dog, was in her room, and the probability was that, though she failed to know us, she would recognize Mary’s Lulu from any other Lulu. I flew to fetch the little animal, and threw it into her arms, to poor Lulu’s great astonishment. It succeeded perfectly. She knew the dog, and thus recovered her memory of the faces around her, and her conviction that she was in her own room. Evidently she had a vague horror that she might have been taken to the wrong house, and that she had awakened among strangers. When she had entirely recovered herself, we found that no trace of what had happened to her remained on her memory from the moment that she entered the Villa Reale; yet she was found more than half way down it! She must have wandered on partially insensible; and it is a blessing that, when the _gendarme_ found her, she had enough consciousness left to give the right address. She had already been out in the morning, and a second walk in the hot sun had been too much for her. It was a sun‐stroke; and strangers are more subject to such accidents than persons who have become habituated to the climate. It was, however, long before Ann really shook off the effects of gratifying her over‐curiosity to visit the beauties of Naples on first arriving.

In a very short time, we were comfortably settled at Villa R—— R——. The Vernons had arranged everything for us with a forethought for which we could not be too grateful. They lent us the services of Monica as cook, assuring us that, if we took a Neapolitan, we should be cheated and tormented out of our lives. Monica was a Piedmontese, and as good and simple‐hearted a girl as any one could wish to find. Her economical scruples were positively amusing. We could hardly induce her to buy the particular articles we desired for our dinner, because, in her estimation, they were at too high a price in the market; and she would beg and entreat of us to wait patiently a little longer until they should have gone down. If it had been her own money she was spending, she would not have been so economical; for, as we found out later, she was always ready to lend to those less well off than herself, and would give away more than she could afford. The name of the young lad whom the Vernons engaged to act as servant was Paolino, a boy of eighteen, with glorious, large brown eyes and bright complexion. It was some time before we taught him manners, as he had never been in a gentleman’s family before. His father was a _vignaiuolo_ of the name of Camerota. He had several sons and daughters, some of them married. He rented the vineyards of the _marchese_ whose dilapidated house we had declined to hire, and each of his children married from their home with a good substantial dower and a large _trousseau_. The eldest girl had not long been a bride when we arrived; and, after making the acquaintance of the other members of the family, we one day called upon her. Their dwelling was built against the tufa rock which skirts the Strada Nuova. She had three rooms, nicely furnished, with marble tops to the chest of drawers and the table, such as we in England should only expect to find in the houses of the rich, but which here are common enough. The bedstead was of walnut, and the sheets like the driven snow for whiteness. Ida, who had known the girl for years, told us that her _trousseau_ contained a dozen of every necessary article of dress and house‐linen, even to a dozen pairs of stays!—enough to last a life‐time. There hung a crucifix at the head of the bed, and a few colored engravings ornamented the walls of the sitting‐room, in which also there stood a tiny altar with a statue of the Mater Dolorosa and a few flowers.

The lower classes here have what we should call strange notions with respect to the sacrament of marriage. It is treated as a deed of darkness. The bride is conveyed late in the evening, or by cock‐crowing, to church, by her mother and a few respectable matrons. No young girl, not even a sister, is allowed to be present, and would endanger her reputation were she to appear on such an occasion. A few days later, the bride once more puts on her wreath, and her veil, and her wedding‐dress. All the family and friends of both sexes are gathered together, and the women and men, in separate carriages, drive fast and furious along the Chiaja up the Strada Nuova, past Posilippo, by the hour, and finally pause at the Taberna del Capo di Posilippo, or some other house of entertainment, and have a merry feast. We held this said Taberna somewhat in horror. On Sundays—the day on which everybody seems to think his honor and reputation are engaged in galloping up hill and down dale at a break‐neck pace for the whole afternoon—this was the chief place of meeting; and in the lovely starlight evenings, the returning guests would come back with a sadly rollicking air, hat on one side, a long cigar in the mouth, and a leg hanging over the side of the frail vehicle, while the spirited little Sardinian horse, all blood and sinew, would fly along, with jingling bells and bright brass harness, as if his hoofs hardly struck the earth. The drivers of these _cittadine_, as the little hired open carriages are called, take great pride in their harness. The horse‐collar more resembles a yoke; and where it meets over the horse’s neck, there is often a little brass image of the angel guardian—a very necessary angel, indeed, considering the pace they go, and whose guardianship must be severely put to the test by the mad risks of the half‐inebriated coachmen. It is very rare to see a Neapolitan really drunk. The wine they take produces a light, joyous, but brief intoxication, which makes dare‐devils of them for the time, but soon loses its effects, and is rarely stupefying. It is the divine _inflatus_ of the Bacchus of old, and not the coarse, heavy incapacity of the snoring Silenus. Nevertheless, though I have spoken so indulgently of the Taberna del Capo di Posilippo, it formed a not unfrequent subject of grave rebuke and expostulation in the discourses of our good Padre Cataldo to his little group of listeners in the chapel in the rock belonging to Villa Casinelli. And probably he knew more of its evil influences than we did. I remember, one Sunday afternoon, being particularly struck by a carriage full of merry‐makers, drawn by the most miserably thin gray mare my eyes had ever beheld. She was nothing but a bag of bones, and must have reached the utmost age that horse ever attains. I was horrified to see so old and pitiable an object driven so hard and fast, and could only console myself by thinking the gallop I then witnessed must surely be the last. But it was not so; far from it. Day after day, but on Sundays especially, my Rosinante might be seen flinging her wild hoofs into space, amid a cloud of dust, and generally in competition with a beautiful, wicked‐looking black horse, sleek and well cared for, in dazzling harness, with red ribbons in his mane—a perfect little devil, as he took the bit between his teeth, and seemed to enjoy the eagerness of his driver, albeit the lash fell often on his sleek and steaming flanks. I delighted in that little black horse. But to the last Sunday of our abode at Posilippo poor Rosinante held her ground. And I can see her now, awful to behold, neither fatter nor thinner—that she could hardly be—than the first day, devouring the ground beneath her, and flinging out her skeleton leg straight from the shoulder, so that I could hardly see she touched the ground.

The chief amusement on Sunday afternoons of our own humbler friends and neighbors, the _vignaiuoli_,(91) was a game of bowls by the side of the road, and in front of the wide‐gaping wooden doors of the strange dwellings cut in the rock where the inhabitants of Posilippo reside. Many of these are restaurants and taverns on a small and humble scale; and Padre Cataldo had been making vigorous efforts, not to discourage the game of bowls, but to induce the men to play in an open space near the Villa Casinelli, and consequently at some distance from the taverns. Like all Italians, and chief amongst them all, the Neapolitans are great gamblers. The tavern‐keepers encourage this, because it promotes their trade; and the games being carried on in front of their caverns (for such they really are) leads to incessant “treating.” In this way, what between entertaining his friends and losing his money at play, it often happens that the ill‐ advised _vignaiuolo_ returns to his home with his pockets empty; and the next day the wife would come in tears to tell her sorrows to the good father. Even our Paolino was never contented without an hour or two at bowls on Sunday afternoon. And we did not like to refuse him, for we were obliged to take him somewhat on his own terms; and these involved a very small sense of servitude, and a very large one that he had put us under something of an obligation by coming to us at all. Had he been a year or two older, his parents would not have allowed him to enter service, thinking it a degradation. But as he was very young, and rather restless and wanting change, it was decided that he might be allowed to work off a little of the exuberance of boyhood in our service. Even this could not have been allowed had we not been friends of the Vernons; but as they are adored by all the _vignaiuoli_ and the inhabitants of Posilippo generally, their request could not be overlooked. Accordingly, Paolino, blushing and grinning, was admitted to form one of our household. His father told us exactly what his son’s labor was worth to himself, and that we were to hand over to him. It was all to go to the making‐up of Paolino’s marriage‐ portion. We were then to pay the lad a little over for himself, as pocket money. And this was to be done with discretion; not to prove a temptation to lavish expenditure. This is the way in which the marriage‐portions of both boys and girls are made up. They work for their own parents, and the latter put by the wages for them. When old enough, they are at liberty to undertake other and more profitable work. And from time to time there comes a windfall—a little work to be done in addition; or a specially good harvest, when the parents add something of the surplus to the portion of the girl or boy then marriageable. There was a deep, dark‐eyed maiden, of the ripe age of fifteen, with wayward black locks and a furtive glance in her liquid eyes like a startled fawn, about whose conduct there was a slight demur. Venturella (for such was her name, and it struck me at the time as of evil omen) was at heart as innocent as a child of five. But there was something in her shy yet daring nature which caused a certain uneasiness as to the fate of the timid, impulsive girl in this evil world. Venturella was fond of leaning over the low parapet which divided her father’s vineyard from the highroad; and when the brief Italian twilight had sunk in the shades of night, and the brilliant stars, that seem so near in those southern lands, had spangled the dense blue heavens with their myriad fires, Venturella would pretend she did not hear her mother’s voice calling her to come home. With arms crossed, she would lean on the wall, just breast high, and her star‐like eyes would seek their sister‐ stars above with a vague, dream‐like wonder. What the stars—and perhaps even more the moon—said to Venturella we shall never know; but one of them must have carried a message to a certain youthful Franceschino, whose hyacinthine locks clustered low over a brow of ivory, beneath which lay two eyes like the evening sky Venturella was so fond of; and whose teeth gleamed in the soft light like the white sea‐foam. Nobody knew; and as the birds had all long ago gone to bed, none of them were there to whisper tales.

Franceschino was the son of a _vignaiuolo_ who lived on the Vomero, the heights above Posilippo; and the little stolen interviews took place as he came back from the city, whither he had been sent on his father’s business. From time to time the mother wondered what made her son so late in coming home; and one night she thought she would find out for herself whether the dry bush hanging out before the wide doors of one of those cavernous taverns had tempted Franceschino to try the red wine within, and perhaps take a hand at cards with some other loiterers. Alas! for Venturella when the indignant matron found out the charm which had led to the boy’s delay. She was not likely to hold her tongue about it. Nor was his father, who beat and cuffed him well; for boys of nineteen at Posilippo will meekly bear a cuffing from a parent, when they would not tolerate a finger’s weight from any one else. Then came the rage of Venturella’s mother; and spite of Padre Cataldo’s having elicited the fact that no greater wrong had been done than a few silly promises and one shy kiss, all Posilippo was loud in crying, Fie for shame! on the fawn‐eyed Venturella. At length those older than herself and wiser than her mother took the matter in hand. Could nothing be done? Stern fortune answered, Nothing. Venturella’s marriage‐portion was far from being made up. She was an idle hussy, and only worked when she could not help it. The rest of the time she paddled with naked feet in the silver sands, tempting the tiny waves to kiss them, or gathered scarlet poppies from among the green corn and twisted them in her raven hair. Worse than all, Franceschino was equally behindhand with his fortune; and nineteen was too young for a lad to marry, though fifteen was none too soon for a Neapolitan maiden.

There was, however, something in the silent _sauvagerie_ of the strange girl which made it evident to her betters that she could not be thwarted with safety. There was something deeper than words in the sudden flash of those wild eyes when they looked up fiercely, and then fell beneath the long, fringed lids, and lay in shadow like pools in some dense forest. Venturella shrank, half angry, half ashamed, at every breath of blame; while her eyes grew larger and deeper, and the round, full cheeks became pallid and sunken.

“What is to be done with that wayward girl?” was the ever‐recurring question among the Vernons, who seemed to take upon their own charitable shoulders every burden that weighed upon their numerous friends, the Posilippians. At length a suggestion was made that Venturella should be sent to school far away from present associations, where she would have numerous girls of her own age to divert her, and where she might learn fine needle‐work and embroidery—the only thing, besides paddling in the sea and weaving wreaths of wild flowers, for which she had ever shown any disposition. Meanwhile, a _dot_ was to be thought of for her; not so very much was wanted to make up the necessary sum—about 4,500 francs. And then, when Venturella should be wiser and Franceschino older, who knows but what love’s young dream may turn out true at last?

It did not take us long to get intimate with the names and habits of the rural population around us. They were quite willing to receive us as friends, and seemed to expect a ready sympathy from us in all their concerns. Unlike the peasants of an English village, the best of whom, at least amongst the women, cultivate so little acquaintance with each other, here everybody knew everybody else; and though I do not pretend to say there was less gossiping among them, it always struck me that there was less of that sour ill‐nature which is apt to characterize the English cottager’s comments on her neighbors. No doubt this arises in a greater degree from the nature of the people than from acquired virtue. It is only in northern, damp climes, like the English, that the necessary ills of life are so heightened and intensified by the general sense of moral and physical discomfort which a heavy atmosphere and a gray sky produce. We all know what it is to wake in the morning with a vague sense of apprehension, as if the post were about to bring us a distressing letter which our imagination foresaw. We all know the ceaseless and unreasoning feeling of being out of spirits which also tempts us to be out of temper. We are acquainted with the blue‐devils, and we are generally taciturn and inclined to gloom. The Italian knows nothing of this. The very great and constantly‐pervading influence these feelings have over our daily life is absolutely beyond the limits of his experience, unless, of course, he is suffering from a deep sorrow or a real physical malady. To the age of eighty, he wakes in the morning with the same sensation of joyous energy or placid pleasure which we were beginning to lose before we were eight. He is passionate; but he is not irritable. He has paroxysms of despair, but he knows no constant gloom. Our impatience, our tendency to being “put out,” are enigmas to him. The small hindrances of every day and every hour are less a great deal to him than the swarms of his pestering southern flies are to us. _Pazienza_ (patience) is for ever on his lips; and it is no vain word, for patient he is to a degree which is exasperating to behold. When he is waiting, he is not gnawing an invisible bit, as we are doing, and grinding his teeth to powder. He is simply enjoying the being alive; and it does not much matter to him whether he chews the delicious cud of existence waiting at your door or sitting in his own home. You may make him furiously angry; and as likely as not he will stab you in the back and in the dark. But you cannot make him cross, or fretful, or peevish, or low‐spirited. Depend upon it, if he is ever any one of these things, it is high time to call in the doctor, who probably will declare his case already hopeless. On the other hand, if anything—and it may often be a trifle—thoroughly rouses a Neapolitan, it is fearful. It becomes a _rabbia_ (a rage), as they themselves express it; and then they are blind and deaf to reason and expostulation, and run amuck of all that comes in their way. It is possible that the extraordinary violence which seizes them is, in a measure, purely physical, and that that also in a measure diminishes their responsibility. Evidently, they think so themselves. _Era una rabbia_(92) is considered almost an excuse for the worst crimes, so long as these were committed in the heat of passion. And probably, in the long run, this has seriously affected the moral sense; so that good and reasoning people fail to be as much horrified at some murder committed in a brawl as we should be. They look upon an event of the kind almost in the light of a mutual misfortune between the murdered and the murderer. It is at least certain that the line of demarcation which separates inward resentment from the outward act of guilt is more easily crossed by these children of the sun, and does not presume the existence of so much previous demoralization as it would do with us. Yet I am far from intending to write an apology for the Neapolitan character. There is a great deal about them which is very graceful and very attractive; and when they are really good and refined, they are most lovable. But this is exceedingly rare. As a people, they are venal, deceitful, mercenary, and treacherous. But with it all, they are exactly like children; good or naughty, as the case may be, but always children.

Frank not being with us, the Vernons had undertaken to procure for us a carriage and a pair of horses, with a well‐conducted coachman, to hire by the month. Indeed, had Frank been there, he could not have done it half as well as they did; for all these transactions require you to be acquainted with the current charges and with the character of the people; and Frank had no experience in either. The Vernons concluded the bargain for us with Pascarillo, the man from whom they always hired a vehicle when they wanted one; and a fine, handsome‐looking fellow he was, with the reputation of being rather a gay Lothario, but, on the whole, an honest man as Neapolitans go. Our carriage was delightfully roomy. It held four with admirable ease, and five at a pinch, together with cloaks and cushions, luncheon and drawing materials, whenever we went on an excursion. In the evening, we could close it. We had two very fleet horses, not at all fine‐ looking, and rather undersized for the carriage, but the best little beasts to go I ever saw. Our coachman was a veritable son of Jehu. He was a miserable object, mean and despicable to look at, diminutive, with bleared eyes, a beardless chin, and the expression of a low coward. But never have I sat behind such a coachman as that. I believe he would have taken us up the wall of a house and down the other side in perfect safety. It did not signify what his horses did, or what evident peril we got into, he always managed quite quietly to bring us right again without any expression of vehemence or alarm. Suddenly, one day, our coachman vanished. An old man appeared in his stead, and a pair of grays, larger than the little brown horses. We made no remark, supposing it was an accident, and that our former equipage would return in time. That day we set out for the Vomero—the height above Posilippo, covered with beautiful villas, and commanding a superb view, or rather many views. The horses jibbed. We were greatly alarmed. They could not be got up the hill, and we had to go home. We sent an indignant message to Pascarillo, and hoped it would never happen again. But it did happen; not once nor twice only. And then Pascarillo was sent for in person to render an account of himself. There he stood, six foot two, with broad chest, a forest of hair, and an august presence. Ida, the universal spokeswoman, with her fluent Italian and her determined energy, left him in no doubt as to her opinion of his conduct. He heard her out silently and calmly, and then replied that the _signorina_ was quite right; he was conscious that his conduct had been inexcusable, and that we had serious cause for displeasure. He had not kept to his bargain, and he was aware of it. It should not happen again; and with a polite bow, he retired. It did not happen again. He had tried to take us in, and he had not succeeded—just a little speculation that had failed, and that was all! As for any rancor at being scolded, or any humiliation at having to make an apology, such sentiments did not trouble the breast of Pascarillo for a second. He probably only said to himself, “Better luck next time.” Our little horses came back, and our impish young coachman with them. We had never again to complain. But the impression made on Mary’s imagination by our coachman’s face was such that she had scruples of conscience about Paolino being allowed to converse with him on the coach‐box. Paolino was, therefore, seriously informed that for a footman to talk to the coachman when the ladies were in the carriage was not good manners. And from that moment silence was maintained; and Paolino’s morals were left untainted, as he sat, radiant in clean white cotton gloves and a new necktie, enjoying the delights of drives and picnics at least as much as the persons on whose account they were undertaken.

The Female Religious Of America.

In this busy world of labor, where mankind seems exclusively bent on the acquisition of wealth, fame, or power, on fashion, folly, and empty pleasures, how seldom we pause to consider seriously the diversity and multiplicity of the elements of humanity by which we are surrounded! How few, in their headlong career after vain desires, ask themselves if this world were made for them alone; if the end and object of life, the first gift of a merciful Creator, is merely selfish enjoyment, or whether the social compact, as well as the laws of God, do not require of us to assist in every way possible our less fortunate or more afflicted fellow‐ creatures.

It requires little reflection or effort to distinguish the favorites of fortune—those whose lot having been cast in pleasant places, shine in the public regard like beings of a superior order. Worldly success is ever prominent, and its devotees are always ready to court its notice and extol its merits. To be fashionable is to be fawned upon; to be influential, sought after; to wield power is to be placated. Not so with the humble, the poor, the ignorant, and the obscure; the victims of physical affliction or of moral degradation. They are usually shunned, often despised, and, as far as possible, contemptuously ignored. They constitute the outcasts of “society,” and, when they come betwixt the wind and its nobility, are merely objects of contempt, barren pity, or downright loathing. Yet these very unfortunates comprise, even in our own favored land, a very large and, in an indirect sense, a potent constituent of our population. Always with us, no matter how much we may attempt to separate ourselves from them, they appeal to us for help in the name of all we hold sacred; and their supplications, no matter how mutely made, if unheeded, are certain to be followed, even in this life, by a blight on our souls as well as a curse to our bodies. The heart of man becomes hardened, the fine perception of fraternal love and charity with which he is naturally blessed withers and shrivels up, and he becomes a mere embodiment of self, an arid isolation, in proportion as he steels himself against the cries and sufferings of his kind. The very ignorance he will not help to remove, the want and squalor he refuses to alleviate, rise up in judgment against him, and, developing into crimes against life and property, haunt his footsteps, and but too often mark him for their prey.

As in all things else, if we want an exemplar for our conduct in relation to our fellow‐beings, we must look to the church. Following the teachings of her divine Founder, from the earliest ages she has recognized the existence of the vast amount of misery, poverty, vice, and ignorance which underlies the surface of civilization, ancient and modern, and has used every effort to mitigate it. While yet the successors of S. Peter were struggling with the effete though polished paganism of the dismembered Roman Empire, and the greater part of Europe was enshrouded in the darkness of barbarism, societies of holy men and pious women were established and sustained by the popes and the fathers of the church, to mitigate in some degree, by their prayers and good works, the evils which beset society in its earliest transition state. The principal evils to be combated at that time were the ferocity of heathenism outside the confined limits of Christendom, and, within, the mental obscurity of the barbaric catechumens and neophytes. Physical destitution, in our signification of the term, was but little known beyond the limits of a few great cities; for men’s wants were few and easily supplied before the increase of population and the unequal distribution of property became general in the Old World. Therefore we find that the monks and nuns of the IVth century, and for many hundreds of years afterwards, devoted themselves mainly to preaching and teaching, to the multiplication of copies of the Holy Scriptures, and to praying for the conversion of mankind. Thus the order founded by S. Basil, Archbishop of Cæsarea, in Cappadocia, Asia Minor, A.D. 362, and that of S. Benedict, Abbot of Norcia, in Italy, in 529, and the numerous cenobitic communities which sprang from them, all more or less strictly observing the rules laid down by those great lights of the church, considered prayer, humility, and obedience the essential principles of their foundation.

Congregations of women devoted to the worship of God, prayer, and poverty were coeval with, if not anterior to, those of men; for we find that S. Anthony, in the latter part of the IIId century, placed his sister in a “house of virgins,” of which she afterwards became abbess; and that on Christmas day, 352, in S. Peter’s Church in Rome, Pope Liberius conferred the habit and veil on Marcellina, enjoining on her a life of mortification and prayer. A little later, mention is made of SS. Marcella, Lea, and Paula as distinguished Roman women who forsook the world, and spent their remaining life in prayer and good works; the latter especially, who, with her daughter, built a hospital at Bethlehem, erected a monastery for S. Jerome and his monks, and founded in Palestine three convents for female recluses, of which she took personal charge. S. Basil found many such convents in existence, and established several more within his jurisdiction, one of which was presided over by his sister Macrina, at Pontus. S. Chrysostom, Archbishop of Constantinople, up to 407, writes that in Egypt the congregations of women were as numerous as the monasteries; and S. Augustine, Bishop of Hippo (396‐430), built a convent of nuns, of which his sister was superior, giving it, in 423, a written rule, still followed by the religious who bear his name. Four years after, S. Benedict founded his monastery at Monte Casino, the rules of which, having been approved by Gregory the Great, in 595, have been very generally adopted by many religious bodies of men and women in Europe and America.

At first these religious institutions were confined to Italy and the East; but as the light of the faith gradually extended over Europe, religious houses were multiplied; and though for a long time each convent was governed by its own inmates, and followed the ancient rules, modified in many instances by peculiar circumstances, it was eventually found judicious to form them into distinct orders or congregations, in which all the establishments of a particular foundation were governed by a general head or superior. The strict requirements of prayer, humility, and obedience were still observed; but to these were added the education of the children of the poor, alms‐giving, and other acts of external devotion. Wherever a church was built, a monastery planted, or a number of people gathered together to worship God, there was generally to be found a convent, wherein the ailing might find relief; the afflicted, consolation; and the ignorant of the female sex, enlightenment. There the young whose parents were scarcely out of the slough of barbarism were taught their catechism and the beautiful prayers and litanies of the church, as well as to weave, spin, and all the other duties of a civilized housewife. While the clergy, secular and regular, went among the adults, preaching, instructing, and baptizing, holy women were near at hand to pray for the success of their efforts, and to show, by their gentle charities and meek demeanor, the loveliness and beneficence of the Christian religion.

One of the greatest glories of the Catholic Church is that she, and she alone, freed woman from the grossest slavery, and placed her in her proper sphere of usefulness and influence. By the sacrament of marriage, woman was made the honored equal of man; by her commandments and precepts, the church guarded her liberty and her purity, exalted her authority in the family, and recognized in her, even in death, the loving protectress of her offspring. But the church did more than all this. She gave to woman a part in her divine mission, a share in the most glorious task ever allotted to humanity—the propagation of the law of the Most High; and the dispensation of his mercies and benevolence. We are not surprised, then, to learn that in past ages, “when faith was young,” the most gifted and high‐born of their sex in every Christian land, daughters of nobles and princes, abandoning all the fascinations of the world, even those of royalty itself, were to be found eager to take part in the great work of religion, and consecrate their lives to prayer, penance, and charity, for the sake of the poor and helpless.

Such humility and implicit faith in the goodness of God could not have been unavailing; and we who now enjoy the blessings of true morality, with the refinements and graces of true civilization, seldom cast a thought back to the days of semi‐barbarism among our forefathers, when the only light that illumined the gloom of the outer world proceeded from the lamp of the sanctuary, and the only asylum open to the affectionate and modest soul of woman was the humble convent, where she could surround herself with the innocent and unstained children of both sexes, and teach them the way of salvation. Beyond those sacred enclosures, in bygone days, were little but passion, grossness, and self‐indulgence; while within reigned peace, delicacy, and that knowledge which is justly called the beginning of wisdom. The world at length commences to acknowledge the incomparable services of the monks and doctors, the penmen and preachers of the so‐ called dark ages; but who shall count up the debt of gratitude we owe to the thousands upon thousands of holy women who, spurning every earthly allurement, abandoning home, friends, and country, have sought, generation after generation, to win an eternal reward by unceasing prayer and continuous acts of benevolence? Europe is still, as in the past, enjoying the benefits of the labors of her pious daughters; India, China, and the furthest confines of the eastern hemisphere are reaping the advantages of the missionary efforts of the good nuns and Sisters; but America seems destined to be in the future the field whereon the full effulgence of God’s goodness is to be made manifest in the persons of his chosen handmaids.

To us especially the presence of so many pious and educated women is of incalculable advantage. The Catholic body in the United States has to combat a much more insidious and dangerous foe than was ever arrayed against the church, even in her darkest days of persecution. Then Christianity had only to shatter the idol of imperial Rome, already tottering to its base; now we have to fight against what may be termed civilized paganism, energetic, unscrupulous, and worldly‐wise, which aims at mere sensuous enjoyments, cultivates the intellect at the expense of the soul, and even attempts to use the very evidences of God’s works as a justification for their contempt of his law, and as argument against his existence itself. At the worst, the rude pagan of Northern and Western Europe had a belief in a superior Being, and an acknowledged, innate dependence on his will; but the fashionable sceptic of to‐day, the learned doubter of our schools and academies, believes in nothing but himself, and obeys his own whims as his highest rule of morality. It is a melancholy fact, but none the less true, that, according to official authority, nearly one‐half of the people of this country, male and female, practically believe in no form of religion whatever. Disgusted at the perpetual wranglings and disagreements of the sects in the name of Christianity; trained into mere cultivated animals by a system of public tuition which ignores God, or recognizes his existence only to ridicule and travesty his word; and freed from all the restraints which the church so wisely throws around her children from their earliest infancy, is it wonderful that the majority of the youth of this nation should grow up in the actual deification of their own prejudices and passions? With so many instances daily and hourly presented to our eyes, are we to be surprised that persons thus reared should be so active in creating a public opinion among us which is not Catholic, nor even Protestant, but simply and absolutely heathenish, without the refinement of the ancient Greeks to soften its grossness, or the pride of the Roman to save it from cupidity and dishonor?

How all‐important is it, then, to parents to be able to find schools wherein their children—those loved ones whom they have been instrumental in bringing into the world, and for whose eternal welfare they are responsible—will be cared for and instructed, taught habits of industry as well as accomplishments, and in which bands of zealous, educated, and religious women are ever ready to plant and nurture the seeds of virtue in their hearts, while shielding their young minds from even the shadow of contamination. Such guardians of the female youth can only be found in the nunneries, convents, and schools of the Catholic Church. There their lives are wholly and exclusively devoted to works of benevolence, of which the religious instruction of the ignorant is by no means the least. The world for them has neither cares nor attractions; they move, live, and have their being in an atmosphere of order, prayer, and tranquillity, their very appearance being in itself a homily of obedience and cheerful reliance on the goodness of their Maker.

Even though the educational establishments of the nuns and Sisters are in their infancy, there are few parents who need deprive their children of the advantages to be gained only in them. A quarter of a century ago, we could only boast of sixty‐six such institutions, while now we have nearly four hundred academies alone. What excuse, therefore, is there for a piously‐inclined mother or a discriminating father to imperil the happiness and faith of her or his children by sending them to secular schools where the training they receive is worse than artificial? In the convents they can be taught every accomplishment that befits a young lady, no matter how high her station in life, without being made the shallow creature, the mere puppet of fashion, which we find so often “turned out” by the modern secular school‐mistresses of our time; without heart, feeling, and, we might almost say, with no fixed perception of right and wrong.

Then we have two hundred and forty select schools, or an average of four for each diocese, attended by boarders or those living with their relations. These differ from the academies only in degree, being intended for the benefit of children whose position in life does not demand the same elaborate mental culture, or whose school‐days are necessarily short. Still, they receive the same attention, and are subjected to precisely similar moral influences, as the others. But the poor—those whose parents are unable to pay for their education—are they to have none of the advantages so freely accorded their wealthy neighbors? Must they be thrust into the tainted atmosphere of our public schools, and left to shift for themselves? Not so. The poor have ever been the primary objects of the good Sisters’ solicitude; and though they count their academies by hundreds, the number of their free schools, parish, orphan, and industrial, may be reckoned by thousands, and the pupils by myriads.

In the Diocese of New York there are forty‐six of these female schools, with over twenty thousand children, whose tuition is gratuitous, besides some three thousand inmates of orphan asylums and other charitable institutions for juveniles. In the Philadelphia diocese there are thirty‐ five Sisters’ free schools, containing nearly ten thousand scholars, in addition to the orphans. In Cincinnati, where the school system has been brought to a state of great efficiency, the proportion of the attendants to the Catholic population is much greater. We have no means of ascertaining the total number of pupils in the entire country; but if we take the three dioceses above mentioned as a criterion, it will be found that in the United States there are nearly three hundred thousand girls daily receiving at the hands of the Sisters of various congregations a free, thorough, and practical Catholic education. The expense alone of this great work of charity, if not performed without compensation, would be, judging from the cost of the public schools of New York, at least eight millions of dollars annually. If we add to the number of girls in the free schools the fifty or sixty thousand pupils in the six hundred and forty academies and select schools, we will find that about three hundred and fifty thousand female children are, in this year of grace 1874, under the more than maternal care of the religious of the Catholic Church.

Who can estimate the immense amount of good which is accomplished in this manner? Who can measure the beneficent effects to the country produced by these institutions of learning, which annually send to their homes so many thousands of children to gladden the hearts of fond parents, not so much by their varied acquirements, as by their gentleness of disposition and unaffected piety? If we cannot gauge the merits of the Sisters by what we see before us, how much less capable are we of estimating the reward which their long years of devotion will receive from Him who said of little children, “Of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

As to the efficiency of the nuns and Sisters as teachers of the young people of their own sex, there is scarcely a second opinion, even among non‐Catholics. Many Protestants and unbelievers, while professing little or no religion themselves, but who would not see their fair daughters follow their example, are careful to place them under the charge of the daughters of the church, well knowing that, while their minds will be amply stored with useful and elegant knowledge, their impressionable hearts will be guarded against the follies and sins of the world. If all the communities in the country—in number about forty‐five—were to devote their entire labor alone to this great work of education, what a benediction would they deserve from untold millions!

But they do not stop here. They go much further, and, with some few exceptions, their charity takes a far wider range. There are the poor waifs, left deserted on the highways, to be rescued from impending death and nursed into consciousness; the orphan, who has been deprived of its natural guardians, to be cared for; the unfortunate pariah of her sex, to be consoled and encouraged to resume the path of virtue; the jails, where lie the agents of passion and crime, to be visited; the aged and infirm to be taken by the hand, and led down the slope of life with tender solicitude. Again, the deaf, the blind, the insane, the wounded, the sick, and even the incurable, are, according to their several needs, objects of unremitting attention. No evil is so deep‐seated, no affliction so bitter, no disease, whether of the mind or of the body, so loathsome, that the holy women of the church, with God’s assistance, cannot assuage or cure.

To teach children is doubtless a responsible and laborious occupation, but nevertheless not without attractions; but to walk day and night the wards of a hospital, and breathe the dire contagion of disease, or, in the reformatory, to have the ear filled with the blasphemies and ribaldries learned in the lowest dens of vice, are surely trials to appall the stoutest heart, and to test to the very utmost the constancy and zeal of delicately‐nurtured women. Yet the capacious bosom of the church has room enough, has rest and shelter, for all classes of unfortunates. In the sixty‐two dioceses and vicariates into which the United States is divided, there are nearly three hundred foundling, orphan, deaf, blind, and insane asylums, reformatories, protectories, industrial institutions, homes for the aged, houses of the Sisters of the Poor, as well as infirmaries and hospitals; the former numbering over two hundred, and the latter about ninety, or, collectively, an average of five charitable institutions for each ecclesiastical division.

What a load of human misery is thus presented to the eye and committed to the relief of the indefatigable followers of Christ! Who can imagine that has not experienced it the daily round of toil, of watching, and solicitude which constantly awaits the footsteps of the gentle Sister, as she goes among her helpless clients in the foundling asylum, listens to the tale of woe and crime from the still youthful lips of the repentant Magdalene, or comforts the outcast of his kind at the very foot of the scaffold. Watch how lovingly she hushes the deserted babe or the scarcely less pitiable orphan to sleep; how kindly she takes the hand so long stained by contact with the vicious and the guilty into her own soft palm, and breathes words of comfort and encouragement into ears long used only to curses and vile speech; how deftly she smoothes the pillow of the sick, and smiles on the second childishness of her _protégés_, the aged and infirm poor. At her approach, the suffering child forgets its pains and stretches forth its little arms for her aid; the hospital loses half its _ennui_ and gloom, and even the condemned cell is illumined by a ray of sunlight when she enters it. In fact, wherever there is poverty, sickness, or suffering of any kind, there is the place for the devoted Sister, and there, in truth, she becomes “a ministering angel.”

The distribution of these asylums and hospitals is another interesting feature in their capacity for general usefulness. In dioceses having an estimated Catholic population of over one hundred thousand, they may be thus classified: In Buffalo there is one to every 8,000 Catholics; in Cleveland, St. Louis, and Louisville, one to 13,000; in San Francisco, one to 15,000; Albany, one to 18,000; in Pittsburg, Cincinnati, New York, Brooklyn, and Philadelphia, one to 23,000; Newark, Alton, and St. Paul, one to 25,000; Boston, one to 30,000; Milwaukee, one to 40,000; Chicago, one to 45,000; Galveston and Providence, one to 60,000; Hartford, one to 80,000; and in Springfield, one to every 150,000. Of the less populous dioceses, Oregon has 1, Burlington 1, Columbus 2, Covington 3, Erie 1, Fort Wayne 3, Grass Valley 3, Mobile 3, Monterey and Los Angeles 5, Nashville 2, Natchez 2, Natchitoches 3, Nesqually 4, Portland 2, Richmond 3, Rochester 5, Santa Fé 2, Savannah 3, Vincennes 4, Wheeling 2, Wilmington 1, Kansas 2, Nebraska 1, Charleston 2. Green Bay, Harrisburg, La Crosse, Little Rock, Ogdensburg, Arizona, Colorado, Idaho, and North Carolina, all small dioceses or sparsely‐settled vicariates, have none.

It is impossible to give anything like an approximate report of the vast number of persons of all ages and sexes who find relief, advice, and protection in these asylums and hospitals; for we are not aware that there is in existence any general or full returns from one‐half of the charitable institutions scattered so broadcast over the country. We can therefore only attempt to form an estimate of the whole by taking the statistics nearest us. For example, in this diocese there are 572 girls and very young boys in the female protectory, 1,297 in seven orphan asylums, 546 penitents in the House of the Good Shepherd; while in one of the four city hospitals, S. Vincent’s, 950 patients were received during last year. In Brooklyn there are 1,041 orphans, 208 penitents, 420 patients in two hospitals, in addition to nearly 3,000 externs who received medical and surgical attendance, and 229 old men and women under the charge of the Little Sisters of the Poor.

The care of these charitable institutions is not confined to any particular community, but, according to locality or peculiar circumstances, falls to the lot of different congregations. Thus of the asylums, 5 per cent. are under the charge of the Sisters of Notre Dame; 14 per cent. under the Sisters of Mercy; 34 per cent. under the Sisters of Charity; 8‐½ per cent. under the Sisters of the Good Shepherd; 6 per cent. under the Little Sisters of the Poor; 2‐½ per cent. each under the Sisters of Providence, Holy Cross, Sacred Heart, S. Teresa, and S. Dominic; 5‐½ per cent. under the Sisters of S. Francis; 10 per cent. under the Sisters of S. Joseph; 1‐½ per cent. under the Sisters of the Holy Name, S. Benedict, and the School Sisters of Notre Dame, besides a few others belonging to different communities. Of hospitals, the Sisters of Mercy have 18 per cent., the Sisters of Charity 37, Providence 2, Holy Cross 1, S. Francis 7, Little Sisters of the Poor 2, S. Dominic 5, S. Joseph 11, Sœur Hospitalières 2, Nazareth 5, and of all others 20 per cent.

Of the teaching orders and communities in the United States who devote themselves solely to the higher branches of education and, when possible, to the gratuitous instruction of poor children, we have the Ladies of the Sacred Heart, the Ursulines, the Visitation, the Immaculate Conception, Presentation, and the Sisters of the Precious Blood, Loretto, S. Clare, Our Lady of Angels, S. Ann, S. Mary, Sacred Heart of Mary, Poor Handmaids of Jesus Christ, Humility of Mary, S. Agnes, Incarnate Word, Holy Child, and Daughters of the Cross. The Carmelites, Servite Nuns, and Sisters of S. Anthony are contemplative communities, though, in some special instances, the poor are taught and assisted in their convents.

A short account of the origin and growth in this country of some of the most prominent orders and communities may be found acceptable to those who take an interest in the successive developments in the church of works of education and charity.

The first convent established within the present limits of the United States—if we except some, perhaps, that might have existed long years since in New Mexico and California—was that of the Ursulines, opened at New Orleans in 1727, when that city was a portion of French territory. For about sixty years, the nuns were either natives of France or of French descent, till 1791, when, on the occasion of the revolt of the French colonists in the West Indies, the convent, with its academy, hospital, and asylum, received large accessions from San Domingo. This house still exists, with an affiliation at Opelousas, and has branches in Pittsburg, Cincinnati, St. Louis, Alton, Cleveland, Galveston, Green Bay, Mobile, and several other dioceses; that of New York, situated in what was formerly a portion of Westchester County, being the principal, containing forty‐seven members. The Ursuline Order was founded in 1532, at Brescia, Italy, by S. Angela of Merici, and was approved by Pope Paul III., in 1544, as a religious congregation under the name of S. Ursula. Eighteen years after, at the request of S. Charles Borromeo, Archbishop of Milan, it was obliged to enclosure, created an order, and placed under the rule of S. Augustine by Pope Gregory XIII. Its special duty is the education of young ladies; but a poor school is, when necessary, attached to each house.

Next in point of time was the Carmelite Nunnery, erected in 1790, near Port Tobacco, Maryland, through the exertions of the Rev. Charles Neale. That zealous clergyman, having visited Europe in that year, returned with four nuns, of whom three are said to have been Americans and one English. On account of the difficulties surrounding their locality, the community was afterwards transferred to Baltimore, in 1831, and permitted to open a school, which, however, was soon after discontinued. There are now in all eight houses of this order in America, of which two—the mother‐house and one in St. Louis—are of the reform of S. Teresa; the others, following the less strict rule, add the care of outside schools, asylums, and hospitals to their other duties. The Carmelite order of monks was founded in the early part of the XIIIth century under the rule of S. Basil, which was exceedingly strict as regards mortification, prayer, and fasting. The order of nuns was not created for two centuries after, when John Lorett, twenty‐sixth general, founded a female institute under the rule of his order, and established several convents in France. In 1452, Pope Nicholas V. approved the foundation; and in 1457 Françoise d’Amboise, the widowed Duchess of Brittany, built the house at Vannes, in her own possessions, taking the veil and habit at the same time. A hundred years later, S. Teresa of Castile, finding that many innovations and relaxations had crept in, undertook the work of reform, and her efforts were eventually approved by Pope Pius IV. in 1562. Thus there became two branches of the order—the Mitigated Carmelites, whose rule is not so austere as those of the Discalceated, who follow the reform of S. Teresa. The latter are obliged to observe perpetual silence, abstain from the use of flesh‐meat, sleep on straw, and wear habits of coarse serge and sandals instead of shoes. Their habit is a brown gown, scapular, and hood, and in choir a white cloak and black veil.

Soon after the arrival of the Carmelites in Maryland, an effort was made by a few Catholic young ladies in Philadelphia to establish a religious community. The principal movers were Miss Alice Lalor and a couple of friends. Her companions, however, having died before anything tangible could be effected, Miss Lalor left Philadelphia for Georgetown, D. C., in 1798, and established herself there as a teacher. Gradually she drew around her young persons of similar views and tastes, and a community was formed, at first simply for the purpose of prayer and education; but when, in 1816, their rules had been approved by the Most Rev. Leonard Neale, Archbishop of Baltimore, and recognized by the Holy Father, they became a regular branch of the Visitation Order, and submitted to solemn vows and enclosure. Their houses now number about twenty, and are to be found in Baltimore, Brooklyn, St. Louis, Mobile, Covington, Dubuque, and several dioceses in the South and Southwest. The order dates back to 1610, when it was founded by S. Francis de Sales and S. Jane Frances, Baronne de Chantal. It was at first merely a congregation, but by permission of Pope Paul V. it was changed into a regular order, the essential principles of its rule being the education of the children of the rich, though many free schools for the poor are found attached to its convents.

While Miss Lalor was working silently in the District of Columbia, there was another pious woman—one whose name is destined to be for ever illustrious in the annals of the church in America—nobly struggling against innumerable difficulties in the same holy cause. This was Mrs. Eliza A. Seton, the foundress, in the United States, of the glorious Sisterhood of Charity. Like all men or women whom Providence selects for great ends, Mrs. Seton passed through a long novitiate of sorrow and trials before she was found qualified to lay the corner‐stone of an institution which, above all others, has made Catholic charity and womanly self‐sacrifice most useful, most respected and beloved amongst us. Born in New York on the 28th of August, 1774, of wealthy Protestant parents, her infancy and girlhood were passed amid all the scenes of pleasure and luxury that family position and affluence could command; and it was not till she had married and entered upon matronhood that she experienced her first great grief. This arose out of the death of her father, Dr. Bayley, who, in his devotion to the sick immigrants, at that time very numerous, fell a victim to ship‐fever. His daughter, it would appear, felt for him even more than filial affection and respect, and his sudden death made such an impression on her spirits and such inroads on her health that she was obliged to make a tour in Europe in company with her husband, also an invalid. Her mind had early been imbued with strong religious impressions, as well as cultivated by careful study and extensive reading; and during her stay in Southern Europe, where she had ample opportunities of visiting the churches and convents, and of seeing for herself the beauties and glories of Catholicity, she first began to long for that rest for the weary and doubt‐distracted soul which is only found in the bosom of the church. Her husband, dying in December, 1802, was buried in Italy; and she, now left the sole guardian of her children, returned to America. But the thoughts that had come to her in the solemn basilicas of the Old World followed her to the New, and would not be dismissed. She struggled much with them, prayed fervently, sought the spiritual advice of many pious friends, and finally, in 1805, entered the church. We of this generation can hardly conceive the sacrifices Mrs. Seton made in thus becoming a Catholic. So rife and uncompromising was the spirit of Protestant bigotry in those days that the moment it was known that she had become a convert, every friend and relative, the companions of her youth and the sharers of her blood, shrank from her with positive loathing, as if her touch was infectious. All forsook her except her children. But she was a woman of undaunted courage as well as of implicit faith. She resolved to leave New York, and take up her residence in Baltimore, then the only city in the country where Catholics had either influence or social standing. Here, by the advice of the archbishop, she determined to devote herself to teaching, and, to carry out her idea more fully, to establish a community. Accordingly, in May, 1809, we find her, with four companions, setting out for Emmittsburg to take possession of a log house and commence her grand enterprise. On the first of June, these pioneers of the Sisters of Charity in the United States arrived at their destination, and on the day following, the Feast of Corpus Christi, they appeared in the little church of the college in their habits—“white muslin caps with crimpt borders, black crape bands round the head and fastened under the chin, black dresses, and short capes similar to those of the religious of Italy.”

At first the community was called the Sisters of S. Joseph; but in 1810, it was agreed to assimilate it to the Congregation of Charity in Europe, and, through the influence of the Rev. F. Flaget, it was hoped that some Sisters might be induced to come from France to take charge of the little community. Owing to the disturbed state of the times, F. Flaget failed to procure the desired aid; but he brought with him the rule of the Sisters, which, having been adopted by the community, was approved by Archbishop Neale, January 17, 1812.

The growth of the new congregation was slow, for many unforeseen difficulties had to be encountered; but having been planted deep in the soil, it gradually grew strong and vigorous, and, when it once commenced to throw out offshoots in every direction, they took root and flourished with wonderful vitality. In 1814, some Sisters were sent to Philadelphia to take charge of the new Catholic orphan asylum; and in 1817, Mother Seton, with Sisters Cecilia O’Conway and Felicité Brady, came to New York, at the request of Bishop Connolly, to superintend a similar institution established by the New York Catholic Benevolent Society. They selected a small frame house on Prince Street, where now stands their noble asylum. How the houses of this illustrious community have multiplied during the last half‐century is truly astonishing, and can only be attributed to the help of a Power more than human. Nearly one hundred asylums and hospitals are now under their charge; about the same number of academies and select schools claim their care; free schools and scholars beyond computation enjoy the blessings of their pious instruction; and their convents and establishments dot the country in every direction. In New York alone, where the mother‐house of the province is situated at Font Hill, Yonkers, there are attached to it 409 professed Sisters, 92 novices, and 13 postulants, who conduct 72 different establishments in New York, Jersey City, Brooklyn, New Haven, Providence, and Columbia. In Newark, in the mother‐house of the diocese, at Madison, N. J., there are 190 members; and in almost every section of the country where Catholicity is at all known, the simple black dress and cape, and the small white collar, of the daughters of S. Vincent de Paul are familiar objects. This congregation, though dating only from March 25, 1634, when Louise de Marillac, widow of Antoine Le Gras, secretary to Marie de Medicis, the first mother of the Daughters of Charity, consecrated her life to God, has now, it is said, more than twenty thousand members throughout the world, all, like their sainted founder, Vincent, unremittingly employed in works of divine charity.

Next in order of usefulness, though not in age, come the Sisters of Mercy. This congregation is of Irish origin, having been founded in Dublin, as late as 1827, by Catharine McAuley, a native of that county. Miss McAuley was born September 17, 1787, of Catholic parents; but they dying when she was quite young, her guardianship was assumed by a Protestant family, who brought her up in their own faith—if faith it may be called; but the girl early developed a remarkable inclination towards Catholicity, and, when of proper age, reunited herself to the church of her fathers. At thirty‐four she found herself the possessor of a large fortune bequeathed to her by her adopted father, who had become a Catholic on his death‐bed; and this, with all her subsequent life, she resolved to dedicate to the service of the Almighty. She therefore built at her own expense, in the most fashionable part of the city, a magnificent convent, and, associating with herself several other ladies, commenced the work of instruction and the visitation of the sick poor in their homes and in the public hospitals. The Most Rev. Dr. Murray, Archbishop of Dublin, gave her all the assistance in his power, and, after consulting with the Holy See, approved the new foundation. In 1841, Pope Gregory XVI. confirmed the congregation, which is now so strong in the United Kingdom that it numbers 133 convents, besides numerous charitable institutions. Unlike the Sisters of Charity, this congregation has no superior‐general, each convent being independent and self‐governing.

Though introduced into this country by the late Bishop O’Connor, of Pittsburg, about thirty years ago, the Sisters of Mercy have spread rapidly over the United States. They have already nearly 50 asylums and hospitals, 80 academies and select schools, an immense number of free schools, convents almost as numerous as those of the Sisters of Charity, and considerably over 1,300 members. They are to be found in New York, the New England dioceses, Albany, Philadelphia, Louisville, Pittsburg, most of the old dioceses, and many of the newer ones.

There are other orders and congregations among us, if not so numerous, equally meritorious; for instance, the Ladies of the Sacred Heart, who conduct about 30 academies and select schools, in which the very highest order of education is imparted; the Sisters of Notre Dame, also a teaching order, having the care of 20 houses, in which there are 431 boarders and over 1,200 day scholars, besides about 14,000 pupils attending the free schools, half that number in the Sunday‐schools, in addition to those taught in evening schools and instructed in various other ways. This congregation, though founded in 1804, by Mother Julia Billiart, assisted by Marie‐Louise‐Françoise, Vicomtesse Blin de Bourbon, and Catharine Duchâtel, at Amiens, has so extended its labors that it now counts in Belgium, England, and Central America 68 establishments, 12,000 scholars in its boarding and day schools, and over 32,000 children gratuitously taught in its free schools. It was introduced into the United States, in 1840, by the Most Rev. Dr. Purcell, Archbishop of Cincinnati, and, in connection with its convents and academies, has charge of 70 asylums. The Sisters of S. Joseph, numbering about sixty communities, have, by the latest returns, 42 academies, 20 select schools, 20 asylums, and 9 hospitals. These latter are specially charged with the instruction of the colored children of the South. Then there are the congregations of the Third Order of S. Francis and of S. Dominic, whose duties are equally multifarious; the Sisters of the Good Shepherd, whose mission it is to receive and reform the very outcasts of female society, and to save young women from lives of vice and crime; and the meek Little Sisters of the Poor, who actually go about from door to door, from store to market‐place, begging, in the name of holy charity, for the crumbs of our tables to feed their aged and decrepit dependents who are tottering on the verge of the grave. Besides these, there are many other communities of pious women in our midst, quietly and unostentatiously pursuing their career of goodness, the history of whose foundation the limits of an article will not allow us to descant upon. Their actions are doubtless recorded in another world, where lie their trust and promised reward.

Thus we have seen how our glorious land is twice blessed by the presence of those pure‐minded, zealous, and meek followers of their Saviour. We are blessed in their prayers and in their active charity. No one is so rich as to be independent of their good offices; no one so poor, afflicted, or degraded that they cannot succor and console. The vilest dens of infamy in our crowded cities are made almost sacred by their tread; the far‐away prairies and forests resound with their chants and songs of praise; while the daintily‐nurtured daughter of the aristocracy is taught, in some convent of the Sacred Heart, or of the Ursulines, to shine in and adorn her social sphere without forgetting that she is a Christian; the poor little negro children of the everglades of Florida, or the savage Indian babes of the Pacific slope, are kneeling at the feet of some Sister of S. Joseph or of the Holy Names of Jesus and Mary, lisping their first prayer. Without exaggeration, it may be said that there is no ignorance so dense that they will not succeed in expelling; none of the many ills to which flesh is heir that they cannot assuage; and that they, and they alone, of all their sex, “can minister to a mind diseased, and pluck from the heart a deep‐rooted sorrow.”

And yet all this toil and pain and solicitude bring with them, even in this world, abundant rewards. Who that has ever entered a convent or a religious house has not been impressed by the gentle air of cheerfulness and inward peace that sits on the faces of its inmates? We look in vain for the anxious glance that betrays an unsatisfied mind, or the deep‐drawn lines that tell a tale of worldly struggle and discontent. No; every countenance is serene, placid, and healthful. This is the reward of noble works well performed, the luxury of doing good, to which the women of the outer world are for the most part strangers. But what shall be the eternal recompense for those who thus abandon kindred and home, friends and companions, the pleasures of the world and the passions of the heart, to follow in the footsteps of the Saviour who was crucified for us, and to carry out his precepts, regardless of all consequences, to the end? Such is the holy nun who storms heaven with her prayers for the salvation of mankind and the pardon of national crimes; such the humble Sister who devotes the energies of her mind, the years of her life, nay, her very life itself, to the service of God’s poor, helpless, and sinful creatures. Can a nobler ambition than this find place in the human mind? Can the glory, the charity, and the all‐absorbing beneficence of the Christian faith find brighter examples and purer exponents than within the convents which so numerously overspread and are continuing to increase on the soil of our young republic?

Switzerland In 1873.

“Going to Lyons to‐morrow! Impossible!” exclaimed Mrs. C——, whom my friend and I accidentally met in the hall of the Berner Hof Hotel at Berne this autumn. “You cannot surely go without seeing the Lake of Lucerne! I should be quite ashamed to confess that I had been so long in Switzerland and was leaving without having been up the Rigi. In fact, if you persist in this resolution, you will have to come back again next summer expressly for that, and for nothing else. Think what trouble that may be! And all from want of a little energy now; for I feel quite certain you have no appointment to take you to Lyons in such a hurry. I know you cannot have,” she added smiling, and noticing some hesitation on our part, “so you must just change your plans again and come off to Lucerne with our party this afternoon! You may go to Lyons later, if you like, but there will be time enough to think about that!”

It was quite true. There was no special reason for our starting for Lyons that day, no pressing necessity for our leaving Switzerland just then. The Lake of Lucerne, moreover, had originally a prominent place in our itinerary, and the weather was so fine that there seemed fair hope of the prescribed sunrise from the Rigi. But, if the truth were told, we were weary—weary not in body but in soul; and had taken such an aversion to the country, from a spiritual point of view, that a strong antidote—such as Lyons with its Notre Dame de Fourvières and general Catholic life would afford—had become to us absolutely essential.

Six weeks previously we entered Switzerland—two ladies overflowing with enthusiasm. The picturesque was certainly a main object in our journey; for where else can it be equalled, or found in such variety? Still, we had no intention whatever of leaving religion and devotion behind us, and never doubted for a moment that we should succeed in finding means of satisfying our desires.

It was our first visit to this region, and our knowledge of it, we are bound to confess, was most superficial. But how little does one know of a foreign country until either long residence or some special circumstance excites the curiosity or rouses the attention! Catholics even, who as a rule interest themselves more than all others about the religious state of countries outside their own—instigated by that principle of universal brotherhood, that bond of spiritual union, which the church so effectually promotes—seldom know, notwithstanding, the details of current ecclesiastical foreign events, unless accident brings them to the spot. A great commotion like the warfare going on in Geneva, and the fact that the attitude of the Catholic community in that town was most noble, and those willing “to suffer persecution for justice’ sake” neither few nor faint‐ hearted, had of course a large place in our view of the case. But except this, and the broad facts that Geneva, Berne, and Zurich were Protestant, Lucerne and its neighborhood Catholic, we are constrained to admit that our acquaintance with Swiss matters, geographical, historical, or ecclesiastical, was very limited. It is little wonder, therefore, that we lent a willing ear to the thoughtless assertions of fellow‐travellers, who told us we should find Catholic churches scattered all over these districts. Without further questioning, then, we proceeded, commencing by a few days at Lausanne and along the shores of the lovely Lake of Geneva. Thence we made our way to Bellalp, Zermatt, the Eichhorn, and, finally, passing round to the northern side of the great mountains, wandered on from the Faulhorn, Scheideck, and Wengern Alps to Mürren, where we rested for several days, having “done” sunsets and sunrises, peaks and glaciers, until our minds were filled with the most magnificent images. Still, despite all these wonderful beauties of nature, which seemed every day to draw us more closely and more humbly towards the Creator, an irrepressible dreariness had crept over us, from the absence of all visible signs of union with him or of grateful worship on the part of man. Certain it is that the result our present wanderings had produced by the time we reached Berne was a longing for a Catholic land and Catholic churches, where we might pour forth our praises, and give utterance to our thanksgivings for the glorious sights we had seen; a longing that had grown stronger than the mere love of the sublime and beautiful, for its own sake, of which we were, nevertheless, most ardent votaries.

It may be said that, coming to Protestant cantons as we did, we ought not to have expected a profusion of Catholic churches; the Catholic population is small, especially in the highland districts, and labors under many disadvantages. True, and after the first disappointment was over, we were ready to study our excursions, and often to shorten them, in order to hear Mass on Sundays. Yet even so, more than once we could not even accomplish this; and the difficulty of approaching the sacraments under these circumstances is most distressing to travellers. Besides, to an outside observer, piety does not seem to flourish; or, where it does, the Catholic congregations have that subdued look peculiar to all persecuted communities, so extremely depressing to witness. Many believe that, for this and other reasons, the battle now raging in Geneva and elsewhere will be productive of great gain, and that Switzerland and Germany will emerge from a life resembling that of the early Christians in the Catacombs, only with tenfold power and vigor. At the present moment, one is chiefly led to reflect on the false interpretation of that freedom so much boasted of by the Swiss Protestants—if one may so style the advanced liberals and free‐ thinkers who come to the surface nowadays—and remember how easily an American Catholic could make them blush by his report of how differently these matters are treated across the Atlantic.

Our path had nowhere, as yet, it is true, touched on a Catholic canton; and there all _might_ be different, though everything we could glean led us to a contrary expectation. An old German who had been coming to Switzerland for the last thirty years, and whom we met _en route_, told us it was all the same. “No religion anywhere. Nothing can be more uninteresting than the people,” he asserted. “Bent only on money‐making and fighting about religion—religion, that is to say, in name, but not in deed; the disputes are purely party questions, and have no real, substantial foundation. Peaks and passes are alone worth a thought,” he added. On these he was inexhaustible, but always dismissed the other subject with contempt. Later, when our own observations in the Catholic cantons completely altered our opinions, we also ascertained that he, like so many of the summer tourists one encounters nowadays, was perfectly indifferent to all forms of worship, and blind to those signs and manifestations of the inner being which still abound in all that region. Meanwhile, however, his report, coming from one familiar with every part of Switzerland, carried conviction to our untutored minds, as, no doubt, happens in similar cases every day.

But it was not, perhaps, the difficulty about, and paucity of, Catholic service which so much roused our indignation, once we saw the small number of our co‐religionists, as the universal aridity, tepidity, nay, coldness, of all the inhabitants of these favored regions. Nor could we gain much knowledge about them. The ordinary tourist never meets a Swiss above the class of guides and hotel‐keepers; the former, in the Protestant cantons, are a stolid, uncommunicative race of men, with all their intellects apparently given to their horses and _Trinkgeld_; the latter too much engrossed in the feverish anxiety of drawing up large bills and providing for the passing crowd to give attention to any other matter during the summer season. Besides, the line of interest does not run in the direction of the “people”; if it did, these men would no doubt also labor to supply the demand; as it is, few have time, or, having time, inclination, for anything but scenery, and next to scenery—sometimes first—come food and lodging.

It was unreasonable, many observed, to aspire to more. “A thorough knowledge of a nation is not to be picked up in passing”; “One comes to Switzerland for the scenery only”; “The people cannot be judged by outward appearances,” were phrases which met us at every turn whenever we ventured to make a remark. “Doubtless the people _may_ be excellent,” was our reply; “but outward appearances _are_ an index to their minds. In the Tyrol, Bohemia, Brittany, and other Catholic lands, all who ‘run may read.’ ” Mountain chapels, wayside crosses, holy pictures inside and outside their dwellings, speak a language common to all Christian hearts; and the indifferentism and dryness of soul which their absence betokens in the Bernese Oberland, especially amidst its grandest scenes and greatest dangers, cannot fail to leave a most painful impression on every thoughtful traveller.

The only information we found it easy to gather related to everything connected with material subjects. In a surprisingly short space of time, we knew, from our guides, the names of all the peaks, and many, too, of the smaller summits, and, above all, could speak in an authoritative tone of the best hotels in different places, the price of _pension_ in each, whether the Kellners were civil, the living better in one than another, Cook’s tickets an advantage or not, where the carriage‐roads ended and the riding or walking began—in fine, became very clever on all those points which form the staple of conversation at all Swiss hotels and halting‐ places. Yet we conscientiously employed our eyes and ears, so as to come to no wrong conclusion. The more one travels in Switzerland, the more necessary this precaution seems. Whatever efforts we made, however, brought about the same unfavorable result. The whole aspect of the country we traversed justified our German acquaintance’s harsh criticisms. Even the Protestant churches, which, if only from a pure spirit of opposition, one might expect to show a flourishing exterior, are in Switzerland more than usually bald and cheerless. Unlike English churches of the present day, they are completely innocent of the slightest approach to decoration, and very often without sign of communion‐table or anything even representing it. Sometimes a bare slab of marble, without altar‐cloth or covering, stands in the middle; but often this is brought out only at stated periods for the administration of the Lord’s Supper, and, as a rule, the seats are ranged round the pulpit—the only centre of attraction in these buildings. Of all nations, the English show the most tangible signs of life. They, at least, bring themselves more prominently forward; for the first paper that strikes the eye on entering every Swiss inn is the list of services and chaplains supplied to Switzerland for the season by the English Church Colonial Society. Churches they do not possess, except in a few favored spots; and many are the lamentations amongst the wandering Britons at being obliged to content themselves with the drawing‐ room or billiard‐room of a large hotel, where probably the evening before they had assembled amidst gaiety and laughter. It is an arrangement, too, often complained of by the other inmates—one which led to a serious dispute in one place, where the German visitors claimed their right to the billiard‐table at the hour appointed by the English chaplain for his service. Still, there they are, mindful, at least, of “Sabbath worship,” when the majority of their co‐religionists see no necessity for remembering it.

Crowds of Anglican clergymen were also found travelling, on their own account, in the Protestant cantons. Five‐and‐twenty were together one day at Mürren, of all shades and hues, too; from my Lord Bishop, with his wife and daughters, to the young Ritualist curate, in his Roman collar and otherwise Catholic dress, the highest ambition of whose heart is to be taken—or rather _mistaken_—for a true Catholic priest. And very hard it is to distinguish him, at first sight, from the genuine character, so exact has he made the superficial copy. After a little conversation, however, it is easy to know that such unmitigated abuse of the Episcopal dignitary who sits at the other end of the room, and of the whole bench of bishops, cannot belong to the true church, which not only enjoins but practises submission to authority. Intellectual these High‐Churchmen always are, and would make pleasant company but for the crookedness of their “opinions,” and their unconcealed exultation, too, at the assumed progress of the so‐ called “Old‐Catholic” movement, which they represent as undermining the whole of Switzerland. Catholic Switzerland they always meant; for even they could not blind themselves to the fact that in the Protestant districts there is little left to take away. One could only wonder how, with their hankering after Catholic things, they could in any way feel drawn towards those cantons; and it more than ever strengthened our conviction (though nothing offends them more than such a suggestion) that the sole binding link between these English High‐Churchmen and the miscellaneous companies which assemble at the “Old‐Catholic” meetings is their common ground of rebellion to mother church—which, as daily experience infallibly proves, gathers together all grades of belief and unbelief outside the Catholic fold, and induces them to ignore all their important differences in the bond of a hatred which is truly preternatural to the spouse of Christ!

Wet days at Swiss hotels are proverbially fruitful of talk and discussion; and nowadays these religious subjects are certain to be started by some new Ritualistic acquaintance, who evidently presumes on sympathy from English‐speaking travellers. Above all, should he or she discover that you are a “Romanist,” as they choose to call us children of the true church, it is most curious to observe what an irresistible secret attraction impels them to follow you, from morning to night, with their arguments and spiritual “views.” Oh! what days of annoyance continued rain has cost us on those mountain‐tops—days of true annoyance unmixed with good; for in no single instance did we find any permanent impression made on these Ritualists, who, of all Protestants, are the most hopelessly blinded and obstinate. And most fully do we agree with a high ecclesiastical authority who recently remarked to us that all other shades of churchmen, including the evangelical or Low Church, respond to the call of grace more readily than these men and women, whose stand‐point is that pride which obscures their spiritual vision. After two or three such discussions, we foresaw the point exactly when they would dogmatically assert that they, “too, are Catholics,” and that an irreparable breach was to be the immediate consequence of the solemn protest which it became our duty to make on each similar occasion. Before we reached Mürren, therefore, we had learnt to avoid them. By that time, too, we found that all their information about “Old Catholics” was derived either from the English newspapers or those foreign ones which, in rainy, stay‐at‐home weather, are studied in those places with persevering assiduity.

We ourselves endeavored to gather from this source some of that information unattainable elsewhere, but very soon indignantly threw aside these tainted productions. Our German friend was right on this point, certainly; for anything more shameful and less religious than the attacks on the priesthood in general, the false statements put forward, and the undisguised rationalism—not to give it a worse name—of most of these foreign newspapers which flood the reading‐rooms of Switzerland, it would be difficult to imagine. Not a single Catholic newspaper came under our eye in the _pensions_ and hotels. If they were taken in, they were certainly hidden away; and the tone of the German press, in particular, perfectly justified the assertion which has been hazarded—namely, that it has altogether fallen into the hands of the once‐despised Jews. Alas! alas! the “Israelites” of the present day may well exult and lift up their heads in the remarkable and daily‐increasing manner so noticeable all over Europe, where the faith of Christians is so tepid and their sight so weak as no longer to distinguish the true from the false in these proud and “enlightened” days!

Disheartened by all we saw and heard, we frequently turned to the poor, in the hope of better feelings; and although no outward token of man’s habitual remembrance of his Maker met our observation, we tried to lead the guides and peasants to speak, now and then, on these subjects. In vain, however. They appeared to have no thoughts to communicate, no familiarity with the supernatural, nor other answer but the dry, curt one to give: _Wir sind alle Reformirten im Canton Berne_—“We are all Reformed in the Canton of Berne.”

This hard, unsympathetic tone of mind jarred on our highest and tenderest feelings; and the grander the surrounding scenery, the more painful its impression. It had reached its climax a few days before we met Mrs. C—— at Berne.

Having slept one night at Lauterbrunnen, and the next morning proving lovely, we determined to go on at once to Grindelwald. There had been no service of any kind at the village of Mürren; but here a bell rang early, and we had thus begun the day by lamenting that it did not summon us to Mass before starting on our journey. But this being a strictly “Reformed” neighborhood, it was foolish to nourish any such hope. The sparkling rays of sunlight on the Staabbart, however, the drive through the magnificent valley, the rushing torrent, and opening views of our favorite mountains, free from the veil of mist that had covered them on the previous day, the exhilarating air, and general brightness of a grand nature, gradually restored us to more contented dispositions. The day was splendid. The Wetterhorn, Finsteraarhorn, Eiger, and Jungfrau stood erect before and above us, as we drove up to the hotel, in all their grandeur, sternness, and soft beauty withal; their spotless snows and blue glaciers running down amongst and fringing the green, placid pastures below, whilst Grindelwald itself, the pretty village of scattered _châlets_, lay bathed in sunshine at their feet. It was the beginning of September; yet the visitors were so few and imperceptible that we felt as if we alone had possession of this wonderful scene. Nor was there a breath of wind or a cloud in the sky, in an atmosphere of transparent brilliancy—one of those rare days which seem lent to us from Paradise, when one’s only thought can be that of thankfulness; one’s only sigh, “Lord! it is good for us to be here.” We had been sitting for some time on a grassy slope, drinking in all this ethereal beauty, and gazing silently on those “great apostles of nature, those church‐towers of the mountains,” as Longfellow so beautifully calls them, when our thoughts wandered on to the perils peculiar to such a spot. Of the two glaciers right before us, one—the smaller one, it is true—had all but disappeared within the last four years. It had melted away gradually during an unusually hot summer, the guide had told us, though fortunately without causing any considerable damage in the valley underneath. Very different it would be if the larger one were to vanish; and we naturally reverted to a description we had recently read, by a well‐known dignitary of the English Church, of the appalling catastrophe near Martigny, in 1818, when the whole district was made desolate and villages swept away, in consequence of the breaking‐up of a similar glacier under the Lake of Mauvoisin. We had just said that if any people should “stand ready” it certainly was the Swiss, when suddenly, as if in response to our meditations, the silvery sound of a church‐bell came wafted to us through the balmy air. The building itself was out of sight, hidden behind a small knoll; so we hastened at once on a voyage of discovery in search of it. The day and hour were so unusual that a faint hope arose of finding some out‐of‐the‐way Catholic convent, forgotten, perhaps, by the old “Reformers.” It was only the small church of the village, however. The bell was still ringing, and the door open, but no one near; and, entering in, nothing was to be seen save an empty interior with whitewashed walls, where a few benches alone indicated that it served any purpose or ever emerged from its present forlorn and desolate condition. Perplexed for an explanation, we appealed to some villagers in the vicinity—old women who, had it been a Catholic church, were just the sort of bodies one would have found telling their beads in some corner of it at every hour of the day; but blank countenances were all we elicited by our first question of why the bell was ringing or what service was about to begin. “Service! What service?” they answered inquiringly. “Divine service”—_Gottesdienst_—we replied, making the question more explicit, the better to suit their capacities. “Divine service? Oh! that is only on Sundays, of course,” was their answer; and it never seemed to cross their minds that people ought also to pray on other days. In fact, no single person in the place could give any reason for the tolling of this bell (evidently the Vesper‐bell of old Catholic times), except that it rung regularly on every afternoon at 3 o’clock. A poverty‐stricken, unhealthy‐looking population they were, too—just the class that stand much in need of spiritual comforts—of those aids from heaven which the poor need more palpably even than the possessors of material wealth, in order to bring them through the troubles of this weary world, and to sustain their courage at every step. Both here and at Lauterbrunnen, despite all police prohibitions, our carriage was followed by numbers of sickly and deformed children, whose monotonous drone was unenlivened by one bright look, by any petition “for the love of God,” or any of those touching variations of the Catholic beggar in every part of the world, which, no matter what one may say at the time, do appeal to a Christian heart more than any one is aware of until made sensible of their impression by the chilly effects of their absence on such occasions.

But our spirits revived, as we returned to Interlachen, at sight of the old Franciscan convent standing embosomed in its stately trees. Hitherto we had only passed through the place on our way to and from the mountain excursions; but to‐morrow would be Sunday, and the Catholic service, we had ascertained, was in the convent church. Away, therefore, with our saddened hearts and dismal musings! The plain would evidently treat us more charitably than the highland country had hitherto done! Beautiful, lovely Interlachen! lying amidst its brown, flowery meadows, under its stately walnut‐trees; the white‐robed Jungfrau rising opposite in all her dignified beauty, unaccompanied by Monk or Eiger, or any of her snowy compeers. The sun was setting as we drove up to the hotel Victoria just in time to see its deep‐red, crimson farewell, thrown across the brow of the grand mountain, melt gradually into the most tender violet, as if in mourning for his departure. And as we sat on the balcony all that evening in the stillness of the autumnal air, watching the full moon shining on the “pale Virgin,” making her glitter like silver, and stand out, in all her majesty, from the dark, enclosing line of intervening hills, we felt once more how glorious is God’s creation in all its simple magnificence! How grand, how awful it can be! And again, at dawn, we beheld the same spotless peak receive with a tender, pink blush the first rays of the returning sun, to dazzle us henceforward during all that day by her transcendent loveliness through an ethereal veil of transparent delicacy, and to draw our thoughts heavenward, pointing upwards like a faithful angel guardian anxious to remind us that all this earthly beauty is as naught compared to the bright visions which await us beyond!

It was nine o’clock that morning before the church‐bell sounded; but then we sallied forth with full hearts, and made our way along the beautiful avenue of walnut‐trees towards the old convent. With elastic gait we ascended the ancient steps of the ivy‐mantled church, rejoicing in the sign‐post which boastfully pointed “à l’Eglise Catholique”! But vain were our illusions! How could we have been so sanguine! This fine old convent, as perfect as at the time of its suppression in 1527, is far too valuable, think the authorities, to be given up by an antagonistic government to the successors of its original owners. A large part of the dwelling portion, therefore, is used by the commune of Interlachen for its public offices, whilst the remainder is divided between the different foreign “persuasions” that visit Interlachen every summer. That high‐sounding title, “l’Eglise Catholique,” belonged only to a small chapel constructed out of one end of the church—the smaller end—and floored, moreover, up to half its height. The other and larger portion was given up for the English Church service, whilst the Free Kirk of Scotland and “l’Eglise Evangélique de France,” were installed here and there amongst the cloisters. Most correctly, then, did an old man, who was found sweeping out the passages, describe himself as employed by _tous les cultes_.

Nor was the Catholic congregation more permanent than the others. It appeared to consist chiefly of strangers, and the priest, a Frenchman, who spoke in feeling accents of the persecution going on throughout the country, announced that although the following day would be a holiday, there could be no Mass; for he had to quit Interlachen on that same evening.

As we came out from the convent, sad and gloomy, a pretty sight awaited us: hundreds of boys and girls, of all sizes and ages, marching to the strains of a band towards a large meadow hard by, where gymnastic and other games were about to commence. Orderly and bright‐looking they all were, accompanied by half the population of the town and neighborhood, chiefly attired in the picturesque Bernese costume, and including, evidently, the fathers and mothers of the young generation. It was a most brilliant yet soothing picture, as we beheld them passing on under the shade of the wide‐spreading, lofty walnut‐trees; the little maidens in their fresh summer dresses, embroidered muslin aprons, and hats crowned with masses of flowers, standing out against the green background of the nearer mountains, whilst the lovely Jungfrau beyond shone out resplendent beneath the rays of a dazzling sun. Long stood we watching them; for it was a scene to enjoy and treasure up in one’s memory. What a pity that the recollection should be darkened by the after‐knowledge that none of this merry crowd had begun the day by divine worship! And noteworthy was this fact, making all the difference between this and the Catholic practice in such matters. Nor shall we fail to remember, if ever again taunted by those Protestants who consider it a sin to be light‐hearted on the Sabbath, that this mode of keeping Sunday is not sanctioned by a Catholic, but by one of their own cherished “Reformed” cantons. Catholic the proceedings truly were, in being orderly, innocent, healthful, and rational; but most _un_catholic in not having even allowed the time necessary for religion. No Catholic ecclesiastical authority sanctions such amusements on Sundays without the whole population having had the opportunity of hearing Mass first—a matter that is not left optional, but made obligatory on every member of the church. Here, on the contrary, there is only one service in the Protestant church, and that at 10 o’clock A.M.; so that, even had they wished it, none of these merry‐makers could have been present. Nor, during the whole of that day, did we hear any neighboring village‐bells summoning their flocks to prayer. Indeed, many of the villages are without any churches. There is none, for instance, at Mürren, nor in many of the hamlets along the Lake of Brienz, nor in various other spots which might easily be named. One hears a vast deal about Swiss “pasteurs,” and pretty stories are written wherein they figure largely; but it is only natural to conclude that if there are numberless villages without churches, they are equally without “pasteurs”; and one cannot help wondering how the sick and poor fare in these distant parts in the ice‐bound winter weather, nor avoid fearing that there is much truth in the dreary suggestions we often heard expressed, that they constantly die and are buried without any spiritual ministrations whatsoever.

And yet the Swiss, and especially the people of this neighborhood, did not always voluntarily abandon the ancient church, nor lapse of a sudden into the indifferentism now so general. But no doubt the present apathy is the inherited result of the mixed notions which actuated their forefathers, and the absence amongst them of that pure attachment to their faith and the unconquerable steadiness and manliness by which the adjoining cantons of Unterwalden and Uri have so eminently distinguished themselves up to the present hour.

Whilst meditating over all we had seen and heard, we accidentally opened Zschokke’s _History of Switzerland_ at the page where he speaks of those mixed feelings which were perceptible in all the religious divisions between 1527 and 1528. The writer is a Protestant, and therefore his version is all the more interesting, as admitting the coercion it was necessary to use for the introduction of the new doctrines—doubly interesting, too, as read here, at Interlachen, on the spot and by the light of the similar system—for there is nothing new under the sun—at present in full operation in so many of these same cantons.

After speaking of various disputes, he says: “For of those who raised their voices against the new creed, thousands upon thousands were actuated, not by piety or love of the good and true, but by interested motives under pretence of religion. Amongst the country people, many expected greater liberties and rights by the introduction of the recent doctrines; and when these were not granted to them, they returned to the Catholic faith. The moment the town council of Berne suppressed the convent at Interlachen, and appointed preachers of the reformed church, the peasants, highly pleased, thought and said: ‘No convent mesnes, no taxes, no feudal service.’ But when the town only transferred the taxes and service to itself, the peasants, through pure anger, became Catholic again, drove away the Protestant preachers, and marched in armed bodies to Thun. Berne hereupon appealed to its other subjects, offering to leave the matter to their arbitration; for the town desired peace, knowing well that neither quick nor efficient aid could be counted on by them from the neighboring cantons, which were all Catholic. These subjects of Berne, flattered by the confidence reposed in them by the authorities, decided in their favor, saying: ‘The worldly rights of the convent go to the worldly authorities, and are in no wise the property of the peasants.’ On hearing this, the rebellious country‐folk of Grindelwald returned to their homes, but in no contented mood, although the town had relieved them from many burdens, in favor of their suffering poor.” And curious it was to note the tight hold still retained on these same worldly goods by the commune of Interlachen, and to see, after a lapse of three centuries, their _bureaux administratifs_ still located in the cloisters; nor can it be supposed that the “suffering poor” of Grindelwald have reaped much benefit from their three centuries of secular masters, if we may judge by the numberless beggars who now over‐run that whole district.

Having then related that much discontent at the state of affairs was felt by the monks of Interlachen, the abbot of Engelberg, and the inhabitants of Oberhasli—a district which, though under the protection of Berne, held many rights and privileges independent of that town—Zschokke proceeds: “When the commune of Oberhasli, encouraged by the monks of Engelberg and their neighbors of Unterwalden, likewise drove away the Protestant parsons, and sent to Uri and Unterwalden for Catholic priests, those of Grindelwald did the same; Aeschi, Frutigen, Obersimmel, and other villages followed their example, and the Unterwaldeners even sent them military assistance across the Brunig. But Berne flew to arms at once, and her army marched on rapidly, before the secession had time to increase. The timid and discontented peasants fled in a panic, and even the Unterwaldeners retreated over the mountain. Berne then punished Oberhasli severely—took away its public seal and many other privileges for a long period; for ever deprived the valley of the right to elect its own landamman; had the ringleaders of the movement executed, and forced the others to plead for pardon on their knees, surrounded by a circle of armed soldiers. Frutigen, the Simmenthal, and others were also brought back by main force to the Protestant faith”—if “faith” that can be called, we may add, which shows no sign of life in all these places.

In no happy frame of mind we pushed on next day to Berne, half inclined to abandon the remainder of our Swiss tour—an inclination which had ripened to a determination by the time we met our friend in the hall of the Berner Hof on the following morning.

In Berne, as in other of the large Swiss towns, Catholicity has made itself both seen and felt of late years, and a handsome church has recently been built there, in place of the one which was formerly shared with the Lutherans in that extraordinary manner still in operation in one or two Protestant parts of Germany. Some friends of ours, who had passed through Berne about fifteen years ago, had been at Mass early one Sunday morning, and, returning at a later hour, found the same church in possession of the Protestants, the only difference observable being the “communion‐table,” then placed at the end opposite to the Catholic altar, and the chairs turned round in that direction. This anomalous state of things has now ceased, and the new Catholic church is both pretty and well served. But the week‐day congregation is very small, and the half‐past seven o’clock Mass we found but thinly attended. Still, there it is, even so, in striking contrast to the Protestant cathedral. In pleasing contrast, were more truly said; for this beautiful pre‐Reformation cathedral, with its splendid porch of the Wise and Foolish Virgins, its elaborately‐carved choir, and its old stained‐glass History of the Blessed Eucharist, is lifeless and colorless in its present aspect. Though we went there at an early hour, every door was closed, except one at the side, jealously guarded by a cross old woman, who hindered all entrance until we had each paid thirty centimes. Then we were handed on to another woman—between them they had charge of the church—who ran from one party of sight‐seers to another, showing off the different points in a loud voice, just as if it were a museum or any other secular building! Had it been an English cathedral church even, there would probably have been a daily service; but then such a pious practice seemed quite as unfamiliar as to the peasants of Grindelwald. The old guardian stared at us in blank surprise on our asking the question, and—seeming to imply that she detected we were “Papists”—proudly answered, “Certainly not! Only on Sundays, and then at nine o’clock.”

As usual, no communion‐table stood in the place of the high altar, but here, as in many other Swiss churches, a large black marble table which serves for this purpose stands right in front of the choir and pulpit, and the stalls immediately near were assigned to the “Guardian of the Holy Supper” and one or two other of the church functionaries. In the cathedral square outside, the town has recently placed the beautiful statue of Rudolf von Erlach, the great hero of Laupen, one of the starting‐points of its history, in 1339. It was impossible, as we passed it, not to remember that the most glorious victories of Berne were fought and won in those olden days of the true faith, when her sons knew how to unite the love of freedom with devotion to the church and obedience to her authority, and that one of the prominent causes of that great and victorious battle was their refusal to recognize the Emperor Louis of Germany, simply because the pope had recently excommunicated him. Those golden days of Bernese history! of which her Protestant historian, Zschokke, is constrained to say that “the town, which was threatened with entire destruction, became so victorious as henceforward to threaten destruction to all her enemies. Her citizens had fought with one thousand iron arms against ten thousand; all with one mind and one heart; no one for himself, but all for the good of the town. In this manner alone can wonders be effected.”

Full of sad thoughts on the degeneracy of her present children, who strive to use their powerful influence over the rest of their confederates for the persecution and suppression of their former faith, we turned to seek information at the railway station about the trains to Lyons or Mâcon, persuaded that a further stay on Swiss ground would only increase our discontent; and, truly, our wrath grew to fever heat when, passing by the book‐stall, we found it filled with the most shocking caricatures—and worse—of everything Catholic, nay, everything religious. Illustrated _Lives of the Saints_, _Of the Pious Helen_, and such like titles, got up in the most attractive form, first caught our eyes and rejoiced our hearts with the hope of better things; but anything more scandalous than the scenes there depicted, the low, disgraceful ideas put forward, in the coarsest style, by both pen and pencil, we never before beheld exposed in any civilized community. In England the police would at once have interfered and seized the whole establishment. Here they covered the book‐ stall; and the woman who presided showed us undisguisedly that they were written and printed in Germany, and sent here for sale. What hope is there for populations who, in the name of religion, can countenance such wickedness?

It was at this stage of our perambulations and in this condition of mind that, on returning to the hotel, we had encountered Mrs. C——. She was no Catholic, but, entering into all our feelings, she protested that we should find everything quite different in the Catholic cantons, if we only _would_ make the experiment. She had been there often, and knew that we should be delighted with them. To every objection we made she had a ready answer. Besides, what is more magical than the bright faces and kind looks of friends—above all, of old friends, when met abroad? As a natural consequence, therefore, it was not surprising to us to find ourselves, after all, seated with this pleasant party in the train which that afternoon was leaving for Lucerne. Our equanimity, it is true, was disturbed at the junction at Olten—by the sight of that manufacturing town full of the “free thought” and advanced liberals of modern society, the head‐quarters of Old‐Catholic meetings, and the only place where, at that date, the parish church had been given up to one of the few rebellious priests, whilst its true pastor was obliged to live in a small private house, where he still ministered to his old flock as in the days of early Christian persecution. But we soon reached Lucerne and a Catholic atmosphere, and what befell us in that quarter, what we saw and heard from its people, shall be related in the following chapters to our kind and indulgent readers.

Epigram on Abraham Lincoln.

Scivit in extremis statuum defendere fœdus: Reddidit optatam collecto milite pacem.

Grapes And Thorns. Chapter XII. A Taper Lighted, And A Taper Blown Out.

By The Author Of “The House Of Yorke.”

Our two travellers did not know how far removed they were from the common ways of life till they were again on land. The strangeness of a sea‐voyage had made their own strangeness less apparent; but when they saw homes, and all the daily interests of life moving on as once they had moved for them, familiar things assumed in their eyes a certain grotesque appearance, and they scarcely knew themselves or each other. How hollow sounded the careless laugh they heard, how terrible the jest! How impossible they found it to comprehend how business and pleasure could absorb men’s souls! To them this gay and busy world was wandering recklessly on the brink of an unseen precipice which they alone could see.

Annette Gerald had adopted her husband’s inner, as well as his outer, life—had, as it were, stepped inside his guilt, and wrapped it round her, and his world was henceforth her world. With his eyes she saw a leafless and flowerless England sweep behind her as they sped onward to London; and she shrank, even as he did, when the thick fog of the great city took them in and shut them as if in walls of stone.

“We cannot stay here,” her husband said. “I should lose my senses in twenty‐four hours. This fog makes me feel like a smoky house. Are you too tired to go on? Do let us have sunshine, at least.”

No, she was never too tired to go on with him.

They had a compartment to themselves, and, weary as they were, started on again, a little relieved in mind. No one had accosted them in either of the great cities, and there seemed to be no immediate danger. Overcome with fatigue and loss of sleep, they both leaned back in the soft cushions, and slept soundly till some sound or a slackening of their speed awakened them.

The London fog was far away, and they found themselves passing slowly and smoothly through a cloud‐world of blue and silver. There was no land in sight. The window at one side showed them a cliff that might be alabaster, and might be an illuminated cloud. At the other side, a deep‐blue sea, foam‐flecked, and a deep blue sky half‐veiled in silvery mists, were so entangled with each other that only where the full moon rode could they be sure that it was sky, and only where the wave ran up and curled over in foam almost within their reach could they be sure that it was water.

“The fairies have taken possession of Dover,” Annette said. “I hope they have not whisked the steamer away. No; here it is. We will stay on deck, Lawrence. It is not cold.”

As they steamed out into the channel, another scene of enchantment took the place of the ordinary view. As they withdrew from the town, it showed only a crescent of lights; lights clustered all over the foamy water, and stars clustered in openings of the fleecy clouds above, so that they moved as if swimming through constellations.

“I hardly know which is up and which is down,” Lawrence said. “Is Europe made of clay and rock, like America?”

His wife was leaning on his arm, and they stood looking over the rail of the little steamer. “We might come this way a hundred times, and not see such a sight,” she replied. “But there is land beyond. That is France—that low, dark line. In a few hours we shall be in Paris. I shall be glad to rest when we get there.”

But when they reached it, Paris was as much too light as London had been too dark. In the one city a foe might stumble upon them at any moment; in the other, he might see them from afar. They went to a dingy little hotel in the old part of Paris, and stayed there one day, trying to find rest, but in vain. Every sound made their hearts beat more quickly; every glance and sudden step near them sent the blood to their faces. Besides, the quiet of the place afforded them no distraction from their thoughts. The noises in the narrow street on which the hotel was built were all shut out by the heavy portal, and the quadrangle was as still as a forest solitude. Ivy climbed about the windows, a tiny fountain overflowed and ran in a stream across the pavement, and the only persons who appeared were the clergymen who were the chief patrons of the house, and now and then the universal waiter and servant of servants, François, who shuffled across the view, a napkin over his arm, and his heavy head dropped forward, so that only a great ball of frowzy dark hair was visible.

“We cannot stay here,” Annette said, as they stood by the window the first evening after their arrival. “It is too much like a prison.” She felt her husband start, and made haste to add: “It is stupid, and I fancy the air is not good. Besides, Paris is too gay, if we go out into the city. We do not want gaiety, Lawrence. We want some earnest employment for our time.”

“We will go to Rome,” he said.

“Rome!” she hesitated. “One meets everybody there,” she said; “and there are so many idlers, too, who have nothing to do but talk of other people’s affairs. Are you sure you wish to go to Rome, dear?”

“I must go! I have an object in going there,” he exclaimed, excited by the first show of even slight opposition. “I stake all on Rome. Whatever happens to me, let it happen there.”

“We will go, then,” she answered soothingly. “And we may as well set out to‐night. Nothing is unpacked, and we have three hours before the train starts.”

He walked to and fro over the stone floor of their little sitting‐room, which allowed only half a dozen paces, so narrow was it. “Three hours!” he muttered. “It is too much! Cannot we go out? There must be a church near.”

“Yes; in France and in Italy there is always a church near.”

They went into the fading sunset, and soon found themselves entering the old church of S. Etienne du Mont. Inside, the pale gloaming was changed to a richly‐tinted gloom that grew every moment deeper. Here and there a lamp marked some picture or shrine held in special veneration, and far away in the apse of the church, where the shadows stretched off till they seemed reaching out to eternity, burned a single point of light, as small as a star.

Annette clasped her hands over her husband’s arm, and leaned her cheek close to his shoulder, as they stood near the door and looked at this little beacon. “O Lawrence!” she whispered, “it is like the light the mother sets in the window to guide her children home at night. O me! O me!” she cried pitifully. “What is to become of us!”

A crown of tapers burned about the shrine where the body of S. Geneviève had once lain, and an old woman sat near by with her prayer‐book, presiding over a table piled with tapers of different lengths, her white cap showing like a little heap of snow in the place.

“People buy tapers for a sou or two, and set them by the shrine to honor S. Geneviève and remind her of their needs,” Annette said softly as they approached this illuminated space. “Would you like to offer one?”

Lawrence Gerald had been wont to mock somewhat at such observances in the old time before life had been shattered about him and shown eternity between its gaps. Now he went eagerly forward, selected a taper, lighted it, and placed it, whispering a prayer while his fingers lingered on it. Annette followed his example, placing her offering beside his, and making her request also.

As they were turning away, a sacristan approached them from the next chapel, and asked if they had any article they would like to have touched to the inside of the shrine. Annette immediately gave him her rosary, which he laid an instant where the saint’s body had lain.

“Ask him if I can put my hands in,” Lawrence whispered.

“Certainly you can!” she answered with dignity, seeing the man look rather curiously at him.

She held the lid open, and her husband put both his hands in, and instantly drew them back, his eyes dilating and his color rising, as if he had put them into fire.

They walked on past the grand altar, and knelt in a nook by a confessional. The daylight faded, and the smouldering fires of the windows went out in black and ashen gray. But when no outer brightness was left to enter and show the glories of that house of God, the lamps and tapers inside burned with a clearer flame. They shed a faint illumination through the vast twilight; they spread a soft gilding up the height of the clustered pillars, and made tender the gloom brooding in the roof that arched over their capitals; they sparkled on the crowns of the saints, and touched marble faces with such a holy radiance that a soul seemed to shine through them.

A slight stir in the confessional near them showed that a priest was there. “Lawrence,” said Annette suddenly, “may I go to confession?”

“Wait a minute,” he answered. “I will go first, and then you will only need to say that you are my wife.”

His tone revealed a bitter pain; for unconsciously her question had shown that there was no weight on her conscience save that which he had placed there, and that she was more in need of consolation than of forgiveness.

She sank on to her knees again. “O my God!” she murmured, “has it come to this, that I must enter thy house without being able to find comfort there?”

It was nearly half an hour before Lawrence joined her, and they went out together. “I have no wish to go now,” she said when he offered to wait while she went to confession. “Besides, there is no time, if we are to start to‐night.”

“Do you know, Annette, what I prayed for when I put the taper up in honor of S. Geneviève?” her husband asked when they were again in the street. “I asked that my mother may die in peace before the month is out. That will be in less than two weeks.”

“My poor Lawrence!” she sighed.

“And can you guess the reason why I wish, above all things, to go to Rome, and don’t much care what may happen after?” he went on. “Of course you cannot. Well, I want to receive absolution from the Pope. I go to confession, and pour out my story there, and I feel no better for it; or, if I feel better than I should without confession, I am still not at peace. I don’t feel absolved. Yet I want to go to confession every hour of the day. I am like the Ancient Mariner, who had to tell his story to every one he met. I want to tell mine to every priest in the world.”

“But, dear Lawrence,” she said, “that will not be so easy to compass. Don’t expect such a privilege too confidently. You know we cannot have an audience, because we cannot go to him under false names. If we could, his blessing would satisfy you, would it not? But I see no way, dear, though I would not discourage you.”

For once her objections did not irritate him. “I have been thinking of it ever since we left America,” he said; “and in one way or another I shall succeed. Yes, his blessing would be enough; and if there were no other way, I could tell him my real name. Now, we must make haste. We have just time to reach the station.”

How many hearts have quickened in their beating as they travelled that road, drawing near to Italy! How many eyes have gazed eagerly at that first cross, set aloft on the mountain side, at the first shrine of the Virgin Mother! And then come the armies of poplars and solemn cypresses.

“They look as if the dead warriors, and prelates, and poets had risen from their graves, and were staring out over Italy to see what their degenerate sons were doing,” Annette said. “See how tightly they hold their cold green robes about them!”

Our travellers slept a few hours at Turin, and, resuming their journey before daylight, reached Florence in the evening. And here, having some time to wait, they wandered out, hoping to find a church open; but all were closed at this hour. Presently they found themselves standing on the bridge of the Holy Trinity, listening to a burst of wild music from many bugles, played by some unseen band. So loud and piercing was the strain, the very stars appeared to tremble as it went up. Then, as suddenly as it rose, it dropped again, and all was silent. The city was quiet, and the Arno gleamed across it like a jewelled cestus across a sleeping breast. Its waters seemed to have crystallized into a purple enamel about the golden reflections of the lights along its banks, not a ripple showing which way they flowed. Not far away, another bridge spanned the tide, its soft and dreamlike arches set roundly over the answering arches in the deeps below. A small boat, faintly seen, shot underneath this bridge, and disappeared. It was a vision of Florence as one sees it in history and poetry.

The two strangers leaned on the balustrade of the bridge, and, as they gazed, felt the curse upon them grow less sharp, as though they were ghosts, and their crime some old, old story, touched with a sad splendor by poet and painter, and half washed away by the tears of pitying generations.

Standing there, silent and half comforted, they became aware of a low, murmurous sound of many feet and voices; and then a long line of white‐ robed figures appeared, carrying torches. A bier was borne aloft in their midst, what it held covered with an embroidered pall that glistened with gold. These men recited prayers together as they went, and the river and bridge were for a moment bright with the glare of their torches. Then they disappeared, and a star‐lighted quiet reigned again over the city of flowers.

Annette touched her husband’s arm, and they reluctantly turned away from that spot where first they had experienced a feeling of peace.

And then, all night they plunged deeper and deeper into Italy, till morning and the Eternal City met their faces, and dazzled them.

“Thank God! I am in Rome at last,” exclaimed Lawrence. “Now nothing but death shall tear me away from it.”

Yes, there it was! the crumbling, stately city of the past, looking as if it had just risen from the bottom of the sea, after having been submerged for centuries. It was all a faded gold color, like autumn leaves, and its narrow streets were chilly, as though death had breathed through them. But its heights were warm and sunny, and its dusky trees and hedges were steeped in warmth, and over its magnificent decay the sky was fresh and blue, and the morning sunshine flowed bountifully.

“Now,” said Mrs. Gerald, becoming business‐like at once, “we must first engage an apartment, and get our luggage into it. I think I know Italian enough for that, thanks to the songs I have learned.”

“Do you propose singing an aria to call a cab?” her husband asked. “And will you engage an apartment to the tune of ‘Hear me, Norma’?”

He smiled, and for a breath looked like his old self. But the next instant his face changed. The thought of his mother was enough to banish the smile for ever.

That thought had taken full possession of him, filling him with a terror, sorrow, and longing that burned in his heart like consuming fire. His flight had been made with no feeling but fear for himself; but with the first breath of the air of the city of saints, he inhaled a penitence which was without taint of weakness.

While his wife, then, arranged their affairs, and attended to the preparation of their little _ménage_, he took in hand the one work possible for him—the study of his own soul. This anguish for his mother, whom he loved deeply, much as he had wronged her, was like a sword that cleft the selfish crust of his nature. His whole life came up before him with merciless distinctness—all its ingratitude, its pettishness, its littleness, its sinful waste, its many downward steps leading to the final plunge to ruin. He saw, as if it were before him, his mother’s loving, patient face; he heard, as if she were speaking at his side, her sad and tremulous voice; and more pathetic even than her sorrow were the brief moments of happiness he had given her, her smile of pride in him, her delight when he showed her some mark of affection, her eager anticipation of his wishes. As he went back over this past, the self‐pity, the blindness, the false shame, were stripped away from him, and he saw himself as he was.

“Nothing but utter ruin could have brought me to my senses,” he said to his wife one day, when he had been sitting for a long while silent, gazing out at a little fountain that sprang into air in a vain effort to reach the laden orange‐tree that overshadowed it.

She made no reply, and he needed none. She had let him go his own ways, keeping watch, but never interfering. She had nothing to do for him now but wait and see what sort of call he would make on her.

He wandered from church to church, and knelt at every shrine in the city of shrines. Wherever the signal lamp told that there some troubled soul had found help, he sent up his petition. He glanced with indifferent eyes past the rich marbles and gilding; but when a face looked from marble or canvas with an expression that touched his heart, there he made his appeal. The luxuries of life grew loathsome to him; fashion and gaiety were to him like a taunt of the evil one, who had used them as lures for his destruction. He hated the fineness of his own clothes, the daintiness of his food. None of the people he saw seemed to him enviable, save the poor monks in their coarse brown robes, with their bare feet thrust into rough sandals. In his own house he lived like an ascetic.

Now and then he would rouse himself from this stern and prolonged examen to think of his wife. She had claims on him which, perhaps, he was forgetting.

“You poor child!” he said, “we are not in India, that you should immolate yourself over my dead hopes. What can I do for you. I would free you, if I could.”

“You are not to think of me,” she replied quietly. “It is God who now commands you to think of yourself.”

“Yes!” he exclaimed, “I have made my own instruments of torture. Having thought of myself when it was a sin, I am forced to think of myself when it is a torment. And I escape that thought only to remember my victims. Annette, but one day is left of the four weeks. O my mother! if space could be annihilated, and I could be with you till it is over! If I could but know what has happened, what will happen, to her!”

He had spent the whole day in a church near by, sometimes praying before an altar, sometimes gazing at the pictures, in search of a divine meaning that might be hidden in them; but oftener, withdrawn to a dusky nook where only a single lamp burned before a head crowned with thorns, he gave himself up to grief.

“It is useless to wish and repine,” his wife replied sadly. “That is one of the weaknesses we must cure ourselves of. Since it is only a torment to imagine what may be taking place at home, let us try to banish the thought, leaving all in the hands of God. And now, Lawrence, do you know that you have eaten nothing to‐day? When you stay so long again, I shall go after you. In Rome, at this season, it is dangerous to allow the strength to fail. You will soon be ill, if you go on fasting so.”

“And what matter if I should?” he asked.

The wife waited till the servant had placed the dinner on the table and gone out before she spoke, and the moment of consideration had made her resolve on a stern answer, however willingly she would have given a tender one. She had long since discovered that her husband was one of those whom the flatteries of affection enervate instead of stimulating, and she was not sure enough of a radical change having taken place in him to yield to her own impulse to soothe and persuade when reproof might be more effectual.

“Of all the gifts which God has bestowed on you,” she said, “you have cast away every one but life; but with that life you may yet atone, and become a blessing to the world. It is your duty to watch over the only means left you of making reparation.”

He did not show the slightest displeasure at her reproof. On the contrary, there seemed to be something in it almost pleasant to him. Perhaps the suggestion that he might yet be a blessing in the world, incredible as that appeared, inspired him with an undefined hope. He dwelt thoughtfully on her words in a way that was becoming habitual to him whenever she spoke with peculiar seriousness, and Annette, seeing his humility, was half sorry for having put it to the test. With a confused impulse to give him at least some pitiful and perilous comfort, she poured a glass of wine, and placed it by him, well aware that for weeks he had not drunk any.

He put it away decidedly. “I would as soon drink poison, Annette,” he said reproachfully. “I did not think that you would offer it to me.”

She withdrew the glass immediately, ashamed of her weakness, and making a hasty apology. “If I had known you had made any resolution on the subject, I would not have offered it,” she said. “Forgive me! I never will again.”

“Oh! there was no resolution needed,” he said. “If you had been burned almost to death once, would you need to resolve not to go into the fire again? I fancy the sight of it would be enough. But I think I may promise never again to take wine, unless I should be commanded to by some one who knows better than I.”

His wife did not reply. This was a degree of asceticism which she had not expected and was afraid to trust. She had expected him to refuse indulgences, but not consolations. Indeed, she did not now understand her husband, and her hope of his redemption was but a trembling one. This self‐denial might be only another illustration of that instability which rushes from one extreme to the other, only to return to its first excess.

We all know how to rely on that natural firmness, which the sad experience of mankind has shown to be never so strong but it may fail at any hour; but the supernatural strength of the naturally weak who have cast themselves on God often finds no doubting. We miss the firm lips, the steady eyes, the undaunted brow—those signs of a resolute soul which the pagan shares with the Christian—and we forget that the tremulous mouth we distrust has sighed out its prayer to Him who is mighty, the shrinking eyes have looked upon the hills whence help cometh, the timid brow has been hidden beneath the wing of an angel guardian, and that, faltering though the soul may have been, and may be again, the shield of God is before it, and it can be conquered by no human strength.

This soul had made such an advance as to be conscious of some such fortitude infused into it. Lawrence Gerald had no fear of falling into his former sins. He might have the misery of seeing the destruction he had brought on others, might be himself destroyed by a sorrow and remorse too great to bear; but he had an immovable conviction that he could never again return to his old ways nor commit any grave transgression. It was this conviction which had made him say that nothing but destruction could have brought him to his senses.

“I like that church you took me to this morning,” he said, walking slowly up and down the room. “The others, many of them, seem to me fit only for the happy. They are all display and confusion and sight‐seers, with scarcely a nook in them where a person in trouble can hide. They do not give me any impression of sacredness. But this one is so quiet and sober, and there are no people standing about with guide‐books, talking aloud while you are praying or trying to pray. Then there is a little place, half chapel, half vestibule, between the church and the sacristy, where a side door enters the church, with an Ecce Homo in a little shrine; and there you can be quite private, without any one staring at you. I shall go to that church altogether.”

The church he spoke of was Santa Maria della Pace.

“It is Our Lady of Peace,” his wife said, “and was built to commemorate the peace of Christendom. I thought it would please you. Surely some special consolation and tranquillity should linger about a temple built and cemented with such an intention. I like it, too, better than most others we have visited, though it is not so splendid as many.”

She did not tell him that, after having left his side, when the early Mass was over, she had lingered in the church till it was closed at noon, not to watch him, but to be near him. Requesting the sacristan to withdraw the curtain covering the Four Sibyls of Raphael, she had seated herself before the chapel opposite, and divided her attention between that matchless vision and the unquiet figure that moved about the church. Once he had come near, but without seeming aware of her presence, and, standing at her side, had gazed with her. And while he gazed, she had seen the trouble in his face grow still for a moment. The noble serenity of that composition, so soothing to eyes wearied by the sprawling magnificence of Michael Angelo and the ever‐present, dishevelled, wind‐tossed figures of Bernini, lifted his soul to a higher plane. Even when he sighed and turned away, as if not willing to allow himself the pleasure of looking at so much beauty, he carried something of that spirit of harmony with him.

“Lawrence,” his wife said presently, when she had borne his restless promenade as long as she could, “I know that you did not sleep any last night. I wish that you would take a powder that I will give you, and try to sleep now. You look worn out. Lie down on the sofa here, and I will keep everything quiet.”

He shook his head. “I would rather not take anything to make me sleep, Ninon. And to‐night I would not sleep, if I could. But I will lie down here a little while; for I am tired, now I think of it.”

He threw himself on the sofa, and she placed a screen before him, and closed the window near his head, so that even the soft plashing of the fountain was shut out, and the small notes of birds that twittered in the great pine‐tree in the garden. And after a little while, finding him still restless, she went to the piano, and sang how God sent Elias to reassure and comfort a doubting and tempted soul. The notes flowed with a soothing murmur from under her fingers, and her voice, no longer the brilliant, ringing tones he had taken such pride in, was so low it might be a spirit singing:

“Tell him that his very longing Is itself an answering cry; That his prayer, ‘Come, gracious Alla!’ Is my answer, ‘Here am I!’ Every inmost aspiration Is God’s angel undefiled; And in every ’O my Father!’ Slumbers deep a ‘Here, my child!’ ”

Ending, she listened a moment, then stole across the room, and looked behind the screen. Lawrence was sleeping, with his head thrown back, his beautiful profile and moist, dark curls thrown out strongly by the garnet cushions and pillow.

She went to the window, and seated herself on a footstool near it, wrapping the long red curtains about her, and leaning against the wall. The sculptured marble of that stately _salon_ was cold against her cheek; a flock of doves wheeling about over the garden caught some last rays of the sun on their wings, and threw them down over her, so that little white wings seemed to be fluttering all around the room; the casement slipped open, and the sound of tossing waters and twittering birds again became audible; but the watcher there took no note of these things. She was looking at the figure stretched on the sofa, and thinking that in all Rome there was no ruin so mournful and so terrible. He was like some fair column stricken from out a temple and cast aside into the dust; not touched by the hand of time, that, with its slow to‐and‐fro of days and nights, and seasons and years, lulls all the pain of decay to sleep, but broken and scathed, as if by lightning.

While she looked, he stirred, and opened his eyes; and the sympathetic pain with which she saw how he came back to a consciousness of his position almost drew an outcry from her. The first tranquil, half‐ wondering glance which saw, instead of the familiar surroundings of his childhood and youth, that immense room, with its profuse hangings and painted ceiling, and the long windows opening like doors; then the brief flash of startled questioning; lastly, the anguish of full recollection.

“O my God! my God!” he exclaimed, and hid his face in the cushions again.

She was at his side in a moment.

“Let us go out for a long drive, Lawrence,” she said. “There will be a bright moonlight to‐night, and we can see so many places by it. Come! I will send for a carriage at once. There is nothing else for either of us to do.”

Nothing could have shown more clearly the change in Lawrence Gerald than his manner of receiving this proposal. Instead of expressing at once his aversion, and reproaching his wife that she could believe it possible for him to go sight‐seeing at such a time, he stopped to consider if what she thought best might not be best, however it should seem to him.

“You must think for me now, Annette,” he said with a sort of despair. “You know I do not wish to seek pleasure nor distraction; but I suppose I must live.”

She sent for a carriage at once, and they went out under the full moon that was beginning to replace, with its pearly southern lights and northern shadows, the fading cross‐lights of the sun. They drove to the Colosseum, not yet despoiled of its sacred emblems, and, kneeling there in the dust, made the stations in their own way. Annette named each one as they reached it, then left her husband to make his meditation, or to utter the ejaculation that started up from his tormented heart, as sharp as a blade from its sheath.

At last they stood together by the crucifix, with the moonlight falling on them and through the great arches in a silvery rain.

Annette saw her husband wipe his forehead, though the night was cool. He breathed heavily, and looked at the earth beneath his feet, as if he saw through it, and beheld the martyr lying where he fell centuries before.

“O my dear!” she said, “I know that there is no lion like remorse. But is it no comfort to you that you are not alone?”

“It is both a comfort and a pain,” he answered gently. “I should be desolate without you, and I should have done something desperate, perhaps, if I had been alone. You must understand my gratitude and my regret without expecting me to express them. I cannot speak. I know I have wronged you bitterly, and that you are an angel of goodness to me; but I can say no more about it. If I were at my mother’s feet this moment, I should be speechless. I cannot pray even. I acknowledge the justice of God, and will endure whatever he sends. That is all I can say.”

He had forced himself to speak, she perceived, with a great effort. The season of complaints and outcries had gone past, and he had entered on the way of silence.

They went out, and left the ruin to its solemn tenants—the gliding shadows, which might be the troubled ghosts of the slayers, and the floating lights, which might be the glorified souls of the slain, visiting the loved spot where they had seen the heavens open for them.

The streets were nearly deserted when the two returned to them, their horses walking. They stopped at the fountain of Trevi, leaned awhile on the stone rail, and watched the streams that burst in snowy foam all along the front.

“What a heap of coals and ashes Rome would be without her fountains!” Annette said. “It would be like a family of patriarchs where no children are seen. And yet the waters do not always seem to me so childish. Theirs is the youth and freshness of angels. See how triumphant they look! They have been a long while in the dark, till they may have despaired of ever seeing the sun again. It is the way of souls, Lawrence. They walk in darkness and pain, they cannot see their way, and they sometimes doubt if light any longer exists. And at last they burst from their prison, and find themselves in the city of God.”

“Yes,” he said, “but they have not sinned; they have only suffered. I have always thought, Annette, that the saints have the easier life. You know we are told that the way of the transgressor is hard.”

“But the saints did not choose that life because it was the easier,” she replied. “They gave no thought to such a reward, but it was bestowed on them; and probably, when they chose, the other way seemed the easier, in spite of what the preacher says. The person who chooses a good life because it is the easier will never persevere in it; for the devil will always persuade him that he has made a mistake, and, since he chose from a selfish motive, God will owe him no help. The saints took what was hard, and what seemed the hardest because it was right, and left the consequences with God; and they had their reward. The sinner takes what seems the easiest, and thinks only of himself; and he, too, has his reward. Do not the waters look lovely? They are so fresh and new! How beautiful an image it is to compare divine grace to a fountain!”

They drove on through the town, across the bridge of S. Angelo, and saw the angel sheathing his sword—or was he unsheathing it?—against the sky, and, leaving their carriage at the entrance of the piazza of S. Peter’s, walked across it to that majestic temple, which, more than any other, and at that hour more than ever, seemed worthy of the Spouse of the Spirit. Golden and white, the mystical flood of moonlight veiled it, rippling along its colonnades, glittering in its fountains, setting a pavement of chalcedony across the piazza and up the wide ascent, and trembling round the dome that swelled upward like a breast full with the divine milk and honey with which the church nourishes her children.

Lawrence stopped near the obelisk.

“The first question the church asked of me when I was brought before her, an infant,” he said, “was what I had come to ask of her, and my sponsors answered for me, Faith. Now once again she asks the same question.”

He was silent a moment, looking up at the church, but with eyes that saw only the sacred Mother. Tears rolled down his face, and his lips trembled; but there was no sign of that desperate passion which had so worn him. “I ask for forgiveness and perseverance,” he said.

She observed that he did not ask for peace.

He went forward to the steps, and knelt there; and as he wept and prayed, his wife heard ever the same petition that God would have mercy on his mother, that in some way he would spare her the blow that threatened to fall upon her, and that she might know how he loved her and mourned his ingratitude.

Annette withdrew from her husband, and paced to and fro not far away. She, too, had a mother who was about to be stricken with grief on her account, and whom she might never again see in life.

She had almost forgotten her husband and how time was flying, when she heard his voice at her side.

“My poor Annette, I am killing you,” he said. “Come home. See! the day is breaking.”

The east was, indeed, growing pale with the early dawn, and the western colonnade was throwing long shadows as the moon declined. It was time for them to return. Chilled and exhausted, they entered their carriage, and were driven home.

The dawn of that same day, when in its course the sun rose from the Atlantic, and brightened the New England shore, saw Mrs. Gerald and Honora Pembroke go to early Mass together.

F. Chevreuse had visited them the morning before, and requested them to go to communion that day, and pray for themselves, their friends, and for his intention.

“I have a difficult duty to perform,” he said, “and I want all the help I can get. So make yourselves as saintly as possible, my dear friends. Confess and prepare yourselves for holy communion as if it were to be your last, and pray with all your strength, and do not allow a single smallest venial sin to touch you all day.”

F. Chevreuse often asked them to pray for his intention, and all they observed in this was his unusual earnestness. It had the effect of making them also unusually earnest in their devotion. Mrs. Gerald was, indeed, so absorbed that she failed to notice that when Honora came from the priest’s house, where she had been just before evening, she did not look quite well. F. Chevreuse had requested her to come there from her school, before going home, and she had been with him nearly an hour.

“So you have been to confession,” Mrs. Gerald said, arranging the tray for their tea. “I thought we would go there together this evening.”

She spoke in a very gentle, almost absent way; for she had been saying, as she went about, all the short prayers she could remember to the Blessed Virgin, and would resume them presently.

“So we will go together,” Miss Pembroke replied. “But I wanted to see F. Chevreuse this afternoon.”

She seated herself in a shady corner of the room, and opened her prayer‐ book; but it trembled so in her hand that she was forced to lay it aside, and pretend to be occupied with her rosary instead. Now and then she stole a glance at her companion, and saw with thankfulness that she was entirely occupied with her devotions. As she went about, preparing with dainty care their simple meal, her lips were moving; and sometimes she would pause a moment to bless herself, or to kiss the crucifix suspended from her neck, or to dwell on some sweet thought she had found hidden in a little prayer, like a blossom under a leaf.

And later in the evening, when the two returned from the priest’s house, there was nothing to attract attention in Miss Pembroke’s manner; for they sat reading and meditating till it was bed‐time. It was their custom, since they lived alone, to prepare thus strictly for the reception of the Holy Eucharist.

Mrs. Gerald stood a minute before the embers of the dying fire, when they were ready to go up‐stairs, the hand she had stretched for the bed‐candle resting on the edge of the mantel‐piece near it. “How peaceful we are here, Honora!” she said in her soft way, yet rather suddenly.

Miss Pembroke was bending to push the few remaining coals back, and her reply was indistinct, yet sounded like an affirmative.

“We have so much to be grateful for,” Mrs. Gerald went on. “I do not think that we could be more comfortable. I am sure that greater riches would disturb me. Indeed, I never wanted riches, except for Lawrence; and now he does not need them. I can truly say that I have all I desire.”

Miss Pembroke did not reply nor look up. She only stooped lower, and stretched her hands out over the coals, as if to warm them. Yet the two had always been so in harmony that her silence seemed to be assent.

“F. Chevreuse spoke beautifully to me to‐night,” Mrs. Gerald continued, still lingering. “He kept me some time talking after I had made my confession; and, what is unusual with him, he spoke of himself. He said that all the favors he has to ask of God are for others; but that when he comes to pray for himself, he can only say, ‘Amen.’ Now and then, he said, he thinks to ask some special favor; but when he lifts his eyes to heaven, only one word comes: ‘Amen! amen!’ I did not understand, while he spoke, how much it meant; but I have been thinking it over since I came home, and I see that the word may include all that a Christian need say.”

A murmured “Yes!” came from Honora, who turned her head aside that the candle might not shine in her face. “And now, dear Mrs. Gerald, since we are to rise early, we had better go to bed. Can I do anything for you? Is there anything to do to‐night?”

“Nothing, thank you, dear!”

They went up‐stairs together, and, when they parted, Miss Pembroke embraced her friend with unusual tenderness. “May you have a good night’s sleep!” she said; and, in the anguish of her heart, could almost have added, “And may you never wake!”

For F. Chevreuse had wisely judged it best to prepare her to sustain her friend when the hour of trial should come; and Honora, better than any other perhaps, understood what that shock would be.

“Go out in the morning and dismiss your school for the day,” the priest had said to her. “Then return home immediately, and make some excuse for it. You will easily be able to plead a headache, I fancy. Tell Mrs. Gerald that F. O’Donovan is coming to see her, so that she may not go out. And pray, my child, pray! What else is there for any of us to do in this terrible world but pray?”

Honora was obliged to make her excuses before going to school, for Mrs. Gerald at length noticed her altered looks, and almost insisted on dismissing the school for her. But she would not allow that.

“I shall feel better to go out than to sit in the house waiting,” she said, quite truly. “But I will come back at once. Pray do not be anxious about me. You know I am strong and healthy.”

When she returned, she found that Mrs. Gerald had, with motherly affection, made every preparation for her comfort. A deep sofa was pushed into a shady corner of the sitting‐room, pillows and a shawl were laid ready, and, as she entered the room, she perceived the pleasant odor of pennyroyal, their favorite remedy for colds and headaches.

Mrs. Gerald set down the steaming cup she held, and began to remove her young friend’s bonnet and shawl. “I thought you would rather lie down here than go up stairs by yourself,” she said. “I will keep everything quiet.”

Honora submitted to be made an invalid of, since this tender soul could have no greater pleasure than to relieve suffering; allowed herself to be assisted to the sofa; let Mrs. Gerald arrange the pillows under her head and cover her with the shawl; then drank obediently the remedy offered her. But all the while her heart was sinking with an agony of apprehension, and she listened breathlessly for a step which was to bring doom to this unconscious victim.

“Now what else can I do for you, dear?” her nurse asked, looking vainly to see what had not been done.

Honora answered, “Nothing”; but, recollecting that something might be needed, if not for her, added, “You might place a glass of water and the camphor‐bottle here where I can reach them.”

Mrs. Gerald brought them, from the mere pleasure of serving. “But you must not drink the water, for you are to be kept warm,” she said. “Your hands are quite cold now. And, you know, camphor never does you any good.”

She was about turning away when Honora took her hand, and detained her. She dared not look up, but she held the hand close to her cheek on the pillow. “Dear friend,” she said in a stifled voice, “it sometimes almost hurts me to remember how good and kind you have always been to me. I hope I have never seemed ungrateful; I have never felt so. But in future I want to be more than ever to you. Let me be your daughter, and live with you always. I do not want to go away with any one else.”

“My daughter!” said Mrs. Gerald, full of loving surprise and pleasure; and stooped to leave a kiss on the girl’s forehead.

“And now, dear mother,” said Honora, “do not fancy that I am very sick. In an hour, all will be over.”

Mrs. Gerald smiled at this promise of sudden cure.

“Then I will leave you quiet a little while, and go out to water my plants. The seeds have come up which I sowed in the tracks my other two children made; and in a day or two, when Lawrence and Annette come home, their footprints will be quite green.”

She spoke with a gentle gaiety, for she was happy. So much affection had been shown her, she seemed to be of such help and value to those she loved best, that life assumed for her an aspect of spring and; youth, and a gladness long unknown to her rose up in her heart.

As she left the room, Honora looked eagerly after her, raising herself on her elbow, as soon as she was out of sight, and listening toward the door. When she heard her step on the veranda, she started off the sofa, and ran to look out through a blind into the garden. Mrs. Gerald was on her knees by the precious tracks, which she had carefully enclosed with slender pegs of wood, and was sprinkling with water the tiny blades of green that grew thickly inside. A soft and tender smile played round her lips, and the wrinkles that pain and anxiety sometimes drew in her face were all smoothed away. The spring morning hung over her like a benediction, silent and bright, not a breath of wind stirring; and in that secluded street, with its cottages and embowering trees, she was as safe from public observation as she would have been in the country.

Honora glanced at the clock. It wanted five minutes of ten.

“Five minutes more of happiness!” she murmured, and, from faintness, sank on her knees before the window, looking out still with her eyes fixed on that quiet, bending figure.

Mrs. Gerald stretched her hand and slowly made the sign of the cross over each one of those precious footprints. “May all their steps be toward heaven!” she whispered. “May angels guard them now and for ever, and may the blessings of the poor and the suffering spring up wherever they go, like these flowers, in their path.”

She rose and stood looking off into distance, tears of earnest feeling glistening in her eyes.

“Two minutes longer!” murmured Honora, who felt as if the room were swimming around her, so that she had to grasp the window‐ledge for support. She could not see, but she heard a step on the sidewalk, and, though it was more measured than usual, there was no possibility of mistaking it. Only one step would come in that way and stop at their gate this morning. She heard F. O’Donovan’s voice, and presently the two came into the entry together.

“Perhaps you had better come into the parlor,” Mrs. Gerald was saying. “Honora is lying down in there. She has a bad headache this morning.”

“Nevertheless, we will go in and see her,” was the reply.

Miss Pembroke started up, frightened at her own weakness. It would never do to fail now, when all the strength she could show would be needed. She had only time to seat herself on the sofa when they entered the room.

“My dear child! why did you not lie still?” Mrs. Gerald exclaimed. “I am sure F. O’Donovan would excuse you.”

“I would rather sit up, if you will come and sit by me,” Honora answered; and, taking Mrs. Gerald’s hands, drew her down to the sofa, and sat there holding her in a half embrace.

The lady noticed with surprise that no greeting passed between the priest and Honora, and that he had not uttered a word of sympathy for her illness, nor, indeed, scarcely glanced at her. He went to the window, and opened one of the blinds.

“Allow me to have a ray of sunshine in the room,” he said. “Why should we shut it out? It is like divine love in a sorrowful world.”

Mrs. Gerald had hardly time to notice this somewhat unusual freedom of manner on the part of F. O’Donovan, for, as he came and seated himself near her, she was struck by the paleness and gravity of his face.

“Are you ill? Has anything happened?” she asked hastily; but he saw that in her anxiety there was no thought of danger to herself. It was a friendly solicitude for him; and she instantly glanced at Honora, as if connecting her illness with his altered appearance. That her young friend might have some cause of trouble seemed to her quite possible; for she had never been able to disabuse her mind of the belief that Honora had become more interested in Mr. Schöninger than she would own, and that she had never recovered entirely from the shock of his disgrace.

“I have great news to tell you,” said F. O’Donovan. “Mr. Schöninger is proved innocent, and will immediately be set at liberty.”

“How glad I am!” exclaimed Mrs. Gerald, who immediately believed that she understood all. “But how is it known?”

“The real criminal has confessed,” the priest went on; “and the confession and the circumstances are all of a sort to excite our deepest compassion. For it was not a deliberate crime, but only one of those steps which a man who has once consented to walk in the wrong path seems compelled to take. The poor fellow was deceived, and led on as all sinners are. He was in pecuniary difficulties, and yielded to a temptation to take F. Chevreuse’s money, intending to repay it. The rest followed almost as a matter of course. Mother Chevreuse defended her son’s property, and the poor sinner had to secure what he had risked so much to obtain, and escape the disgrace of detection. Others were approaching, and he was desperate. He gave an unlucky push, with no intention but to free himself, and the devil looked out for the result. But, if you could know how entirely that poor soul has repented, not only the fatal step in which his errors ended, but every smallest fault that led to it, you would have only pity for him. Mother Chevreuse died a good and holy woman, full of years and good works, and perhaps her death will be the cause of one man being a saint. He promises everything for the future, and that with a fervor which no one can doubt. He acknowledges the justice of any contumely and suffering and loss which may befall him. The only thought too hard for him to bear is that of the sorrow he has brought on his own family. If he could suffer alone, he would not complain; he would suffer tenfold, if it were possible, to spare those he loves.”

Mrs. Gerald had listened with intense interest to this story, and when it was ended she drew a long breath. “Poor man!” she sighed. “Has he a wife?”

“Yes; he has a wife who is all devotion to him, and who will follow him to the last. She will never be separated from him.”

“Will she go to prison with him? Will she be allowed to do that?” Mrs. Gerald asked in surprise.

“Oh! it is not a question of imprisonment,” the priest replied. “He has escaped, and will probably never be taken. His confession was written, sealed, and entrusted to a priest, to be opened at a certain time. It was opened this morning.”

The two watched Mrs. Gerald with trembling anxiety as she sat a moment with downcast eyes, musing over this strange story. Honora did not dare to breathe or stir, lest she should loosen the thunderbolt that hung suspended over their heads, ready to drop, and the priest was inwardly praying for wisdom to speak the right word.

“I hope he has no mother,” Mrs. Gerald said, without looking up.

“That is the hardest part of all,” said F. O’Donovan. “He has a mother. It is that which renders his remorse so terrible. But fortunately she is a Christian woman, who will know how to bend to the will of God, and leave her afflictions at his feet. She will be comforted by the thought that her son is a sincere penitent, and is by this awful lesson put for ever on his guard against sins which might otherwise have seemed to him trivial.”

“Oh! but think of her responsibility!” exclaimed Mrs. Gerald, raising her eyes quickly. “Think of her remorse and fear when she looks back on her training of that child, and thinks that all his faults and crimes may be laid at her door. I know a mother’s heart, F. O’Donovan, and I tell you there will be no comfort for that mother. You cannot have seen her. Where is she? I would like to go to her.”

“She does not yet know,” replied the priest, almost in a whisper, and stopped there, though other words seemed about to follow.

She gazed at him in surprise, and her look began to grow strange. She only looked intently, but said nothing; and in that dreadful silence Honora Pembroke’s arm closed tightly about her waist, and her breath trembled on the mother’s paling cheek.

“Cast yourself into the arms of God!” exclaimed F. O’Donovan. “Do not think! Do not fear nor look abroad. Hide yourself in the bosom of God! Sin and sorrow are but passing clouds, but heaven and hope and peace are eternal!”

Those beautiful violet eyes that had wept so many tears, now dry and dilating, were fixed upon him, and the face changed slowly. One wave of deep red had flown over it and sunk, and from pale it had grown deathly white, and over that whiteness had stolen a faint gray shade.

“Mother! mother! speak!” cried Honora Pembroke, weeping; but the form she clasped was rigid, and the face was beginning to have a blank, unnatural expression.

“Live for your son’s sake!” said F. O’Donovan, taking in his her cold hands—“live to see his repentance, to see him win the forgiveness of the world and of God.”

But that blankness overspread her face, and the light in her fixed eyes grew more dim.

The priest stood up, still holding strongly one of her hands, and with his other made the sign of the cross over her, giving with it the final absolution. Then he seated himself beside her, and, while Honora fell at her feet, put his arm around the rigid form, and touched the cheeks with his warm, magnetic hand, and pleaded tenderly and with tears, as if she had been his own mother, now a word of human love, now a word of divine hope; and suddenly he stopped, and Honora, with her face hidden in Mrs. Gerald’s lap, heard him exclaim, “Depart, Christian soul, out of the body, in the name of the Father who created thee, in the name of the Son who redeemed thee, and in the name of the Holy Ghost who has sanctified thee.”

She started up with a faint cry, and saw that Mrs. Gerald’s head had dropped sideways on to her shoulder, her eyes were half‐closed, and her relaxing form was sinking backward, supported by F. O’Donovan.

How it happened she did not know, but almost at the same instant Mrs. Macon entered the room followed by a doctor, and to Honora’s confused sense it seemed as though helpers were all about and she was separated from her friend. She heard F. O’Donovan’s voice repeating the prayers for the dead, and presently the weeping responses of the servant, but she was powerless to join them.

She roused herself only when she heard the priest speak her name. “Did I make any mistake? Did I do well, do you think?” he asked anxiously. “I did not know any better way.”

Honora opened her eyes and looked about.

“There was no better way,” she said. “The result would have been the same in any case, and she suffered only a minute.”

Tears were swimming in his fine eyes.

“She has, indeed, hidden herself in the bosom of God, where no harm can reach her, and it is best so. We can see that it is most merciful for her. But for that unhappy son....”

“Do not name him!” exclaimed Miss Pembroke, shuddering. “I cannot think of him without abhorrence! See what ruin he has wrought wherever he has been. What has escaped him? Nothing! Do you, can you, believe there is hope for one whose soul is such an abyss of weakness and selfishness? He has stripped from me my dearest friends; he has smitten those who loved him best....”

She stopped, half from the bitter weeping that choked her words, half because the priest had laid his checking hand on her arm.

“The silence of death is in the house,” he said gently. “Do not disturb it by anger. Leave Lawrence Gerald to the lashes of his guilty conscience. Believe me, it will be punishment enough. Forgive him, and pray for him.”

“Not yet! I cannot yet!” she protested. “He has been forgiven too much. But I will say no more. I am sorry I should have spoken so in _her_ home.”

“Come out into the air of the garden a little while; it will refresh you,” the priest urged. “I must go directly to F. Chevreuse, but I will return. He went to Mrs. Ferrier more than an hour ago, and was to wait there for me or come this way to learn the result. Poor F. Chevreuse! he is sorely tried. Everything rests on him. Don’t sit here in the dark any longer. Come!”

“You had better go, Miss Pembroke. You can do nothing here,” Mrs. Macon said to her.

She went out and hid herself in a little arbor that had been a favorite retreat of Mrs. Gerald’s on warm summer days, and sitting there, too stunned for weeping, now that the first burst of tears was dried, tried to recollect and realize what had happened.

As she sat there she heard presently the trampling of horses and the roll of a carriage, and mechanically leaned forward to see who was passing, but without in the least caring. The bright bays and the sparkling harness were very familiar to her eyes, and she saw that Mrs. Ferrier herself was in the carriage. The woman’s face was red and swollen with weeping and excitement, and as she passed the cottage she put up her hand as if she would have shut it from her sight. Evidently her interview with F. Chevreuse had been a stormy one, and had left her in anything but a charitable frame of mind.

Miss Pembroke looked indifferently at first, but a moment after she rose and took a step forward to see better; for F. Chevreuse and F. O’Donovan had appeared in the street in front of the carriage and stopped it, and the elder priest was speaking sternly to Mrs. Ferrier.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“I am going to the prison to tell them to let Mr. Schöninger go free,” she answered defiantly. “I am going to take him to my house.”

“You are going to do nothing of the sort,” said the priest. “You have no right to, and will only do harm, and disgrace yourself.”

“I couldn’t be more disgraced than I am already, with that ...” she began in a loud voice, but F. Chevreuse stopped her.

“Silence!” he said authoritatively. “You are insane.”

“John, drive on!” she called out of the window.

“John, you will not drive a step further,” said the priest in a low voice.

“You’d better do what he says, ma’am,” said John, leaning down from the box. “And you’d better not talk so loud. People are beginning to notice.”

“I should like to know what you think of yourself for a priest, making my own servants disobey me,” the poor woman cried, relapsing into tears. And then, instantly recovering her spirit, she added, “If I cannot go to the prison, I will know where my poor daughter is. I believe Mrs. Gerald could tell. She must know where they are hid. I will have Annette back again.”

“You had better come in and ask Mrs. Gerald,” F. Chevreuse said calmly. “Do not hesitate! It will, perhaps, be better for you to see her.”

She shrank a little, yet could not bear to remain inactive. To her mind, she had been hushed, and imposed on, and silenced by everybody, in order that this worthless criminal might ruin her daughter’s happiness, and obtain possession of her money, and she was burning to pour her anger out on some one. F. Chevreuse’s authoritative interference, while she yielded to it, only exasperated her more. “I will go in and find where Annette is,” she said resolutely, and stepped out of her carriage, too much excited to stumble.

Honora Pembroke came forward and stood between her and the door, looking in astonishment at the two priests who followed her.

“Let her go in!” F. O’Donovan said.

She was obliged to, indeed, for Mrs. Ferrier’s strong hand set her aside as if she had been a feather.

The woman entered with a haughty step and a high head, her silks rustling about her through the solemn silence, and walked straight to the sitting‐ room. Mrs. Macon met her at the door, but she put her aside, and took a step into the room; only one step, and then she stopped short, and uttered a cry.

“See how that mother heard the news!” said F. Chevreuse in a low voice at her side. “Have you any questions to ask her?”

Mrs. Ferrier retreated a step, and leaned against the door‐frame. They all drew back and left her a full view of the silent form stretched on the sofa, and only Honora Pembroke’s weeping disturbed the silence.

“You don’t say that it killed her!” she exclaimed in a low, frightened voice; then, before they could answer, she threw up her arms, and ran across the room. “You poor dear!” she sobbed. “You poor, broken‐hearted dear!”

She flung herself on her knees beside the sofa, and embraced and wept over the motionless form there, all her anger, all thought of self, forgotten in a generous and loving pity and grief.

F. Chevreuse glanced at his brother priest with a faint, sad smile. “Her heart is right,” he said. “It is always right.”

To Be Continued.

Material Faith.

Give me a God whom I can prove By certain academic rules, Approved by all the learned schools; And if he fitteth not our groove, We’ll leave him for unscienced fools To idolize. But if his attributes should be All classed within high Reason’s bound— His origin and parts be found With analytics to agree— This God, whom we can solve and sound, We’ll patronize.

But still our right we will reserve— A sacred privilege of Science— To herald forth our non‐compliance With Scriptural accounts that swerve From our grand basis; such defiance We’ll not endure. We’ll rule out the creation chapter; ’Tis so absurd! and lacks support Of brilliant sages in our court Whose own hypotheses are apter. So exit Moses’ crude report For something newer.

The Bible we will not reject _In toto_; no, we’ll let it stand, Lest our fair fame should bear a brand; But when we’ve banished ev’ry sect, Then forth we’ll drag from Lethe’s sand Our fossil link! Completing the material chain By philosophic labor wrought, And beaten out by mighty thought! Eureka! what a motley train Of dry bones, labelled to a jot, Round Learning’s brink!

Such wondrous titles ne’er were heard In all the mythologic lore! We’ll drape in gloom of Stygian shore All held as truth; and at our word Darkness, in cloak of Light, shall soar To Reason’s throne! Then, when this wheeling globe is ours, We’ll send God forth a wand’ring myth Void, and bereft of son, or kith: And stone‐eyed fossils, robed in flowers, From sea of spice to frozen frith, Shall teach alone.

A Glimpse of the Green Isle. I.

“What the lady wants, sir, is hair,” said Edward.

“Hair!” I repeated scornfully, at the same time glancing at the wealth of dark‐brown hair which fell dishevelled over the shoulders of the Lady from Idaho. “_Hair!_”

It was evident that no comb had touched that wonderful _chevelure_ for several days.

“I shall never be able to comb it out again,” said the Lady from Idaho in a weak, despairing voice. She lay on a sofa in a state‐room on board the transatlantic steamer _Lima_, from New York to Liverpool, calling at Queenstown. She had been terribly sea‐sick. During seven days she had not eaten enough to keep a buffalo‐gnat alive.

“I don’t mean ‘air,’ sir,” said Edward, raising his nose to an altitude of 45°, with the lofty dignity of your true English waiter. “I means _hair_—wentilation.”

“Ah! yes. I believe you are right, Hedward.”

_Hedward_ was a steward on board the _Lima_, to whose fostering care the writer was entrusted.

The Lady from Idaho had reached that point of sea‐sickness when one does not want the trouble even of getting better. We carried her on deck, however, and laid her, well wrapped up, on one of the cushioned seats. The circular horizon of many days was being broken by the Irish coast just coming into view. The mere sight of land seemed to revive the fair Idaho traveller. As we neared the coast, and the green of the fields and trees could be seen, she said:

“Oh! what a goodly sight. What a beautiful country! I could chant its praises with the most enthusiastic Irishman of them all!”

We feasted our eyes on the beautiful coast until darkness fell upon it and its outline was marked for us only by the lights which traced the curves of the shore.

We exchange rocket‐signals with the shore and with other steamers lying in the bay. The land‐breeze has set the Lady from Idaho on her feet again. The tug comes alongside to take the mails and those passengers who wish to land at Queenstown. All is bustle and excitement. There are regretful leave‐takings between fellow‐passengers whom the traditional “stand‐ offishness” of English‐speaking people prevented from enjoying each other’s society until it was almost time to part. Among those who go on shore at Queenstown are the Lady from Idaho—poor seasick soul! she would have gone on shore days ago, if she could have found any shore to go on; a young Irishman bringing his American bride home for inspection by his friends in “the Black North”; some American ladies and gentlemen making their first European tour, evidently determined to be pleased with everything they see; some specimens of young and infant America, and the writer.

There’s not much provision for the comfort of passengers on board the tug. The night is rather moist, but the cabin is “stuffy” and ill‐ventilated, and we prefer remaining on deck.

The “Cove of Cork” is certainly a beautiful place by day or night. But the night effect is the finer, _me judice_. The rows of lights rising above each other, tier on tier, on the heights, cast a magic glamour over the scene.

The tug has reached her dock. The custom‐house officers have come on board. Horrid moment! Worse, however, in anticipation than in reality, everywhere except on the trans‐Atlantic docks of New York City.

“Have you any cigars or tobacco?”

“No.”

“Any firearms?”

“No, sir,” I answer, and inwardly bless my stars that my better and more sensible half has left behind, for lack of room, the “six‐shooter” which I carried for ten years in the free land of the West. What a piece of luck! I have been assured by Irish friends that had I brought that unhappy “six‐ shooter” with me, I should most undoubtedly have been arrested for some undefined bloody intentions with regard to that most susceptible animal, the lion of Great Britain. The lion would have been very much mistaken; for never were the Irish shores visited by any one whose heart was more full of peace and good‐will.

Ireland is not a safe place for any one who has a trans‐Atlantic odor about him during a Fenian paroxysm. The possession of a pocket _derringer_ is sufficient evidence of belligerent intentions. New‐York‐made boots are objects of suspicion, and in times of excitement have been the cause of trouble to the wearer. As harmless and commercial an article as a wooden nutmeg, carried merely as a patriotic souvenir, may entail considerable annoyance on its possessor, and perhaps necessitate the good offices of his consul to enable him to pursue his tourist path of pleasure or business in peace. In such periods as anti‐Fenian frenzy, English ports are the safest and pleasantest; for in Ireland, then, the lion is rampant, roaring and seeking whom he may devour. It is better to keep away from his super‐serviceable retainers in Ireland.

But the political horizon is unclouded. The bloody‐minded revolutionists of the pen and inkstand are quiescent for the nonce. We find the officials kind and polite. They opened only one of our trunks. They gave its contents merely a cursory inspection, and chalked cabalistic characters on all our boxes, portmanteaus, satchels, etc. They fished for no fee, nor was any offered them.

It is nearly midnight when we leave the tug. We step ashore. After a quarter of a century of absence, my foot is upon my native heath. My name is not MacGregor, dear reader, nor is it Micawber.

I do not think people feel much at the moment that anything happens to them. It is either before or after; in anticipation or retrospection. In describing their sensations, they tell us what they suppose they are going to feel, or what they think they ought to have felt. I have stood bare‐ headed by the grave of Washington at Mount Vernon. I believe the man and his work to be among the greatest that ever blest the world. What did I feel? A kind of sorrowful, reverential, awe‐struck mental numbness; then a sad yet selfish pity for my kind, who, however good and great they be, e’en to this favor must they come at last. I could not have distinctly shaped a thought or given expression to any of the ideas which a visit to the grave of Washington might be supposed to suggest to a conventionally susceptible imagination. Yet my eyes were full of tears. In the evening, however, in a comfortable room at Willard’s, in an easy‐chair by a cheerful fire, in the pleasant ease of slippers and cigars, with a quire of thick, white, unglazed letter‐paper before me, any kind of steel pen (I hate a gold pen for literary work; it has a counting‐house suggestiveness that seems to disagree with the muses), with mayhap a modicum of _vin chaud_ at my elbow, what pages of “Thoughts suggested by a visit to the grave of Washington” I could have “knocked off”! But unluckily Jones rushed in with the sad news that poor Thompson had been killed on the other side of the river, and drove all the intended “Thoughts” out of my head. There is no real present. We have only the past and the future.

The debarkation of a number of ladies, children, trunks, boxes, and carpet‐bags is not generative of the softer emotions. The night is damp and chilly. It has reached the wee sma’ hours. There is no omnibus or hack to take us to the hotel. Some night‐birds, with low, flat caps and Corkonian accents, offer to carry our luggage and show us the way to the hotel. It is “only a step or two.” The cortége sets out for the hotel. Corkonian youngsters—who ought to have been in their beds, if they had any beds to go to—come suddenly out of the darkness, and ask, with wonderful chromatic elocution, the privilege of carrying our satchels. It is useless to tell them we do not need their assistance. They will not be denied. They keep up their chromatics until we succumb. Well, it is sixpence each for them—a treble, or American, gratuity. An American, native or adopted, to whom, especially if he have lived in the West, “a quarter” seems the lowest gratuity that he can offer to the negro who blacks his boots in a sleeping‐car, feels an impulse of lavishness on touching Irish ground. He “feels good,” and wishes to make all around him partake of the feeling. Half a dollar seems the least that he can offer the waiter at the hotel with justice to his own dignity and that of the country he has the honor to represent. He is not always so generous when he returns at the end of his tour, and the gratuity system of Britain has disgusted him and helped to deplete his purse. Then he comes down to the smallest silver coin in his _portemonnaie_. He cannot offer coppers, and never gets as low as the Englishman’s “tuppence.”

The English and the Irish in Ireland inveigh bitterly against the American propensity to give extravagant _douceurs_. They say that Americans are spoiling their waiters, porters, servants, etc. They call this liberality snobbishness, desire to display! The fact is, it is partly a matter of habit, partly a want of knowledge of the comparative values of “tips” at home and abroad. What American from the further side of the Mississippi expects to get anything for a penny? Add to this, what I before remarked, that the American in Ireland “feels good,” and wants to scatter around all the good he can.

Well! here we are at the hotel. A somewhat stupefied porter receives us. He has to see somebody before he can inform us as to the probability of entertainment. He has not indicated any room where the ladies and children can sit and take the night‐chill off while we await the result of his conference with Mr. or Mrs. Boniface. We remain standing in the entry, our carpet‐bags and wraps in our hands. At length the comatose porter returns, and says that bed‐rooms are ready for us!

“Can we have any supper?”

“No, sir. The cook’s gone home, sir.”

“Not a cup of tea?”

“No, sir. It’s too late, sir.”

“At least, we can have some hot Irish whiskey‐punch?”

“No, sir. There’s no hot wather in the house, sir.”

“Is there any _cold_ water in the house?”

“Of coorse there is, sir,” replies our negative Amphitryon, slightly roused by the question.

“Then bring me some Irish whiskey and _cold_ water.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll thry, sir. I’ll see if the bar‐maid isn’t asleep, sir, and get the key from her, sir.”

We were then presented with one‐third of a tallow candle each, and marshalled to our respective sleeping‐apartments. No chance of a little pleasant chatter and some gentle exhilaration on our first night on Irish soil.

We sleep pretty well, however, and pretty long into the forenoon of the next day. Waiter comes to say that we can have breakfast in the coffee‐ room whenever we desire it. This is a delicate hint that we are not early risers. He wants to know when we wish breakfast and of what we wish it composed.

“Chops and tomato‐sauce, ham and eggs—”

“Yes, sir. _Rashers_ and eggs, sir.”

“Beefsteak, tea, and coffee, in half an hour.”

Raining! The view of the bay is rather cheerless. Everything looks dankish, dingy, and dull.

“Can you realize that you are in I Ireland?” I inquire of the Lady from Idaho.

“Not in the least,” responds the most amiable of her sex. “Can you?”

“No, indeed.”

It is not a good morning for the interchange of ideas. Misty mornings never are. As for certain projected “Thoughts on touching Irish soil after twenty‐five years’ absence,” their suggesting themselves under such a murky sky is out of the question. They will have to wait for the bright, creative sun. Perhaps, after a good warm breakfast, one may be able to think some “Thoughts,” if the railway time‐tables will admit of it.

The “coffee‐room” of “the best hotel” is cold and cheerless. Smoke without fire is obtained from some wet coal‐dust, economically caked, according to the mode of thrifty housekeepers in the British Isles, in an infinitesimal grate in a remote corner of the room. Impossible to think any “Thoughts” here. Some solemn‐looking men, very particular about their chops—I mean their mutton‐chops—are enjoying—or, more correctly, consuming, for there is no evidence of enjoyment—their morning meal.

Our breakfast is not a bad one. The chops are excellent; the beefsteak, so‐so. I have eaten better beef in New York. The bread is hard and heavy, but white and not ill‐tasted. I wish the Irish and English waiters would adopt the short alpaca jacket and long white apron of the waiters of Paris and New York. It is a much neater and cleaner costume. The greasy full‐ dress coat and limp, whity‐brown neck‐cloth are not only absurd; they are often disgusting.

Still raining! The sidewalks are hid from view by the thickly‐passing umbrellas. Let us go and buy some umbrellas! Life seems to be impossible without them here. In the three kingdoms, umbrellas are indispensable to respectability.

“I hate respectability,” said the Lady from Idaho with a vicious emphasis.

I was rather astonished by this outburst, but I reflected that allowance must be made for ladies’ tempers on draggle‐tail mornings.

“Such weather,” I remarked, “is enough to make one hate anything.”

“It is not that,” she retorted. “I hate respectability, rain or shine.”

“_Des goûts et des couleurs_—you know the old proverb.”

“There is nothing more selfish, more hypocritical, more cowardly, than ‘respectability.’ ”

“My dear madam, I did not take the trouble of coming from the other side of the Rocky Mountains for the purpose of chopping logic. I must buy umbrellas.”

I bought me an umbrella. Thenceforward I was only separated from it during sleep and meals while I remained in the British Islands. It was almost always necessary. The wretch who sold it to me, however, saw that I wore overshoes, and charged me about three Irish prices. I feel certain that the day will come when he will be fitly punished. He will emigrate to the United States sooner or later, and the hackmen or _restaurateurs_ of New York will avenge me!

Steam is a wonderful leveller. It is destroying national costume and toning down national peculiarities. The same round hat which was worn in New York when I left is worn in Queenstown; the same fashion of winter overcoat. The up‐and‐down‐the‐gamut intonations of the Cork brogue, however, bring you to a consciousness of your true latitude and longitude. The long, hooded cloth cloaks of the peasant women have some suggestions of nationality about them. Occasionally, too, a girl of seventeen or eighteen with bare feet and short kirtle is seen. This is characteristic.

“Buy a bunch of Irish shamrocks from me, sir? Now, do, sir, if ye plase.”

We cannot refuse. We lay in a plentiful supply of the chosen leaf of bard and chief.

“Long life to you, sir, and to the purty ladies and the beautiful childer, and all the blessings in the world on ye. May ye never know what it is to want anything for them!”

The shamrocks alone were not dear; but with such a prayer added, we felt as if we were taking the poor woman’s stock in trade for nothing.

As a matter of course, I expected to find Ireland rather backward as regards women’s rights and that sort of thing. I was somewhat surprised, therefore, on entering the telegraph office, to find a telegraphist of the gentler sex. She seemed to be quite a business young lady—quick, intelligent, and polite. With the least possible display of conscious superiority, she instructed me in the mode of filling those absurd British blanks for my first British telegrams. With the condescending gentleness of an amiable “school‐marm” instructing a good boy of unfortunately limited knowledge and capacity, she “posted” me in the names and location of streets in Dublin. She was industrious as well as intelligent. She had brought her knitting. During our conversation, she doubly improved the shining hour by rolling into a ball a skein of worsted which a most serious and attentive young lady of eight or nine summers held distended on her outstretched and uplifted hands.

The hotel at which we stopped was managed by women. I afterwards remarked, in my trip through the island, that the internal economy of most of the hotels in Ireland is under female direction. The post‐offices and postal‐ telegraph offices are very generally managed by women. There are numerous institutions for the care of aged, sick, or destitute women, or for the rescue and reformation of the poor erring sisters who have been led away from the paths of purity and peace.

“I really believe, after all,” said the Lady from Idaho to me one day, in conversation on this subject, “that they take better care of their women than we do.”

We take the cars for Cork. We ride to the “beautiful city” through the loveliest bit of landscape on which the sun ever shone, or, more appositely, on which the gentle rain from heaven ever fell. It is indeed a land of loveliness and song. The good‐natured guard, having remarked our overshoes doubtless, puts his face to the car‐window, and enthusiastically asks:

“Well, sir, an’ isn’t this a counthry worth fightin’ for?”

Confound the fellow! even though he be bright‐faced and seems good‐ natured. I wish those people who are eternally talking about fighting and never doing it—except among themselves—would stop talking, or, if they cannot do anything better, go out, take a good “licking” manfully, and be done with it. Daring and doing, even if one gets the worst of it, is better than loud talking and nothing doing. I hate the _vox et præterea nihil_. We have had too much of it.

“Faith,” says the guard, “it’s the fine, healthy‐looking childer ye’ve got. Shure, they don’t look like Yankee childer at all, at all.”

“If by Yankee you mean _American_, my friend, that they undoubtedly are,” replies the gentleman responsible for the little responsibilities who are too healthy‐looking to be like “Yankee childer”; “but they come from ayont the Mississippi, which may account in some degree for their hardy appearance.”

“What town is that on the other side of the water?”

“Passage, sir.”

Passage! Shade of “Father Prout”! How often have we rolled our tongues in luscious enjoyment around thy roaring lyric in praise of that wonderful borough!

“The town of Passage Is large and spacious, And situated Upon the Lay;

It’s nate and dacent, And quite convanient To come from Cork On a summer’s day.

Unfortunately, it is not exactly the kind of a day that one would like

“to slip in, To take a dippin’ Fornint the shippin’ That at anchor ride; Or in a wherry Cross o’er the ferry To Carrigaloe On the other side;”

for it still rains, and Carrigaloe is upon our side, as a sign‐board and the voice of the guard informs us: “Carrigaloe!”

We shall not have an opportunity of testing the reliability of the poet’s promise that

“land or deck on, You may surely reckon, Whatever country You come hither from, On an invitation To a jollification With a parish priest That’s called ‘Father Tom.’ ”

The guard blows his whistle. We leave Passage and its satellite, Carrigaloe, behind, and with them the pleasant vision of a cheerful evening with the hospitable and large‐hearted ecclesiastic of the inimitable song.

Not in this wide world is there a lovelier piece of landscape than that between Queenstown and Cork. Here the Lee is bordered by lovely lawns of the freshest green, sloping gently to the water’s edge. Further on it flows between verdurous walls of lofty trees. The leaves of their drooping branches kiss the rippling current as it passes. Yonder the Castle of Blackrock frowns over its gently‐flowing tide. The grass and the leaves are green with a vivid greenness that justifies all that the poets have sung about the Emerald Island. What glory in thy long, green vistas, beautiful Glanmire!

Our road is bordered on one side by the river; on the other, rich demesnes, bounded by trees, ivy‐covered walls, and moss‐covered rocks, from which fall miniature cascades and waves the green and graceful fern.

The landscape needs only one modest charm to make its loveliness complete. I miss the humble cottage, lowly yet lovely, where honest labor finds its comfort and repose. There are rich mansions and umbrageous groves and broad pastures, but no smoke ascends from cheerful hearths of tillers of the soil. The peasantry, whose cottages might grace these lovely glades, are building themselves new homes on the broad prairies of the West. The humble wooden sheds or the rough cabins on the brown and treeless plains, sacred to the Lares of independence and self‐reliance, are far lovelier in the eyes of the lover of his kind than thy greenest glades, beautiful Glanmire!

“A bold peasantry, their country’s pride, If once destroyed, can never be supplied.”

Here is the beautiful city. It does not do itself justice to‐day. The rain, which softens and freshens the beauties of the country, blackens and bedraggles the town. “God made the country, and man made the town.”

But what are those deep, soft tones that reach us through the humid air? Can it be? Yes, there is no doubt about it. We are listening to

“The bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee!

“I’ve heard bells tolling Old Adrian’s mole in, Their thunders rolling From the Vatican;

“And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious From the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame;

“But thy sounds are sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o’er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly.

“Oh! the Bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee!”

Cork, with its fine bridges crossing the branches of the Lee, might, under bright atmospheric effects, lay claim to its antique designation; but, amid mud and rain, the most enthusiastic traveller can see no extraordinary beauty even in Paris itself. Church spires and buildings darkened by the rain have a gloomy look. Even the church of S. Anne, which may fairly be said to have “two sides to it”—one being of differently‐ colored stone from the other—has had its peculiar claims to the traveller’s attention somewhat weakened by the effect of the rain.

We have concluded to wend our way quietly toward Dublin, taking in our route anything that may be of interest. The Great Southern and Western Railway runs through one of the most beautiful districts in Ireland. A long panorama of beautiful and characteristic scenes is unrolled as you steam along. Green hedges and slopes, furze‐covered fences, century‐old trees covered with moss and ivy, rippling streams, a ruined abbey or dismantled tower, bits of soft blue appearing through slate‐colored clouds—the humid atmosphere toning down all harsh lines, and yet spreading a sweet though melancholy softness over all—this limited by the gentle undulations of the ground, whose beautiful curves give life to the landscape, yet circumscribe its horizon, and you have the peculiar characteristics of an Irish landscape.

There is an air of solidity about the track and its accessories to an eye habituated to trans‐Mississippi railroads. Very pretty are those stations of stone, covered with green ivy, every foot of space in front of them devoted to the culture of some sweet, simple flowers. The Lady from Idaho, who has recently been dipping her gentle nose into the cryptogamia, is in ecstasies over the magnificent ferns we have passed at various points of our route.

For an excellent railway dinner, let me recommend Limerick station to the traveller. The best railway breakfast I have ever eaten—and I have eaten not a few in both hemispheres—I ate at Altoona, on the Pennsylvania Central. It was twelve years ago, however. The best railway dinner I have ever eaten I had at Limerick Junction. It would have done credit to many a pretentious hotel on either continent. It surpassed the _menu_ of private hotels in London, “patronized by officers of both services and their families.” It was a better meal than I have had at what is considered one of the best hotels in Northern Germany, and did not cost half so much. It was well and comfortably served, _malgré_ the ponderous solemnity of the British style of hotel attendance, which to me is a terrible bore. Plenty of time was allowed us to eat and enjoy our meal. Some jovial young gentlemen at the table politely caused champagne to be offered us, in compliment to our trans‐Atlantic character. They insisted, as far as politeness would admit, on regaling us; but we declined indulgence in the lively beverage. Sparkling wines are not good to travel on. One of the gentlemen was fascinated by a specimen of infantine America—a member of our party, and one of its most important members, by the way. The champagne, probably, had a softening effect on the gentleman. He lamented his childless condition, and expressed his readiness to give fabulous amounts for the little Columbian stranger. The father of the latter good‐ humoredly told the gentleman that Young America, white or black, is out of the market, and has been so for some years.

The bell rings. We resume our seats in the train. We have a carriage to ourselves. The guard told us, on leaving Cork, that he would try to keep us alone. This means that he wants a gratuity at the journey’s end; for your conductor, or “guard,” on European railways is not above taking a shilling or a sixpence. He shall have it, so far as we are concerned.

The manner of starting a train is good. The bell rings—signal to the passengers to take their seats. There are two guards, one in front and one in rear, each supplied with a whistle. They look along the train to see that the doors of all the compartments are closed. The forward guard, seeing all right at his end, blows his whistle. The rear guard, to make assurance doubly sure, glances along the entire train, and, finding everything in readiness, whistles. The second whistle is the signal to the engineer, who then sounds the steam‐whistle, and the train starts.

The trains generally exceed ours in rapidity, but are very much behind them in comfort and elegance. There is no drinking‐water in the English or Irish carriages. There are no stoves to keep one warm in cold weather or during the chilly hours of the night. If the weather is cold, tin foot‐ warmers, filled with water which is not always warm, are furnished in the proportion of one to two first‐class passengers. There is no luxurious sleeping‐car, where you can sleep comfortably, awake refreshed, find your boots ready blacked when you get up, and wash yourself at a marble wash‐ stand. No comfortable hotel‐car, into which you can step from the sleeping‐car in your slippers, and enjoy your beef‐steak and fried potatoes, or your quail on toast, at the rate of thirty miles an hour.

In consequence of the absence of arrangements for personal comfort on trains, the British traveller is obliged to weight himself down and half fill his compartment with rolls of railway rugs, bottles of water, and plethoric lunch‐baskets, to his own great inconvenience, as well as that of his fellow‐travellers. The trouble caused by the want of a proper system of baggage transportation compels the traveller to carry huge leather portmanteaus about five times as large as an ordinary American travelling‐satchel. As these are considered “parcels that can be carried in the hand,” the traveller is allowed to take them into the carriage with him. By this means he avoids the trouble of watching the “luggage‐van” at junctions, and the delay of waiting for its unloading at the terminus. Then come bundles of umbrellas and canes strapped together, and the leather hat‐box—that inseparable adjunct of British respectability. Behold the unprotected matron, surrounded by half a dozen family jewels, with any quantity of wraps and lunch‐baskets, and bottles and umbrellas, and band‐ boxes and multitudinous matters wrapped up in endless newspaper packages! How she glares at you when you step as carefully as you can among the formidable piles to three square inches of a seat in the interior corner! Woe be to him who displaces one of the parcels sacred to family use. I might be able to stand a Gorgon, but I could not stand that. Please do not put me in the carriage with the matron! Rather in the van with the untamable hyena, Mr. Guard, if you please!

Imagine a succession of Broadway omnibuses, with windows and doors at either end, placed laterally behind an engine, and you have an European railway train. Half the passengers necessarily sit with their backs to the engine. The first‐class carriages are upholstered in cloth or plush like hackney coaches. The benches are divided into two double seats on each side, giving seats for eight passengers in each compartment. The compartment is lighted by a small and generally dim and smoky oil‐lamp placed in the roof.

In the second‐class carriages the seats are not divided. Six persons are supposed to be accommodated on each bench. On some lines the seats are very thinly cushioned with leather; generally, they are not cushioned. In France and Belgium the second‐class carriages are cushioned and backed with gray cloth, and the difference in comfort between them and the first‐ class carriages is not worth the difference of fare. This is about one‐ third greater for first‐class tickets. Twelve persons, with a proportionate quantity of wraps, bundles, baskets, bottles, umbrellas, and portmanteaus, pack a compartment pretty closely. Your European traveller makes as much preparation for a trip of sixty miles as an American would for an all‐rail journey from New York to San Francisco. An American railroad car is quite a cheerful “institution”; whereas travelling seems to be a more serious business on the other side of the Atlantic. A compartment—first or second class—is a gloomy place. In first‐class carriages, the “swells” and snobs are afraid to imperil their dignity by risking intercourse with somebody who may be “nobody.” The result is silence and solemnity. In second‐class carriages you often find very pleasant people—clergymen, professional men, young tourists, artists, and students—who can talk pleasantly and well, and have no snobbish, conventional dread of doing so.

It is a common saying in England that only fools and Americans travel first‐class. I have heard of a crusty old Irish peer, who, being asked why he always travels third‐class, replied that he does so because “there is no fourth class.” I think the venerable lord was rather ostentatious of his humility. I would not advise any of my American friends to try third‐ class travelling in England or Ireland. A third‐class car is a cold, dirty, noisome place. It is full of tobacco‐smoke and the smell of strong drinks of various kinds. It is worse than the forward car on a prairie railroad, filled with immigrants and “railroad hands.”

Mail trains are generally composed of first and second class carriages only. Class distinctions meet us everywhere. We find a first and second class waiting‐room, first and second class restaurant, third‐class waiting‐room and third‐class restaurant. The waiting‐rooms are separate for each sex in each class. You are parted from your wife, sister, or sweetheart. If you have something of importance to communicate to your fair companion, and should appear near the door of the ladies’ waiting‐ room for that purpose, a pre‐Raphaelite female, armed with a broom, throws herself into the breach, and fiercely demands your business, while she reduces you almost to a jelly by a Gorgon glare.

To Be Continued.

Cora.

A flower of the pale, sad South: Yet pale nor sad is she; For she blooms on a wonderful tree That knows not blight or drouth— A certain miraculous tree Our Lady has planted down South.

A rose let me call you, dear girl— A fadeless and thornless rose; So richly your modesty shows Its blushes bejewell’d with pearl— And a dew‐drop of grace every pearl— That I think of the Mystical Rose.

I have seen, and must needs pass on; But this I bear with me away: A fragrance that will not be gone, But haunts me, and most when I pray. It comes like the memories of May From the pure, happy years that are gone.

Then the Lord of the sweet and the fair (For whom is all beauty alone), I pray him that floweret so rare No hand may dare cull but his own; That no other bosom may wear This rose of the South than his own.

Charles X. At Holyrood.(93)

By The Comte Achille De Jouffroy

From Paris Ou Le Livre Des Cent‐Et‐Un.

Several friends of the exiled royal family, having been led by devotion to their cause to visit Scotland, have published detailed accounts of the residence at Holyrood. These narratives have left but little untold concerning the august proscribed personages, their situation, their mode of life, and their habits, the uniformity of which no important circumstance occurred to modify during the two years of their abode in the ancient palace of the Stuarts.

The reader, therefore, must not expect to meet in the following sketch with descriptions which have already been given by others with much minuteness, and which have been repeated in various works. Here will be found merely a small number of observations, impartially collected, which may serve to combat prejudices of a diverse nature that have been called forth, as well by the assertions of an unjust and bitter hatred, as by the injudicious efforts of a flattering servility.

Certainly, any enemy of the royal family, unless he were insane or wicked, had he been admitted into the privacy of Holyrood, must at least have ceased to regard them with dislike. Their most prejudiced adversary, no matter to what distinguished rank of society he might belong, could not have learned to know the domestic virtues displayed by these princes in adversity without wishing himself to have a father, a son, a wife, a sister, or children resembling them. On the other hand, those who, through attachment, duty, or interest (for there are political situations which a well‐comprehended interest forces some to retain, even after the occurrence of disasters)—those, I say, who have made themselves the noisy apologists of this family have carried exaggeration so far as to attribute to them qualities and talents which would have been more than sufficient for ruling even in these difficult times; without reflecting that this blindness of zeal in regard to princes who met with so sudden a downfall while surrounded by a faithful army, and in the midst of devoted provinces, must diminish the confidence due to that portion of the eulogium which is really just. As private individuals, the Bourbons of the elder branch have never merited the smallest of the outrages which it has been their fate to endure; as sovereigns, it is well known they have been great chiefly in their fall, and have shown their courage and resolution less in their lives than in their deaths.

The writers of whom I speak, carried away by the feelings of their hearts, have poured them forth in eloquent descriptions. Identifying themselves, so to speak, with the misfortunes of which they have been witnesses, they have given us chiefly the recital of their own emotions. I shall not imitate them; the spectacle of an entire family, precipitated from the most brilliant of thrones into the miseries of exile, is of itself sufficiently touching; it has in it enough of sad sublimity to render it useless to overload the picture with the pretentious ornaments of the elegiac style. To put together sentimental phrases for the purpose of describing a misfortune like this is to place one’s self, no matter what talents one may possess or exhibit, very much beneath the level of the subject.

I have considered this preamble needful in order to avoid being taxed with coldness. To speak with a suitable calmness of the Bourbons may perhaps be permitted to one who for fifteen years has defended their cause, and who has followed them into banishment; who has never obtained from them either favors or places, and who also has never betrayed them.

In quitting France, Charles X. had only carried away with him, after so much splendor, a sum barely sufficient for a modest subsistence during a few years. The abode at Lullworth was expensive; its vicinity to France made it accessible to a crowd of travellers, many of whom came only to solicit from the king, in return for services past, or in view of services offered, the assistance which the unfortunate monarch was no longer in a condition to grant without reducing himself to want. In order to escape from these importunities, and to withdraw himself from the painful necessity of refusing, he asked and obtained from the British government the enjoyment of the asylum which he had already for a long time inhabited during the period of his first exile.

The capital of Scotland, in which is situated the palace of Holyrood, is in the same latitude as Moscow, but its vicinity to the sea renders its temperature much more endurable. Edinburgh is, in many respects, the most agreeable residence which a stranger can select in Great Britain. The liberal arts are there cultivated with a particular devotion. It is a large town, picturesque in the extreme, and sumptuously built. The seat of old Edinburgh is worthy of remark; in seeking for a comparison which may convey an idea of it, the device of the arms of the kingdom naturally occurs to furnish me with one. Imagine, at the entrance of a deep and narrow valley formed by the hills of Salisbury and Calton, an enormous lion, half couched. His head, which is turned towards the rising sun, and overlooks the plain, is a peaked rock, three hundred feet in elevation, and nobly crowned by the old castle. To the right and left, the houses are suspended from his flanks, like the waves of his mane. The ridge of his spine is represented by a long street, which, dividing the two opposite declivities, begins from the esplanade of the castle, and terminates at the Canongate in front of the portal of Holyrood. The new town occupies the plateau of Calton hill. Larger than the old town, it is also better built, and all the streets are laid out in regular squares.

This city, take it altogether, resembles none other with which we are acquainted. It is an assemblage of monuments of every age and in every style, built of beautiful stone, many of them very carefully constructed, and thrown, in the most picturesque manner, upon projections of rugged rocks, in the hollows of precipices, on the slopes of valleys. Magnificent bridges, gigantic causeways, unite the different parts of the city. The ancient and the modern are preserved without alteration of character. Here rise houses of eleven stories, the highest of which is on a level with the great street of which we have spoken. There, beside a Greek peristyle, the luxury of the boudoir is sheltered by embattled towers. At the sight of this singular town, of this variety of edifices, of these steep mountains, of the sea, and of the sky, we can more fully comprehend the genius of Sir Walter Scott. Everything here seems created to clothe with form and substance the conceptions of romance. Here we can walk, if we like, under Athenian porticos or in Gothic cloisters, and can pass from the sombre tints of a feudal habitation to drawing‐rooms freshly decorated in the modern style of luxury; we can leave the modest sidewalks of the _bourgeois_ of the XVth century, above which the projecting roofs and gables are still in good preservation, to enter upon railways, those marvels of modern invention. At every step our eyes are met by objects less precious, perhaps, from the value they represent than from the associations they recall: the crown of gold enriched with jewels, the sceptre, and the sword of the ancient kings of Scotland, discovered, fifteen years ago, in a walled‐up room of the old castle; the furniture used by Mary Stuart; the embroidery which occupied the last happy leisure hours of this unfortunate queen; the tapestry raised by the assassins of Rizzio when they entered her apartment; the bed of crimson damask on which she used to sleep. Here we tread on the ashes of a long line of kings, of a multitude of celebrated personages; and the last circumstance worthy of note, in this abode so suggestive of mysterious traditions and royal misfortunes, is that the wreck of the court of the Tuileries have taken refuge beneath the ancient hereditary roof of James II.

The palace of Holyrood is nothing but a cold and gloomy cloister, flanked at the two extremities of its anterior front by towers. The apartments of Charles X., situated on the first floor, extend over one of the sides of the cloister, and over the angle opposite the principal entrance. After crossing a vestibule leading to the chapel, an ante‐chamber, an unfurnished gallery, a billiard‐room, we enter the dining‐room—a gloomy apartment with bare walls, containing only an oval table and chairs. From thence we pass into a drawing‐room twenty‐five feet square, opening upon a small, uncultivated enclosure called a garden, and furnished in the style of the drawing‐room of a Parisian _bourgeois_. It was in this apartment that receptions for strangers were held from eleven to twelve o’clock in the morning; and in the evening, all the royal family met here after dinner. The persons belonging to the household and the invited guests were admitted to these _soirées_, which lasted until about ten o’clock. The Duc de Bordeaux(94) and mademoiselle played games together; the king had a whist‐table; the dauphiness and her ladies worked at a round table. Frequently the conversation became general, and was almost always interesting. The French and English newspapers were read and commented upon. Sometimes the king and the dauphin would repair to the billiard‐ room, and play a few games together. In these _soirées_, there was no more etiquette observed than is usual in the house of a gentleman living on his estates.

At the left of the drawing‐room, a door led to an intermediate apartment, forming the private study of the king. Into this opened his bed‐chamber. With the sleeping‐room of the king communicated that of the Duc de Bordeaux, situated on the same floor, and looking into the courtyard. The Baron de Saint Aubin occupied a room at the side; the apartments of mademoiselle were on the upper floor.

The Duc de Blacas, when he was at Holyrood, had the superintendence of the household; when he was absent, the details of these functions were directed by the Baron de Saint Aubin. The suite was composed of about forty persons, lodged in the town in the vicinity of the palace.

The equipages of the king were limited to one carriage, hired by the month. When this was not sufficient, another coach was sent for; and three saddle‐horses sufficed for the rides of the king and his family. Charles X., having given up the amusement of hunting, and needing exercise to maintain his health, was in the habit of walking every day three or four miles around Holyrood. The table was supplied abundantly, but without luxury; the king usually invited two or three strangers, but the number of covers seldom exceeded fourteen or fifteen.

Such was the mediocrity to which fate had reduced this family, so lately surrounded by the greatest possible luxury and splendor. No sign of regret, no trace of vexation, could be perceived on the countenance of Charles X. Never did a word of bitterness escape from the lips of these illustrious sufferers. The dauphiness, whom some have dared to represent as a vindictive and fanatical woman, was gentleness itself. In vain would any one have sought, in the expression of her face, so full of goodness and resignation, for even the appearance of a pride which nevertheless her elevated rank would have sufficiently justified. As to the dauphin, so far did he carry his abnegation of all personal resentment that he was more than once heard to recall with commendation the talents and bravery of some officers whom he had overwhelmed with his favors, but who, nevertheless, had been the first to betray him.

Every one admitted to Holyrood could not but recognize and admire the presence of those virtues which form the charm of domestic life. They doubtless do not suffice for those upon whom Heaven has imposed the terrible task of governing men. The most marked trait in the character of Charles X. is indecision; in that of the dauphin, a pretension to acuteness, which has more than once discouraged his friends, without inspiring confidence in his enemies. As for the dauphiness, the intensity of her misfortunes in this world has led her to fix her hopes upon a better one. Pious, although tolerant, she herself feels that her counsels would be of little avail in this age of incredulity. In what she desires for France, she never can separate religion from legitimacy. When, at Holyrood, she heard of the pillage of the archbishopric, these words fell from her lips: “Alas! the French have cast off religion, and at length I begin to comprehend why it is they hate us.”

The Duchesse de Berri was a being apart in the royal family. Young, animated, full of regrets, of desires, and of hopes, she could not pardon those who had prevented her from presenting herself before the Parisians on the 30th of July, 1830, in order to claim from them the crown for her son. Confident in her adventurous courage and in her ability to create for herself another future, her irritation for the past and the projects she still contemplated, little agreed either with the calm resignation of the dauphiness or with the habitual prudence of the king. She could only endure for a few weeks the monotony of the residence at Holyrood. Besides, the rigor of the climate appeared to affect her health, and she repaired to the mineral waters of Bath. Here various speculators came to surround her, in a manner to take possession of her as of a pledge for their future fortunes, and induced her to borrow considerable sums of money on the property still remaining to her, in order to defray the expenses of the projected expedition. The duchess was brought to London, where the final arrangements for this loan were to be made. She was concealed in a small house, and not a single Frenchman, excepting those composing the circle by whom she was surrounded, knew what had become of her until the day of the embarkation.

The announcement of the departure of the duchess was received at Holyrood with a species of consternation. The expedition she was about to undertake was regarded as an act of extreme imprudence. To throw herself into France, in order to create an insurrection, without arms, without money, without the prospect of assistance from any European power; to give herself up to the chances of inconsiderate promises made by a few men without influence and without resources; to calculate chiefly upon the defection of an army, recomposed in part, and still agitated by the preceding defection into which the sudden departure of the king had precipitated it—this was, in the eyes of the exiles of Holyrood, to attempt an enterprise of which the success would scarcely have justified the temerity, and of which the success itself was considered impossible. Other reasons for fear, which we may now be permitted to recall, disturbed the heart of the old monarch. He distrusted the impetuosity of the duchess, her fiery temperament, her ardent and independent character, which, even should it not lead her to disregard conventionalities, might authorize those possessing her confidence and affection to overstep their limits in her affairs. He foresaw more than one disaster; he dreaded all sorts of misfortunes. The unfortunate princess was destined to experience them all. The Duc de Blacas was commissioned to follow her, and to oppose, as far as it might be in his power, the dangerous influence of her advisers; but the resolution of the duchess was too much in unison with her tastes and character. Soon the position of M. de Blacas towards her became no longer tenable, and he returned without having accomplished anything, to the great displeasure of the king.

Charles X. never approved of the projects for civil war. When these were proposed to him, he did not manifest that aversion which has been attributed to him by his flatterers; he simply replied that, in the times in which we live, civil war is a thing difficult to undertake and impossible to sustain. He had been a king; he was acquainted with the secrets of the government; he knew that all the forces of the kingdom being at the present day centralized, the provinces cannot withdraw themselves from the power of the telegraph and of the budget; and that nothing but a signal disaffection on the part of the army would be likely to produce a second 20th of March. The riots which took place in the capital at first excited his attention; but after the days of the 5th and 6th of June, he appeared to have ceased to fear, or rather to hope, for their success.

As for foreign war, Charles X. never could endure the idea of it. Never did it enter his thoughts to implore the armed intervention of other sovereigns. He believed that a third invasion of France, were it to take place, would lead to incalculable disasters; to the partition of the territory. Perhaps, also, he felt that he could not claim the assistance of his allies, in virtue of the treaties of 1815; since, during his reign, the government had always been inclined to throw off the yoke of those treaties. The late ministry, in its endeavors to restore France to her natural limits, had excited distrust in the cabinets of London, the Hague, Berlin, Vienna, and Turin. It was not, therefore, probable that these powers would assist in restoring a government which had placed itself in a hostile position to them all, without demanding, in return, ruinous sacrifices and humiliating guarantees.

It is needful to look at things from this point of view, in order to appreciate the policy which was followed at Holyrood. With foreign governments few or no relations were maintained; with the interior, various correspondences, the authors of which differed in plans, in principles, and in views. All were received, all were replied to, in accordance with their various ideas and modes of thinking. The object was to offend no one, to discourage no opinion, in the uncertainty as to which opinion would be the most useful.

Many excellent royalists, with the most praiseworthy disinterestedness, wrote to place at the disposal of the king their hearts, their fortunes, and their lives. If any means were sought for to utilize these generous offers, it was frequently discovered that these worthy people possessed neither money nor influence, and that many of them were advanced in years.

Others sent plans of conspiracies which included three‐fourths of France, but with lists of names for the most part unknown. They undertook, they said, to cause Henry V. to be proclaimed all over the kingdom, provided Charles X. would send them in advance sufficient sums of money.

Some personages, who still figure on the theatre of politics, took measures to remit, with great precaution, their offers of service. It is worthy of remark that such notes arrived each time there was any rumor of revolt or any prospect of war in foreign countries. These offers were not expressed in as precise terms as the preceding ones; they were always accompanied by conditions, of which the principal ones were that the direction of the movement in question should be confided to no one excepting the authors; that a provision should be made of entire approval of the measures upon which they might decide; and, above all, that the portfolios of the ministry of the restoration should be ensured to them. They alone, they asserted, understood the needs of France and the way to rule her. In a few missives of another kind, some old servants set forth the faults which, in their opinion, the king had committed during his reign, and ended by offering him advice in case he should regain the throne. Some of these, irritated by what they considered the oblivion of their former services, permitted themselves to utter bitter reproaches, without pity for misfortunes the sight of which should have been sufficient to disarm even a just resentment. These letters were received with perfect indifference. There were, however, demands which, by dint of their audacity, obtained greater success.

A person wrote from Paris to one of the servants of the king: “I am about to publish a work which will contain the account of various acts of the government of Charles X. You know that the offices I held afforded me opportunities of knowing many things; the revolution of July has deprived me of my situation and my pension; the public loves scandal; the publishers will pay a high price for it; and I will furnish it to them unless I receive thirty thousand francs, which I cannot do without.”

If these are not the precise terms of the letter, at least I am sure that I have not altered the sense. The author of this letter had been employed under the Restoration; he had received many favors from both the last two monarchs; a compromise was made with him. I do not know what was the sum sent, but I do know that the person employed to mediate in this affair was successful; the threatened work was never published. Among the offers of services which reached Holyrood, some deserve particular mention for their singularity.

A hero of July, famous during the fatal days, and furious at not having been able to obtain some office, proposed to rally all the republicans among his friends to the cause of Henry V., and concluded his epistle by announcing that he would repair in person to the sea‐coast, and with his own hands place the plank of debarkation beneath the feet of the legitimate heir to the crown.

A personage who has for a long time figured under the Empire had despatched to England a very active agent, who offered, at the same time, his services to the princes of Holyrood, to the Duchesse de Berri, and to the heirs of Napoleon; meanwhile, the personage in question was negotiating at Paris with the republicans. The result of this quadruple piece of diplomacy was that he obtained employment from the government of Louis Philippe.

Already, during the period of their former exile, had the august occupants of Holyrood had but too many opportunities to estimate the real value of the offers, the schemes, the demands, the pretext for which was furnished by a projected restoration, of a crowd of ambitious and intriguing men. Wearied, as it were, by the variety of sentiments expressed towards them, the obliging interest they manifested was merely the effect of an exquisite politeness. Unhappily, in this indifference they lost sight of real devotion to their cause; they did not appear to have made any very great progress in the art of estimating men—an art the ignorance of which had been the cause of their second downfall.

And, besides, in order to receive these propositions with profit, to give them a useful direction, it would, first of all, have been necessary that the most important political point—that of legitimacy—should be settled and proclaimed.

Those who have asserted that there existed on this subject a perfect unanimity of opinion among the royal family and among their advisers as to the right to the crown in the present situation of affairs, either have not known all the truth, or else have concealed a portion of it, in conformity with their own political views. During his residence at Holyrood, Charles X. addressed to the principal courts of Europe a confirmation of his abdication at Rambouillet; but, besides that this confirmation, being declared _free_, indicates that the abdication was always considered as forced, and therefore null, Charles X., in this second instrument, expressly reserves to himself the regency of the kingdom.

The dauphin, on the other hand, positively refused to give a similar declaration. “I sign nothing,” said he; “not that I desire to dispute with my nephew a crown of which I am far from envying him the possession, but, on the contrary, in order to preserve it for him, in case the follies which are being committed in his name should render my reappearance necessary.”

Lastly, in regard to the Duchesse de Berri, no law, no historical precedent, could have been found to authorize her to consider herself regent of the kingdom during the minority of her son. Had not the abdication of Charles X. been conditional, and, besides, where could there have been found a states‐general legally convoked to recognize madame in this capacity?

The uncertainty on this point became a source of discussion for the various members of the suite. The servants of the king, those of the dauphin, and those of the Duc de Bordeaux held many grave arguments over their respective pretensions to the title of the royal household; but we must add that these all ended in discussion. The royal family, who lived together in a sincere and patriarchal union, appeared to take but little interest in these various opinions; whether it were that these unfortunate princes believed it impossible for them at this time to recover the crown, or whether they regarded the possession of it as something little desirable, they frequently conversed upon this subject as if it had been a question of historic right foreign to themselves. One opinion, one feeling, however, united them all, and this was that all rights to the crown must one day centre upon the head of Henry V., and that it was necessary to educate him in such a manner as to prepare him worthily to sustain this high destiny in case Providence should call him to it.

Here we must speak of the education which is being given to the young prince under the direction of the Baron de Damas. Much good, and also some evil, has been said of him. In the first place, however, it appears to me that too great importance has been attached to his functions. In order that the character of the governor should have any decisive influence over that of his pupil, it would be necessary for the two to live in comparative isolation. Perhaps, surrounded by all the pomp of the Tuileries, the fetters of etiquette might have tended to produce such isolation; but in the greater freedom consequent upon exile, interruptions of all kinds prevent this species of influence. At all hours of the day the Duc de Bordeaux is receiving new and varied impressions. He receives them from his teachers, from his professors, from his servants, from the strangers who approach him, from the paternal solicitude of his grandfather, from the gentle piety of his aunt, from the companionship of his young and charming sister; he receives them from his studies, from his exercises, from his travels, from his recollections—in short, from his misfortunes; for he is of an age and of an intelligence to understand and to feel them. We must take into account the combined influence of all these diverse impressions, in order to draw probable deductions as to the profit he is one day to receive from his present education.

At all events, if the Baron de Damas does not possess very enlarged ideas, his character is firm and upright. For many things he deserves commendation: he endeavors to prevent all flatterers from approaching his pupil; from those by whom he is surrounded he exacts nothing but sincerity and cheerfulness. And then, he is careful to admit to the presence of the young prince, in unrestrained confidence, all strangers, and especially all Frenchmen, who desire access to him, unless their request should be prompted merely by the wish to gratify an impertinent curiosity.

The office of M. de Damas has been envied, and even sought after, by some of those persons who style themselves the courtiers of misfortune, but who are perhaps merely the courtiers of greatness expected, or at least hoped for. But it may reasonably be doubted whether this governor could be replaced in a manner advantageous to the young prince. Among the notabilities of the present epoch who might be designated for this important position, is there one who combines the necessary qualifications? Would we seek among the number of those who, by their interested counsels or by their calculated disaffection, contributed to the overthrow of the throne of Charles X., for men to teach his grandson the art of restoring and of preserving the throne? Can we confide in these system‐mongers at a period like this, when all systems have made shipwreck? No; all that can be done is to make of the young prince a man of learning without pedantry, of sincerity without indiscretion, of courage without temerity. In the present age, in which everything indicates the necessity of a power strong enough to restrain the elements of anarchy introduced by sophists into society, in which the overthrow of ancient institutions leaves to power only the force it can obtain from armies, what is chiefly to be desired in the king of a nation like ours is military qualities combined with liberality, enlightenment, religion, prudence, and justice. Now, none of these conditions are wanting in the education which is now being given to the Duc de Bordeaux—neither proper methods on the part of the preceptors, nor the disposition to receive on the part of the pupil.

M. Barande, one of the most learned men of our time, instructs the young prince, with admirable precision, in the facts of history, combined with chronology and geography. The Abbé de Meligny explains to him with simplicity the doctrines of religion. M. d’Hardivilliers inspires him with a taste for, and a knowledge of, the fine arts. The first elements of the science of war form the subjects of his games and of his recreations. Young Henri rides on horseback, practises fencing, shoots with the pistol, speaks and writes several languages. His memory is unusually excellent; his discernment is beyond his age. The regular distribution of his time gives him habits of order and of diligence. His health, watched over by Dr. Bougon, is robust; his frame, fortified by exercise, is strong and agile. In a word, he is an intelligent, sprightly, vivacious child, and yet, withal, a reasonable one. There is no mother who would not be proud of him; no father whose every wish would not be gratified by the possession of such a son. Having thus sketched his portrait, I do not intend to imitate the enthusiasm of those who have gathered up and published his most unimportant remarks, and have even, in their exaggerated admiration, attributed to him, possibly, speeches of their own.

At the sight of this royal child, proclaimed, at the hour of his birth, future monarch of a great empire, and now entering upon his adolescence in exile, this reflection naturally presents itself: How if he had never been born?

Had he not been born, probably France would not have been disturbed. The partisans of the younger branch, certain of one day attaining to power, would have had patience; the republicans of July would not have been able to enter by the breach opened by the Orléanists and the disaffected royalists. His grandfather and his uncle might have died upon the throne.

Had he not been born, and had the double abdication still become indispensable, Louis Philippe would to‐day be more firmly seated on his throne than any monarch in Europe; for in him would be found resolved the great problem of the union of fact and of right, of legitimacy and of force.

Had he not bean born, ... but he has been born, he is growing to manhood, and in him are being developed all the characteristic signs of the rejuvenescence of his race. In this age of tribulations and of wonders, who may venture to sound the abyss of the future?

This was what was said at Holyrood, and it was added: “Did not M. Odillon Barrot, when, in the drawing‐room at Rambouillet, he executed the task assigned to him of announcing to Charles X. the hard decree of exile, pronounce the memorable words: ‘Sire, watch well over this royal child; one day he will be of importance to the destinies of France?’ ”

New Publications.

THE LIFE OF S. JOHN OF THE CROSS. By David Lewis. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1874.

Mr. Lewis has certainly deserved well of the inhabitants of Mount Carmel. His translation of that incomparable gem, S. Teresa’s _Autobiography_; his truly splendid work, the translation of the writings of S. John of the Cross, and now his _Life_ of the latter saint, make up a series of works for which English Catholic literature is deeply indebted to him. The devoted and enthusiastic interest which S. Teresa, the Queen of Carmel, has inspired in modern times is something wonderful, though it cannot seem strange or surprising to any one who is acquainted with her history and capable of appreciating her character. Happily for the world, S. Teresa has found among her devotees several both able and willing to make her life and works known with an intelligent and painstaking zeal for which we cannot be too grateful. F. Bouix and Canon Dalton are conspicuous among these devout admirers of the modern glory of Carmel who have labored so faithfully and with so much pious and scholarly learning and taste to diffuse the light and fragrance of her sanctity and doctrine. Mr. Lewis devotes himself more especially to S. John of the Cross; but it was really only a part of the great work of S. Teresa which S. John executed, both by his labors and his writings. He was her spiritual son, the chief instrument of carrying out the reform with which she was inspired among the friars of the order of Carmel; and in his works he was, so to speak, S. Teresa’s theologian and expositor. Every one who has been interested in S. Teresa’s life must have wished for a good life of S. John of the Cross; and whoever has tasted of the delicious fountain of divine doctrine in his works must have desired it still more. Such a life Mr. Lewis has undertaken to give us, compiling it from the older Spanish biographies. Mr. Lewis’s biography of the saint is short and succinct, but very precise, accurate, and complete in its narrative of facts and events.

So far, it is what was wanted; and to one who has learned to know the interior life of S. John in his writings it is sufficient. It is not, however, in itself, by any means such a complete and adequate portraiture of S. Teresa’s counterpart and companion as we possess of herself, thanks to the happy thought of her confessor, who obliged her to write her own life, and to the devoted and affectionate biographers who have supplied so fully all that she herself omitted. The number of those who will read this _Life_ with pleasure and profit must necessarily be a comparatively small one. And we forewarn all its readers, even devout Catholics accustomed to reading the lives of saints, that it requires a robust faith to avoid being scandalized or frightened by this one. S. John was most cruelly persecuted and maltreated by his own brethren and superiors of the Mitigated Rule, and even by one unworthy prior of the Reform. Moreover, the austerity of his life and the additional sufferings which God sent upon him may easily frighten and dismay most of us, soft and effeminate Christians as we are, when they are looked at as presented in a dry historical narrative, and apart from the inward consolations, the supernatural graces, the high contemplation, which made trials and crosses sweet to this great and heroic soul. We cannot, therefore, expect this book to be a favorite with the common run of even pious readers. But those who are capable of enjoying and profiting by it will be greatly rejoiced that it has been written and published.

WHAT IS DARWINISM? By Charles Hodge, Princeton, N. J. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1874.

There is a great deal of modest wisdom in this small volume from the pen of one of the most learned and accomplished of the Princeton gentlemen. Dr. Hodge chiefly aims at showing what the real _virus_ of Darwinism consists in, and finds it to be the denial of final causes, or virtual atheism. There is also a very good summary of arguments against the theory of evolution, and there are careful, well‐studied criticisms upon various writers of distinction upon themes connected with the author’s topic. We are glad to see that Dr. Hodge affirms the infallibility of reason—that is, its possession of first principles which are unerring, and its capacity of attaining to the knowledge of truth or true science. We do not approve, however, of his definition of scientific evidence as that which is attained through the senses, or his distinction between science and theology. It is most important to maintain the rights of philosophy and theology as the highest and most certain of sciences, having supremacy over all others. We suppose that Dr. Hodge admits this in regard to the things themselves, but we consider it important to retain even the terms by which the things are properly designated, and to resist at all points the impertinent as well as futile attempts of modern scientists to dethrone the queen of the sciences. The style and tone adopted by Dr. Hodge in this volume are remarkably quiet and moderate, and we trust that this characteristic of his manner of arguing with persons who are disposed to lend an ear to the sophistry of modern infidels will give it a readier access to their minds. There is, however, an excess of amiability in the praise which is awarded to Mathilde Blind’s “excellent translation” of Strauss.

We recommend this book without hesitation as one which, so far as it goes, is satisfactory and likely to prove very useful.

MADAME AGNES. By Charles Dubois. Translated from the French by M. P. T. THE FARM OF MUICERON. By Marie Rheil. Translated from the French by Mrs. A. B. S. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1874.

This brace of French novels, under one cover, comes very opportunely at this time, when careful teachers are on the lookout for premiums which will be at once attractive and safe to put into the hands of their young charges, and summer tourists are in search of literary provender to stow away in their portmanteaus and saddle‐bags. Those who have watched the progress of the stories through these pages are aware that the French literature which comes out under Catholic auspices is very different from that which reaches the public through the secular press.

We are inclined to look on _The Farm of Muiceron_ as somewhat unique among recent works of fiction. The writer, as well as most of her characters, speaks the language of the French peasantry; and, if a more learned interlocutor is introduced, the author frankly tells us “not to expect her to explain the meaning of the big words he uses.” Should the reader thence conclude that the plot is weak, and its evolution more so—in fact, that he has taken up a goody‐goody book—he will speedily get rid of that absurd idea before he proceeds very far; and he will also be convinced that the translation of such a work requires peculiar qualifications. A knowledge of classical French will not alone suffice. An intimate acquaintance with provincial modes of thought and expression, and of such English equivalents for the idioms as will best preserve their racy flavor, are essential. This advantage we are satisfied the present version has, as the translator unites to a thorough knowledge of her own tongue a practical familiarity with the dialect intended to be represented. Every linguist knows the wonderful capabilities of the French language in its delicate shades and modulations of expression; and if the translation fails to reproduce them, the fault must be laid at the door of our unyielding vernacular.

We do not intend to anticipate the pleasure of the reader by any attempt to analyze the contents of either story. Some of the scenes of the second are laid in the midst of the stormy days of July, 1848, and hence many of its descriptions read like a page of contemporary history, and its pictures of rustic life are full of simplicity and pathos.

_Madame Agnes_ will suit readers of a more serious cast, or the same readers in a different mood; and the two combined may serve as light and shade to each other. The solidity and gravity of the one sets off the vivacity and _naïveté_ of the other. _Madame Agnes_ is decidedly a story of real life in its lifelikeness to everyday experience, and its lessons may, perhaps, the sooner find their way to the reader’s heart and conscience for that reason.

THE NEW MANUAL OF THE SACRED HEART. Compiled and Translated from Approved Sources. Baltimore: Kelly & Piet. 1874.

Confraternities of the Sacred Heart will welcome this additional manual. It contains every kind of devotion that lovers of the Sacred Heart can wish for. We hope it will have a wide sale.

SINS AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. By Henry Edward, Archbishop of Westminster.

WHO IS JESUS CHRIST? Five Lectures. By the Right Rev. Bishop Hedley.

THE POPE AND THE EMPEROR. Nine Lectures. By the Very Rev. J. N. Sweeney, O.S.B., D.D. London: Burns & Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

Archbishop Manning’s sermons are plain, practical discourses in his usual clear and masterly style. Bishop Hedley’s lectures give an exposition of the Catholic doctrine of the Incarnation and the principal heresies which have sought to corrupt and subvert it, with an explanation of redemption and the Real Presence. They are both theological and eloquent. Dr. Sweeney sketches graphically the contests between the head of the church and the imperial power from Jesus Christ to Pius IX. Each of the three volumes is of small size, but full of instruction.

THE FRENCH PRISONER IN RUSSIA. Translated from the French by P. S., a Graduate of S. Joseph’s Academy, Emmittsburg. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1874.

It has been said that a French novel is either very bad or very good, and we are glad to be able to place the one before us in the latter category. It is the story of a French family, the head of which, an officer in Napoleon’s grand army, with his son, is taken prisoner during the Russian campaign, and sent to Siberia. No tidings having been heard from them after the disastrous retreat from Moscow, they are supposed to be dead, and the mother and only daughter, a most amiable and gentle girl, are thrown upon the world in poverty and sickness. When years have elapsed, and the ladies have succeeded in winning an humble competence, news arrives that the lost ones are alive; so the mother and daughter set out on a long and dangerous journey to effect their release. How they fared in their noble mission, and what dangers they encountered on the way, will be best learned from the book itself. The original tale is written in excellent French style, which is ever simple and fluent, and the translation appears to have been carefully made with proper regard to the idiom of our vernacular.

S. JOSEPH’S ASCETICAL LIBRARY. Edited by Fathers of the Society of Jesus. No. IX.: MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR AND THE PRINCIPAL FESTIVALS. By the Ven. F. Lancicius, S.J. London: Burns & Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

The fact that Jesuits edit this library is its best guarantee and recommendation in respect to the sound and solid character of the works which will be included in its series. The well‐known good taste and literary culture of the English fathers of the society is a warrant for the care and skill with which the editorial work is performed. The present volume is most carefully and tastefully published, and its contents are of the best quality. The work itself is an old and standard one by one of the best writers of the society. The volumes of this library cannot be too strongly recommended to all devout Catholics.

THE HISTORY OF GREECE. By Professor Dr. Ernst Curtius. Translated from the German by Adolphus Wm. Ward, M.A. Vol. IV. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1874.

We have already given an extended notice of the previous volumes of this work, and we now simply repeat the judgment previously expressed. It is the most complete, and, in many respects, it is the best history of Greece yet placed within the reach of the English reader.

GLORY AND SORROW; and SELIM, PASHA OF SALONICA. Translated from the French by P. S. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1874.

Here are more stories for premiums. While the didactic purpose is not lost sight of, the narratives are sufficiently enlivened to hold the reader’s attention throughout. In the first tale the young student is warned against the consequences of an excessive ambition for wealth and power; and contentment with his position in life is inculcated as a necessary condition of happiness. _Selim_ is a tale of the wars between the Christians and Turks in the East.

CATHERINE HAMILTON. A Tale for Little Girls. By M. F. S. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1874.

We have no doubt this will prove a very attractive book to the little folks, and would be glad to see it widely circulated among them.

MAY PAPERS. By Edward Ignatius Purbrick, S.J. London: Burns & Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

This pretty book, just received in this country, was prepared originally for the use of the boys at Stonyhurst College. It is the first attempt, we believe, in English to adapt the instructions for the month particularly to young people, and we therefore think it worthy of special mention.

A Criticism.

LAFAYETTE, IND., April 21, 1874.

The article “On the Wing,” in THE CATHOLIC WORLD for May, is one of unusual merit; but in the haste of composition, the writer, at page 216, makes a mistake in stating that S. Peter’s Church at Rome was “built from the designs of Bernini, and completed by Michael Angelo.” Bernini had nothing to do with the edifice proper. He only built the baldacchino over the high altar and the colonnade in the public square adjoining the church. Michael Angelo completed the piers of the dome, and made a wooden framework on which to construct a dome; but the dome was constructed by Giacomo della Porta from designs of his own. The edifice proper was finished by Carlo Maderno, and on the plan of a Latin cross, the suggestion of Bramante, overruling Michael Angelo’s suggestion of the form of a Greek cross.

It is very seldom that THE CATHOLIC WORLD is at fault, even in ecclesiology; but I think here is a plain case.

Having made S. Peter’s something of a study both in Rome and at home, I feel myself at liberty to make you these comments. Yours very truly,

J. A. WILSTACH.

The poem “For ever,” originally sent to this magazine, and published in our May number, was also published in _Lippincott’s_ of the same month, the author concluding, from its non‐appearance in THE CATHOLIC WORLD, that it had been declined.

THE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XIX., NO. 112.—JULY, 1874.

A Discussion With An Infidel.

Dr. Louis Büchner’s work, _Kraft und Stoff_, first appeared in Germany in the year 1855, and met with such a favorable reception by a numerous class of ignorant or wicked progressionists(95) that from that year up to the end of 1870 it passed through ten German editions, without counting the several translations into other languages. The present writer had lately the fortune, or the misfortune, to be presented with an English copy of this abominable work,(96) and was informed that the knights of the square and the trowel had taken a special interest in its propagation. It could not be otherwise; for the work itself is a masonic work. No one who knows the true character of freemasonry, and has read the book, can have the least doubt of its masonic origin. Only a mason of the blackest dye could have displayed such a cool effrontery, artful dishonesty, and diabolic malice as the author of _Force and Matter_ did in almost every page of his little volume. Dr. Büchner is one of those dangerous men who have a great talent for perverting truth. He knows how to dazzle the simple with brilliant quotations, how to perplex the acute with unanswerable riddles, how to entangle the cautious in a web of plausible objections. He knows how to supplant reason by rhetoric; and the more embarrassing his case, the greater is his assurance and the higher his pretension. It is in the name of science that he pretends to speak. Such is the fashion just now. Secret societies began their open war against the church and against God in the name of _philosophy_; when beaten on this ground, they appealed to _liberality_, then to _progress_, then to _civilization_, and now to _science_. All these words, on their lips, were lies. Freemasons and their cognate societies have never been fond of real “philosophy,” and never had truly “liberal” views. The world never made any “progress” in the right direction when it followed them; their pretended “civilization” never meant anything else than the tyrannical subjugation of the church by “civil” powers. And now their “science,” so far as it is theirs, is only a travesty and prostitution of truth. The world owes nothing to them except the increase of crime, the loss of public honesty, and the threatened triumph of villany.

With Dr. Büchner, as with many others of the same ilk, science is a mere pretext. His real object is to attack God’s existence, a future life, human liberty, and all those truths which underlie sound philosophy, morality, and religious belief. A work so well calculated to do harm, and which has already infected with its poison a numerous class of readers, needs refutation, and we will engage in the unpleasant task. We hope we shall be able to show that Dr. Büchner’s _Force and Matter_, all its pretensions notwithstanding, is, in a philosophical point of view, a complete failure. One ounce of truth and a cartload of lies is just what the doctor dispenses to his benighted admirers throughout the pages of his baneful production.

To make things clearer, and to give Dr. Büchner the best opportunity of speaking for himself, we have thought of putting the whole discussion in the form of a dialogue between the doctor and ourselves. We know that a lengthy conversation with such a sworn enemy of truth may prove disgusting in a high degree, as he will utter nothing but sophisms or blasphemies. But the sophist must be unmasked and the blasphemer confounded. We hope our readers will excuse us for paying such attention to an infidel writer; we would have ignored him altogether, if his work were not as dangerous as it is unworthy of a doctor.

I. Flippancy And Scholasticism.

_Reader._ Indeed, doctor, I fear that your _Force and Matter_ will make you a bad reputation. Our most esteemed philosophers say that you are a sophist, and that a man of your attainments cannot be a sophist but by deliberate choice. They evidently imply that you are a knave and an impostor. As for myself, I confess that I do not see the cogency of your reasonings; but, before declaring you a knave and an impostor, I should like to hear from your own mouth what you may have to say in your behalf.

_Büchner._ I am not surprised, sir, at anything said against me. When I published my work, “I knew that my attempt was bold, and that I should have to sustain a fierce struggle with the prejudices of the age” (p. viii.) But “things cannot be represented different from what they _are_; and nothing appears to me more perverse than the efforts of respectable naturalists to introduce _orthodoxy_ in the natural sciences” (p. xvii.) You say that our most esteemed philosophers call me a sophist. You mean the schoolmen, of course; in fact, the scholastic philosophy, still riding upon its high though terribly emaciated horse, conceives that it has long ago done with our theories, and has consigned them, ticketed _materialism_, _sensualism_, _determinism_, etc., to the scientific lumber‐room, or, as the phrase goes, has assigned them their _historical value_. But this philosophy, my dear sir, sinks daily in the estimation of the public, and loses its ground (p. xviii.)

_Reader._ I would remark, with your permission, that the public is not nowadays a very acute judge of these matters. For what does the public know of scholastic philosophy?

_Büchner._ By the public I mean the scientific world, sir.

_Reader._ The scientific world, dear doctor, knows very little of scholastic philosophy. I am sure you will not deny the fact. Can you tell me where, when, for how many years, under what professors, and in what books, your scientific men had an opportunity of studying scholastic philosophy? They have, no doubt, heard something of it—just enough to realize the fact that there was a science in the world of which they were profoundly ignorant. But this gives them no right to pass a judgment. I venture to say that neither you nor Moleschott, Feuerbach, Darwin, Tuttle, Huxley, or any of your school, have ever studied, or consulted, or perhaps even so much as touched with your hands, a single volume of scholastic philosophy.

_Büchner._ This may be; but it is quite enough for us to know that “the singular attempts of the old school to construe nature out of thought instead of from observation have failed, and brought the adherents of that school into such discredit that the name of natural philosopher has become a byword and a nickname” (p. xix.)

_Reader._ No, doctor. This is not true. The name of natural philosopher is still much respected and revered; and I trust nothing will ever succeed in making it despicable, except, perhaps, the shameless usurpation of it made by your friends, the free‐thinkers, whose philosophy is nothing but a mean conspiracy against truth. It is their fault, indeed, if the name of natural philosopher is sneered at when connected with their own persons. Why should they put on a garb which fits them not? If you call Moleschott or Darwin natural philosophers, every one certainly will smile; but call Ampère or Faraday by this name, and you will see every one take down his hat in sign of respect and approbation. Then, you should not imagine that because a few discoveries have been lately made by our men of science (I say _a few_, because most of them are only new applications of old theories, while many others are mere hypotheses), you should not imagine that we have acquired the right to despise the discoveries and the wisdom of all past ages. It was our forefathers who created modern science. Where would you be without a Kepler, a Galileo, a Newton, and scores of others, who laid down the ruling principles of all the branches of science? If they knew less than we do about empirical manipulations, they knew a great deal more about the conditions of legitimate speculation. To construe nature “out of thought instead of from observation” has never been their method; if I wished to retaliate, I could easily prove that it is yours.

_Büchner_ (_defiantly_). Try, sir.

_Reader._ Well, since you challenge me, I shall ask you whether it is from observation, and not out of thought, that you have construed your “uncreated” matter. I know, and you also know, that it is only “out of thought.” But we shall have time to do justice to this and other topics. The point I now insist on is, that what you say of the scholastic method of “construing nature” is a rank calumny. Understand me, doctor. Natural science has two objects in view: the first is to ascertain the truth about natural facts; the second is to discover the nature of the principles and causes to which such facts must be traced. As the first of these two objects is attained by observation and experiments, so is the second by thought—that is, by reasonings based on the positive results of observation and experiment. Now, you must admit that the duty of the metaphysician is not to make observations or experiments. This belongs to the physicist. The metaphysician accepts the facts as ascertained by the physicist; and it is from such facts, not from thoughts, that he starts his speculation on the nature of things. Of course, if the physicist be wrong in his statement of facts, the metaphysician will be led astray and build a theory without foundation; yet the fault will not be his. And if the physicist be ignorant of some important law of nature, the metaphysician will be compelled to supply for the law with a guess at a probable hypothesis. This is in the nature of things. With a mutton‐chop you cannot make roast beef, can you?

_Büchner._ No, indeed.

_Reader._ I mean that our forefathers had not at their disposal such an abundance of means for investigating the secrets of nature as we now possess. Certainly, the most important of such secrets, before the time of Copernicus, were inaccessible to the metaphysicians. I allow, then, that the theory of the scholastics remained incomplete, and was most imperfect so long as universal attraction was unknown and chemistry undeveloped. But this proves nothing. The imperfection of the old physics gives you no right to affirm that the schoolmen construed nature out of thought. Speculation always implies thought; but to start one’s speculations from the data of observation, as it was customary with the scholastic philosophers, is not to reject observation.

_Büchner._ I demur to this statement, sir. It is well known that the old school was all grounded on the _à priori_ method.

_Reader._ Certainly not, my dear doctor. One cannot reason without abstract principles; but when such principles are the result of experimental knowledge, it would be folly to pretend that they constitute an _à priori_ method of construing nature out of thought instead of from observation. Do you demur to this also?

_Büchner._ What I assert, sir, is that “the times of the scholastic bombast, of philosophical charlatanism, or, as Cotta says, of intellectual jugglery, are passing away” (p. xix.)

_Reader._ You are not serious, doctor. First of all, you know nothing about scholastic bombast. Were you to read one page of any of our great scholastic doctors, you would be amazed at the simplicity of their style, and at the utter recklessness of your allegation. In the second place, the times of bombast and charlatanism are not passing away. Read Huxley. Can you find anything more bombastic than his _Lay Sermons_? Read Darwin. Is he not a philosophical charlatan? Read your own _Kraft und Stoff_....

_Büchner._ Brilliancy is not charlatanism, sir. It is a fact that while the pretended high speculations of the old school are hopelessly unintelligible, our discoveries, “by directing investigation to facts, have compelled thought to leave the misty and sterile regions of speculative dreams, and to descend to real life” (p. xxii.) Can you condemn us for this? “It lies in the nature of philosophy that it should be common property. Expositions which are not intelligible to an educated man are scarcely worth the ink they are printed with. The philosophical mist which envelops the writings of scholars appears intended more to conceal than to exhibit their thoughts” (p. xix.)

_Reader._ It is all a mistake, doctor. If you reflect for a moment on your oracular sentences, you will see that they are mere nonsense. You say that it lies in the nature of philosophy that it should be common property. I wonder if this can be true. I fancy that philosophy, like any other science or discipline which is acquired by study, is the property of those alone who have studied it; and I hope that no man of sense will contest such an evident truth. You say that philosophical expositions should be intelligible to every _educated_ man; but this is true only on the assumption that the education of which you speak includes a thorough training in philosophy; which, unfortunately, is not the case with a great number of so‐called educated men. You say that whatever is clearly conceived can be clearly expressed; but you forget that what is clearly expressed for the scholar may still be obscure to the uninitiated. Is it possible that a doctor like you, and a president of a medical association, should overlook the fact that every science has a number of technical terms and scientific phrases which must be learned in special books and by special study before its speculations can be comprehended? It is therefore supremely ridiculous to talk of “the mist that envelops the writings of scholars.” Everything is misty to the uninstructed. Let him study, and the mist will disappear; for it is not the doctrine that wants clearness, but it is the eye of the ignorant that is blurred.

And now, what shall I say of that pompous phrase of yours, that modern discoveries “have compelled thought to leave the misty and sterile regions of speculative dreams, and to descend to real life”? I hope you will allow me to call it “modern bombast” and “philosophical charlatanism”; for I cannot call it by any other name. If you mean by such words to denounce Kant, Hegel, Schelling, and other German dreamers of the same school, I have nothing to say in their defence; but if you intend thereby to stigmatize the Catholic schools, to which you Germans, no less than the rest of the civilized world, owe your intellectual education, I cannot help saying, dear doctor, that your hostile insinuations are dictated by malice and hatred of truth. Why do you defame what you know not? How can you call a _sterile_ region that speculative philosophy which formed all our great men? or _dreams_ those evident conclusions against which reason cannot rebel without slaying itself? Is not this very strange in a doctor? You were confident that “intellectual jugglery,” to use Cotta’s expression, would be stronger than historical truth; but we are quite prepared to meet you on this ground as on others; for we Catholic thinkers are not afraid of bombastic words. We do not even think that your “jugglery” is at all “intellectual.” For is it intellectual to make sweeping assertions when you can give no proofs? Or is it intellectual to sneer at your opponents, instead of replying to their arguments? I presume, dear doctor, that your freemasons alone would see anything intellectual in such a proceeding.

_Büchner._ You imagine, sir, that I must be a freemason. I shall not answer that, as it has nothing to do with my book. Yet I wish to inform you that freemasonry everywhere favors the progress of “modern science”; and therefore I would not object to being called a freemason, whether I am one or not. But as to making assertions of which I give no proofs, I defy you, sir, to substantiate the charge; and as to my not replying to my opponents, I am sure you will modify your judgment when you examine the prefaces to the various editions of my work.

_Reader._ I accept the challenge. It will not be more difficult to give you full satisfaction on these two points than it has been to rebut your flippant denunciations of the scholastic philosophy.

II. Tergiversation And Jugglery.

_Reader._ You say, then, that in the prefaces to the various editions of your work you have replied to your opponents.

_Büchner._ Certainly I do.

_Reader._ I have read all your prefaces. In the very first you make this declaration: “We will not be in want of opponents; but we shall only notice those who speak from experience and combat us with facts” (p. xx.) This amounts to saying: “When we shall be attacked with any sort of arms, arrows, pistols, knives, swords, guns, and sticks, we shall not defend ourselves except against sticks.” Against sticks, of course, you may defend yourself by the use of other sticks; but, if you are attacked with artillery, will your sticks be to you a sufficient protection? You knew very well, when publishing your book, that you were to be attacked with _reasons_. To declare that you would notice only those adversaries who would attack you with _facts_ was to declare that you were not ready to meet your real opponents.

_Büchner._ Against fact there is no reasoning.

_Reader._ This is not the question. It is true that against fact there is no reasoning; but when we argue against your false conclusions, we do not attack your facts, but your sophisms only, most erudite doctor.

Then you add that “speculative philosophers may fight among themselves from their own point of view, but should not delude themselves into the belief that they alone are in possession of philosophical truth” (p. xx.) These words reveal your tactics, which are: “Let them fight among themselves, and not against me; but if one of their number attacks me, and I cannot hold my ground, let him know that, if he is right, I also am right; for he is not alone in possession of philosophical truth.” This is, doctor, the silly plan of defence you have adopted and carried out against the attacks of Catholic philosophers. How can you, then, pretend that you have answered your opponents? I mean your real opponents.

When the _Frankfurter Katholische Kirchenblatt_ took you to task for your impious and absurd publication, what did you answer? Here are your words: “We shall pass over the fierce denunciations of the _Frankfürter Katholische Kirchenblatt_, conducted by the parish priest, Beda Weber. The melancholy notoriety which that individual has acquired, as one of the most eccentric of the ultramontane party, permits us simply to dismiss him. We shall only tell the reader that the _Frankfürter Kirchenblatt_ carries its hatred against the modern direction of science so far as to recommend the application of the criminal law against its representatives. The public may thus learn what these gentlemen are capable of, should they ever become possessed of power. The same bloody hatred with which science was once persecuted by religious fanaticism would revive anew, and with it the Inquisition, and _auto‐da‐fés_, and all the horrors, with which a refined zealotism has tortured humanity would be resorted to, to satisfy the wishes of these theological cut‐throats. We must turn from these enemies, quite unworthy of a serious refutation, to another opponent” (p. xxiii.) Here, then, you confess that you have cowardly turned your back to the enemy.

_Büchner._ Cowardly?

_Reader._ Yes. If you do not like the word, I will say _prudently_. In fact, the reason you allege—that such an enemy was unworthy of serious refutation—is a miserable pretext. Whoever is not blind can see that your furious declamation against Beda Weber was an impudent attempt at crushing, if possible, by insults, the man whom you could not defeat with reasons. It is mean and disgusting. What can your readers say when you dare not even let them know Beda Weber’s objections, on the plea that the reverend priest “has acquired a melancholy notoriety as one of the most eccentric of the ultramontane party”? If such is the verdict of the masonic lodges, we cannot but congratulate Beda Weber for the compliment paid to him. His very “hatred against the modern (_masonic and infidel_) direction of science” shows that he is a man of sound and clear judgment; and his opinion that “the criminal law” should be applied against the atheists and the corruptors of youth recommends him to us as a man of order and a true friend of civil society; for nothing is more necessary for the preservation of order and the peace of society than the enforcement of law. When such men make denunciations, they should not be “simply dismissed,” dear doctor. Religious fanaticism, refined zealotism, tortures of humanity, persecution of science, and the rest, even if they were not thread‐bare lies, would not authorize you to “simply dismiss” a learned opponent as unworthy of serious refutation. I will say nothing about that malicious insinuation concerning “what these gentlemen are capable of, should they ever become possessed of power.” Were they capable of any monstrosity, this would not help your defence of _Force and Matter_. But those gentlemen have been possessed of power for ages, and the nations redeemed from barbarism, and enriched with monuments of art, and with scientific, literary, and charitable institutions, show “what they were capable of.” Of course freemasonry is capable of something else; a glance at the present deplorable condition of Germany suffices to show what _you_ are capable of when you are possessed of power. But, I repeat, were we as wicked, in your opinion, as you are in fact, this would be no reason for not answering our arguments. Your book is an attack against religion. The professors of religion are therefore your natural opponents. It is to _them_, therefore, that you owe your explanations. And yet this is what you publicly profess yourself unable to do.

_Büchner._ I never made such a profession.

_Reader._ You made it very openly. “With regard to parsons and ecclesiastics,” you say, “who never cease to enlighten and to assail us with their eloquence, we beg to repeat that we cannot discuss with them” (p. lxiv.) Of course you endeavor to cover your retreat, as usual, by pretending that “these good people have, from the beginning of the world, had the privilege of using their zeal and ignorance in crying down everything that does not suit their business” (_ibid._); but this vile language only betrays your inability to cope with them. You are so generous as “not to disturb them in their vocation,” because “no rational man doubts the total incapacity of these gentlemen to enter upon such questions” (p. lxv.)

_Büchner._ Why should I answer them? They are mere theologians; and I maintain that “there is no theological or ecclesiastical natural science, and there will be none so long as the telescope does not reach the regions where angels dwell” (p. lxv.)

_Reader._ This is a very poor excuse, dear doctor. Theologians are not debarred from dealing with natural sciences. To mention no others, Copernicus was a canon; Secchi is a Jesuit; Moigno is a priest. Moreover, the subject of the question is not natural science, but your sophistry; and you cannot deny that ecclesiastical studies make men competent to judge of logical blunders. But, leaving all this aside, did you not try to refute the _Allgemeine Zeitung_, though you pretend that “in struggling with such pen‐heroes, it seems to you that you are acting like Don Quixote” (p. xxviii.)? Did you not fight, also, against Mr. Karl Gutzkow, although he, “as is well known, has never impeded the daring flight of his genius by the ballast of science” (p. xxix.)? And, to omit others, did you not do your best to answer the _Allgemeine Kirchen Zeitung_, although it meets you, as you say, “with theological eccentricity and rodomontades” (p. xxxvii.)? It would appear, then, that you are not afraid of accepting battle when you have any hope of overcoming your adversary. And therefore, when you shrink from answering your Catholic opponents, it is evident that you do so only because with them you have no hope of success.

_Büchner._ You are quite mistaken, sir.

_Reader._ No, indeed. I am certain that you cannot hold your ground against a Catholic opponent, and I am ready to show you immediately that such is really the case. I have already told you that your _Force and Matter_ is a book full of sweeping assertions, of which no proof is given. You challenged me to substantiate the charge, and I have accepted the challenge. I say, then, that your very first proposition, on which all the other arguments employed in your work are ultimately based, is one of those assertions of which no proof is or can be given. Do you accept the battle on this ground?

_Büchner._ I do.

_Reader._ Please, then, what do you consider to be the fundamental proposition of your work?

_Büchner._ It is this: “No matter without force, and no force without matter” (p. 2).

_Reader._ Is this proposition altogether universal, so as to admit of no possible exception?

_Büchner._ Yes, sir, absolutely universal, without any possible exception.

_Reader._ Then please tell me on what grounds such an absolute universality can be established.

_Büchner._ On many grounds. First, as Dubois‐Reymond profoundly remarks, “fundamentally considered, there are neither forces nor matter. Both are merely abstractions, assumed from different points of view, of things as they are. They supplement and presuppose each other. _Separately they do not exist._ Matter is not like a carriage, to which the forces, like horses, can be put or again removed from. A particle of iron is, and remains, the same, whether it crosses the horizon in the meteoric stone, rushes along in the wheel of the steam‐engine, or circulates in the blood through the temples of the poet. These qualities are eternal, inalienable, and untransferable” (pp. 1, 2).

_Reader._ I would remark that the qualities of matter are not eternal. Of course, as long as matter continues to exist, its essential constitution must remain intact; but to say that the qualities of matter are eternal is to assume not only that matter will last for ever, but also that it has existed from all eternity. Science has no right to make this assumption, since it has no means of ascertaining its truth; for evidently eternity does not come under observation and experiment. But leaving aside this question, which we may examine later, I say that your quotation from M. Dubois does not account for the universality of your proposition.

_Büchner._ Hear Moleschott: “A force not united to matter, but floating freely above it, is an idle conception” (p. 1).

_Reader._ This is a mere assertion.

_Büchner._ Hear Cotta: “Nothing in the world justifies us in assuming the existence _per se_ of forces independent of the bodies from which they proceed and upon which they act” (p. 2).

_Reader._ This is no proof. It is quite clear that those forces _which proceed from the bodies_ cannot be independent of the bodies. But your proposition is that no force _whatever_ can exist without matter; and therefore you should prove that _all_ forces, without exception, are dependent on matter.

_Büchner._ First of all, we must admit that there is no matter without force. “Imagine matter without force, and the minute particles of which a body consists without that system of mutual attraction and repulsion which holds them together, and gives form and shape to the body; imagine the molecular forces of cohesion and affinity removed; what then would be the consequence? The matter must instantly break up into a shapeless nothing. We know in the physical world of no instance of any particle of matter which is not endowed with forces by means of which it plays its appointed part in some form or another, sometimes in connection with similar or with dissimilar particles. Nor are we in imagination capable of forming a conception of matter without force. In whatever way we may think of an original substance, there must always exist in it a system of mutual repulsion and attraction between its minutest parts, without which they would dissolve and tracelessly disappear in universal space. A thing without properties is a non‐entity, neither rationally cogitable nor empirically existing in nature” (pp. 2, 3).

_Reader._ Very good so far. But this is no recent discovery; it is an old truth constantly taught, and much more exactly expressed, by those schoolmen whom you imagine to have been “the persecutors of science.” Thus far, then, you have only rehearsed the old doctrine. But now you have to show that, as there is no matter without force, so also there is no force without matter.

_Büchner._ Yes. “Force without matter is equally an idle notion. It being a law admitting of no exception that force can only be manifested in matter, it follows that force can as little possess a separate existence as matter without force” (p. 3).

_Reader._ Take care, doctor! You are now assuming what should be proved. You assume a law, _admitting of no exception_, that force can only be manifested in matter.

_Büchner._ The law is known. “Imagine an electricity, a magnetism, without the iron or such bodies as exhibit these phenomena, and without the particles of matter, the mutual relation of which is just the cause of these phenomena; nothing would then remain but a confused idea, an empty abstraction, to which we have given a name in order to form a better conception. If the material particles capable of an electric condition had never existed, there would have been no electricity, and we should never have been able by mere attraction to acquire the least knowledge or conception of electricity. Indeed, we may say electricity would never have existed without these particles. All the so‐called imponderables, such as light, heat, electricity, magnetism, etc., are neither more nor less than changes in the aggregate state of matter—changes which, almost like contagion, are transmitted from body to body. Heat is a separation, cold an approximation, of the material atoms. Light and sound are vibrating, undulating bodies. Electrical and magnetic phenomena, says Czolbe, arise, as experience shows, like light and heat from the reciprocal relation of molecules and atoms” (pp. 3, 4).

_Reader._ Have you done?

_Büchner._ Yes, sir.

_Reader._ Is this all your proof?

_Büchner._ Yes, sir.

_Reader._ Then allow me to state that you have not shown what you promised. You have proved, indeed, that the forces of matter exist nowhere but in matter; but as every one admits this, there was no need of your proof. Your duty was to prove the universal proposition, _no force without matter_; and therefore you had to show that there are no other forces than the forces of matter.

_Büchner._ This is evident; as “force can as little exist without a substance as seeing without a visual apparatus, or thinking without an organ of thought” (p. 4).

_Reader._ I am afraid, doctor, that you do not speak to the point. The question is not whether a force can or cannot exist without a substance; it is, whether there is no other substance than matter. Before denying the existence of force without matter, you must conclusively show that all substance is matter.

_Büchner._ “Nothing but the changes we perceive in matter by means of our senses could ever give us any notion as to the existence of powers which we qualify by the name of _forces._ Any knowledge of them by other means is impossible” (p. 4).

_Reader._ I should be glad to know how you can infer from such a remark that all substance is matter. What you perceive in material objects proves, indeed, the existence of matter and of the forces of matter; but how does it prove the non‐existence of other substances and of other forces? You, surely, imagine that our senses are our only source of knowledge, and that the supersensible, as unknowable, must be consigned to the region of dreams.

_Büchner._ Certainly. “We maintain that human thought and human knowledge are incapable of discovering or knowing anything supersensual. This is the necessary general result of modern investigation” (p. xli.)

_Reader._ A curious result indeed! By which of your senses do you perceive abstractions, such as _philosophy_, _morality_, _affirmation_, _veracity_? I put you the alternative: either show that you touch, hear, smell, taste, or see, with your material eyes, any of such abstract notions, or confess, according to the general result of your ridiculous modern investigations, that you can have none of such notions, and are essentially incapable of reasoning.

_Büchner._ You try to draw me out of the real question, sir.

_Reader._ By no means. It is your denial of our capability of knowing anything supersensual that draws us out of the question.

_Büchner._ My object was to show that there is no matter without force, and no force without matter. This proposition can be established without any special reference to our mental operations.

_Reader._ You may try; on condition, however, that our knowledge of the supersensible be not called in question.

_Büchner._ The science of force is _physics_. “This science makes us acquainted with eight different forces: gravitation, mechanical force, heat, light, electricity, magnetism, affinity, cohesion, which, inseparably united to matter, form and give shape to the world” (p. 18). Any force which cannot be reduced to a combination of these forces is therefore to be looked upon as chimerical. Nothing is more evident.

_Reader._ Evident? I think, doctor, if I were you, I would be ashamed of uttering such a rank sophism. You beg the question altogether. What right have you to assume that there are no real forces in the universe but those mentioned in our physical treatises? To assume this is to assume that there is nothing in the world but matter—the very thing which you should demonstrate. And therefore you are as far as ever from having shown your universal proposition, _no force without matter_. Indeed, you will never show it. Truth is stronger than you.

_Büchner._ Then tell me, sir, on what ground do you base your belief in the existence of supersensual forces?

_Reader._ Excuse me, doctor. We were not discussing the question, “What are my grounds for believing their existence?” Our question was, “What are your own grounds for proclaiming their non‐existence?” When a man makes an assertion contrary to the common belief, it is his duty to give good reasons in its support. If he cannot, let him give up his assertion, and go back to the common belief. Common beliefs, on the contrary, are in no need of special demonstration so long as they are not attacked with plausible reasons. That there are supersensual forces is a common belief. As you have failed to adduce any serious proof to the contrary, this common belief remains unshaken. You ask on what grounds I base my belief. I might answer that I base it on the ground of universal consent, and I might show that this universal consent must have a universal foundation, which cannot be invalidated. But I will tell you a special reason for admitting supersensual forces. It is that there are facts which cannot be accounted for by the forces of matter.

_Büchner._ What fact? Do you mean the exploded fact of creation?

_Reader._ I will soon come to the fact of creation, if you wish, and compel you to swallow back your nasty epithet. But the fact I alluded to was that the phenomena of consciousness and of volition are unaccountable, if there is nothing besides material forces. This you cannot deny; for you say you “cannot but acknowledge that in the relation of brain and soul, phenomena occur which cannot be explained from the simple physical relation of force and matter” (p. lxiv.) As long, therefore, as you admit nothing but matter and material force, there are facts which, by your own confession, cannot be explained. Thus, you see, not only have you failed to substantiate your fundamental assertion, _no force without matter_, but you are constrained, on your own showing, to admit forces that transcend matter.

III. Creation.

_Reader._ You say, doctor, that creation is an _exploded_ fact. May I ask why?

_Büchner._ “Those who talk of a creative power, which is said to have produced the world out of itself, or out of nothing, are ignorant of the first and most simple principle, founded upon experience and the contemplation of nature. How could a power have existed not manifested in material substance, but governing it arbitrarily according to individual views? Neither could separately‐existing forces be transferred to chaotic matter, and produce the world in this manner; for we have seen that a separate existence of either is an impossibility” (p. 5).

_Reader._ I beg to remind you that we have _not_ seen the impossibility of force without matter. All your efforts to show it have been vain. It is childish, therefore, on your part, to pretend that those who talk of a creative power “are ignorant of a first principle founded upon experience and the contemplation of nature.” The contemplation of nature is, on the contrary, the ladder by which rational creatures ascend to the knowledge of the Creator. You ask: How could a power have existed not manifested in material substance? I answer by another question: How could the world have existed, if no such power exists? This is the real question at issue. And pray, doctor, do not speak of separately‐existing forces transferred to chaotic matter. This is not the way we account for the production of the world. We do not admit of chaotic matter before creation. And again, do not suppose that we can ever dream of a Creator producing the world out of himself. We are not pantheists; and we know that the world has been produced out of nothing. This is the true notion of creation according to both theology and philosophy.

_Büchner._ Very well. But “the world could not have originated out of nothing. A nothing is not merely a logical, but also an empirical non‐ entity. The world, or matter with its properties, which we term forces, must have existed from eternity, and must last for ever—in one word, the world cannot have been created” (p. 5).

_Reader._ These are bold assertions indeed. How can you make them good?

_Büchner._ “The notion ‘eternal’ is certainly one which, with our limited faculties, is difficult of conception. The facts, nevertheless, leave no doubt as to the eternity of the world” (p. 5).

_Reader._ What facts, if you please?

_Büchner._ Here is one fact: “That the world is not governed, as is frequently expressed, but that the changes and motions of matter obey a necessity inherent in it, which admits of no exception, cannot be denied by any person who is but superficially acquainted with the natural sciences” (p. 5). Now, if the world is not governed by a superior power, we cannot make it dependent for its origin on any superior power. This leaves no doubt as to the eternity of the world.

_Reader._ I wonder, doctor, if you have ever learned or understood the first principles of philosophy. Young students may teach you that, from the necessity to which matter is subjected of obeying certain laws of motion, it is absurd to infer the necessity of its existence. What is subject to obedience is not independent, and what has a necessity of obeying is essentially dependent. Moreover, do you not see that what is subject to change cannot be necessary, and cannot be eternal? You appeal to natural sciences. This is ridiculous. There is no need of modern sciences to know that the phenomena of the material world follow an invariable law. This was known in all past ages; yet no man in his senses has thought of concluding that therefore matter was a necessary being. Pagan philosophers, who had lost the primitive traditions of mankind, admitted uncreated matter without further examining the question; but none of them pretended to prove the eternity or necessity of matter from its subjection to definite laws of motion. The absurdity of such a deduction is manifest. Suppose a geometrician were to argue thus: What follows an invariable and necessary law exists from eternity; but every triangle follows this invariable and necessary law: that the sum of its angles equals two right angles; and therefore every triangle exists from eternity. What would you reply?

_Büchner._ I would reply that the laws of geometry are mere abstractions.

_Reader._ And so are all physical laws also. When a thing exists, it cannot but be what it is according to its essence. If it is a figure of geometry, it exists according to geometric laws, and has its geometric properties; and if it is a material substance, it cannot but have the properties of matter, and so long as it exists it cannot but retain the same properties. This is evident. But from the fact that a thing existing is necessarily subject to the laws of its nature you cannot conclude that it necessarily exists, unless, indeed, you are not even superficially acquainted with the laws of reasoning. Hence it is clear that your argument has no weight.

_Büchner._ “But that a power—taken for the once in its abstract sense—could only exist so long as it is active is no less clear. In assuming, therefore, a creative absolute power, a primeval soul, an unknown x—it matters not what name we give it—as the cause of the world, we must, in applying to it the notion of time, say that it could not have existed either _before_ or _after_ the creation. It could not have existed _before_, as the notion of power is not reconcilable with the idea of nothing or inactivity. It could not have been a creative power without creating something. We must, therefore, suppose that this power has for a time been inert in the presence of chaotic and motionless matter—a conception we have already shown to be absurd. It could not have existed _after_ the creation, as rest and inactivity are again incompatible with the notion of force. The motion of matter obeys only those laws which are inherently active; and their manifestations are nothing but the product of the various and manifold accidental or necessary combinations of material movements. At no time and nowhere, even in the most distant space reached by our telescope, could a single fact be established, forming an exception to this law, which would render the assumption of a force external, and independent of matter, necessary. But a force which is not manifested does not exist, and cannot be taken into account in our reasoning” (p. 6). What do you answer, sir?

_Reader._ I answer that this pretended argument cannot entrap any one but an ignorant man, or one who desires to be cheated or to cheat himself. And first I observe that you begin by surmising that the Creator would be “an abstract power”; now, the surmise is an absurdity. Secondly, you suppose that we “assume” a creative absolute power—which is not the case; for we do not assume its existence, but we prove it. Thirdly, you call the Creator “a primeval soul, an unknown _x_”; and both expressions are very wrong indeed. Fourthly, you say that we must apply to the Creator “the notion of time”—which is sheer folly; as every one knows that time has no existence but in the successive changes of created things. Even you yourself say that “the mere application of a limited notion of time to the creative power involves a contradiction” (p. 7). And therefore, when you affirm that the creative power “could not have existed either _before_ or _after_ creation,” you commit a great blunder by assuming that before creation there should have been time. But leaving aside all this, and supposing that the phrase “before the creation” may be understood in a legitimate sense as expressing the priority of eternity and not of time, I will come directly to your argument.

You say that a creative power could not exist before creation, “as the notion of power is not reconcilable with the idea of nothing or inactivity.” This reason proves nothing, except, perhaps, your ignorance of logic. Try to reduce your argument to the syllogistic form, and you will see what it amounts to.

_Büchner._ The syllogism will run thus: A power can exist only as long as it is active. But the creative power before the creation was not active. Therefore the creative power could not exist before the creation. I hope this proves something else than my ignorance of logic.

_Reader._ And yet your logic is sadly at fault. Do you not see the equivocation lurking in the middle term? What do you mean by _active_? Does this word stand for _acting_, or for _able to act_? If it stands for _acting_, then your major proposition is false; for a power exists as long as it is able to act, although it is not actually acting. This is clear; for have you not a power of talking as long as you are able to talk, although you may actually be silent? If, on the contrary, the word _active_ stands for _able to act_, then it is your minor proposition that will be evidently false; for the creative power, before the creation, was able to create the world, although we conceive it as not yet creating anything. Hence your nice syllogism is a mere sophism, and your conclusion a blunder.

Your other assertion, “It could not have been a creative power without creating something,” is likewise sophistical. For the epithet “creative” in your argumentation means “able to create”; and consequently it does not entail actual creation, but only its possibility. Thus the blunder is repeated.

But you proceed: “We must, therefore, suppose that this power has for a time been inert in the presence of chaotic or motionless matter.” In these few words I find three mistakes: First, you again introduce time where there can be nothing but eternity; secondly, you assume that a power not exercised is inert—which is false, because inertness means destitution of self‐acting power; thirdly, you put chaotic and motionless matter in the presence of the creative power before this power has been exercised—which is to assume that chaotic matter was not created, but only received movement. You understand, doctor, that in arguing, as you do, from the point of view of your adversaries, you cannot take such liberties. If you wish to refute creation, you must take it as it is understood and defended by its supporters; or else you will only refute your own hallucinations. But I will not insist on these latter remarks. I made them only that you may better realize how deficient and miserable is your method of reasoning.

_Büchner_ (_bitterly_). Thank you for the compliment.

_Reader._ However, I have more to say; and I hope, doctor, that you will not lose your temper, if I proceed onward in the same strain. In the second part of your argument you say that the creative power “could not have existed _after_ the creation, as rest and inactivity are again incompatible with the notion of force.” This is evidently a mere reiteration of the sophism just refuted. If the reason you allege had any weight, it would follow that, when you have ceased curing a patient, your medical power would vanish, and, when you have ceased talking, your talkative power would be extinct; in fact, rest and inactivity, according to you, are incompatible with the notion of power. I say “power,” although you here make use of the word “force,” which is calculated to mislead your readers. The word “force” is frequently used to express a quantity of movement; and, of course, rest and movement exclude one another; hence to designate the creative power by the name of “force” may be a dishonest trick, though a very clumsy one, to inveigle readers into the belief that rest and creative power are incompatible. Here, however, I must point out another great blunder, which a man of your talent should have been able to avoid. There is a truth, doctor, of which you seem to be quite ignorant, though certainly you must have heard of it more than once. It is that the creative power, after the production of creatures, does _not_ remain inactive. Creatures need positive conservation, and would fall into nothingness were they not continually kept in existence by the same power by which they have been first brought into being. Hence the creative power is always at work. What is, then, your supposition of its inactivity but a new proof of your ignorance?

What you add concerning the motion of matter has no importance. I might admit with you that, prescinding from miracles (which you are blind enough to deny), “at no time and nowhere, even in the most distant space reached by our telescope, could a single fact be established which would render the assumption of a force external, and independent of matter, necessary.” This, however, regards only the stability of the laws of motion; and it would be absurd to infer that therefore the existence of matter and its conservation need not be accounted for by an external cause. But you again give a proof of your ignorance by adding that “the motion of matter obeys only those laws which are inherently active.” What does this mean? Try to understand the term “law,” and you will see that to call law “inherently active” is an unpardonable nonsense. And hoping that this suffices to show the absolute worthlessness of your pretended argument, I will let you go on with your other allegations.

_Büchner._ You do not reflect, sir, that in your theory the creative power must have been idle for an eternity; and this cannot be admitted. For “to consider the power in eternal rest, and sunk in self‐contemplation, is an empty arbitrary abstraction without any empirical basis” (p. 6).

_Reader._ Not at all, doctor. To consider God in eternal rest is not an empty arbitrary abstraction; it is a real and necessary conclusion from incontrovertible premises. Is it philosophical to assume, as you do, that creation would likely put an end to God’s eternal rest? God always rests unchangeably in himself, whether he actually exercises his creative power or not. He has in himself his happiness, and in himself he rests for ever independently of creation. This we say without thinking for a moment of your “empirical basis.” For we know that it is a silly thought, that of endeavoring to find an empirical basis for a purely intellectual truth. But if by the want of an empirical basis you mean a want of known facts from which to show God’s existence and infinite perfection, then your duty would have been to substantiate your assertion by showing that such facts are not real facts, or have no connection with the existence of a supreme being. This you have omitted to do, and thus all your argument consists of bold assertions, not only without proofs, but without the possibility of proof.

Is it not strange, then, that you fancy to have cornered your readers, and compelled them to resort to the most absurd fictions to uphold the existence of a creative power? You say, in fact, that they have no other resource but to admit “the singular notion that the creative power had suddenly and without any occasion arisen out of nothing, had created the world (out of what?), and had again, in the moment of completion, collapsed within itself, and, so to say, dissolved itself in the universe” (p. 7). Indeed, were we as stupid as any creature can be, we would still find it impossible to dream of such a foolish assumption. You add that “philosophers and others have ever cherished this latter notion, believing that they could, by this mode of reasoning, reconcile the indisputable fact of a fixed and unchangeable law in the economy of the universe with the belief in an individual creative power” (_ibid._) I do not hesitate to tell you, doctor, that nothing but hatred of truth could prompt you to utter such a gross lie.

_Büchner._ Yet “all religious conceptions lean more or less towards this idea” (p. 7).

_Reader._ This I deny.

_Büchner._ Let me explain. Philosophers admit the idea, “with this difference: that they conceive the spirit of the world reposing after the creation, but yet, as an individual, capable of again suspending his own laws” (p. 7).

_Reader._ This explanation is not to the point. Your assertion implied that philosophers and others ever cherished the notion that the creative power had suddenly arisen out of nothing, and that all religious conceptions lean more or less towards this idea. This is what I challenged you to show. Does your explanation show it? On the contrary, it shows that the idea towards which religious conceptions lean is quite different.

_Büchner._ Be this as it may, “conceptions of this kind cannot concern us, not being the result of philosophical reasoning. Individual human qualities and imperfections are transferred to philosophical notions, and belief is made to occupy the place of actual knowledge” (p. 7).

_Reader._ I perceive, doctor, that you are persistently wrong. It seems as though you could not open your mouth without uttering some false or incongruent assertion. What are those conceptions which “cannot concern us”? Are they not the dreams you have just imagined? How, then, do you insinuate that the existence of a creative power does not concern us, because your dreams are not the result of philosophical reasoning? And pray, who ever “transferred individual human qualities and imperfections to philosophical notions”? Has this phrase any intelligible meaning? Lastly, it is evidently false that, in order to admit a creative power, “belief is made to occupy the place of actual knowledge.” The existence of God is a philosophical truth; now, philosophy is a method of knowledge, not of belief.

I trust I have sufficiently exposed your “intellectual jugglery” to let you see that you are at best a charlatan, not a philosopher.

To Be Continued.

Dante’s Purgatorio. Canto Fourteenth.

NOTE.—This canto, like the preceding (XIII.), illustrates the sin of envy, which Dante deems a special vice of the Florentines, against whom and the other inhabitants of Valdarno he inveighs with a bitterness that savors more of the style of the Inferno than of “the milder shade of Purgatory.”

In the Thirteenth Canto, Envy has been rebuked by voices of love and gentleness; as, for instance, the kindly comment of the Virgin at the marriage feast of Cana, “_They have no wine_.” These and similar words are the _scourge_ which the envious have to endure. But the _bridle_, Dante says, are tones of a contrary import, such as the terrific voice of Cain, who passes by in a peal of thunder, but invisible, followed by the dreadful cry of Aglauros, described in the concluding paragraph of this canto.

“What man is this who round our mountain goes, Before that death has let his pinions free, Who doth at will his eyelids ope and close?” “I know not; but am sure not sole is he: Demand _thou_ of him who the nearest art, And gently ask, that he may deign reply.” Thus to the right two spirits there, apart, Bent each toward each, conferred as I came nigh; Then turning up their faces as to speak, One said: “O soul! that still in mortal hold Art on the way thy home in heaven to seek, For charity console us, and unfold Whence comest, and who art thou? for the grace Accorded thee in us the wonder wakes Due unto things which ne’er before had place.” And I: “Through middle Tuscany there flows A brook whose founts in Falterona spring, Nor do an hundred miles its current close: From that stream’s banks this body of mine I bring: ’Twere vain to tell you how my title goes; For yet my name hath not much heralding.” “If well I probe the sense thou hast conveyed With intellect,” the first who spake replied: “Thou meanest Arno!”—and the other shade Said to the former: “Wherefore did he hide That river’s name as men are wont to do Of things most horrible?”—and then the one Whom that inquiry was directed to, Discharged him thus:

Guido Del Duca.

“Why he that name doth shun I cannot tell: but meet it is the name Of such a valley perish from the earth! Since from its head (where so abounds the same Great alpine chain which cast Pelorus forth, With springs that few spots are impregnate more) To where it seeks, arriving at the main, What the sky sucks from ocean to restore (Whence rivers have what waters they contain), Virtue by all is hunted for a foe As ’twere a snake;—whether from fault of place Or evil custom goading nature so: Wherefore that miserable valley’s race Have changed their kind to that degree ’twould seem Circe had pastured them. Among brute swine, More fit for mast than human food, the stream Winds its poor way; then, lower down its line, Finds curs that snarl beyond their power to bite, And turns from them his nostril as in scorn. Falling it goes, and more it grows in might, The curst ditch finds that of those dogs are born A pack of wolves. Through many a whirlpool then He comes to foxes in deceit so deep They fear no catching by more crafty men. What though o’erheard, no silence will I keep! And well for this man, if in mind he bear What my true spirit unfolds. One of thy blood Shall hunt those wolves. I see thy grandson there Harrowing the borders of that savage flood; All fly before him, all are in despair: He makes a market of their living flesh, Then, like old beasts for slaughter, lays them low: Staining his fame with many a murder fresh; He comes all bloody from that wood of woe, Leaving such wreck that in a thousand years To its primeval state it shall not grow.”

Like one whose visage alters when he hears Ill hap foretold, as ’twere in dread which way The blow may strike, I saw that other soul Stand turned to hear, disturbed and in dismay, Soon of those words as he had grasped the whole. His troubled air, and what the other said, To know their names wrought in me such a thirst That I with prayers direct inquiry made. Wherefore the shade who had addrest me first Began again: “Thou wouldest that I deign Do thee a grace I did in vain beseech; But since the will of God in thee so plain Doth favor show, I will not stint my speech; Therefore know this: Guido del Duca am I. My blood with envy was so burnt, so bad, Thou mightst have seen me livid grow and dry Had I but seen another’s face look glad. Such of my sowing is the straw I reap! O human race! why bring your wishes down To pleasures that exclude all partnership? This is Rinieri; this the prize and crown Of Casa Calboli, whereof no child Hath made himself an heir of his renown. Nor yet alone hath his blood been despoiled, ’Twixt Po, the Pennine, Reno and the shore, Of what best needs for truth and happiness; For through those borders there be plenty more Of stock so bad, to make their venom less By cultivation ’twere but vain to try. Where is good Lizio? and Mainardi? Where Pier Traversaro and Carpigna’s Guy? O Romagnuoles! what bastard shoots ye bear, When sprouts a Fabbro in Bologna, when Bernardin Fosco makes Faenza heir From coarse grass to a growth of gentlemen! No wonder, Tuscan, at my weeping thus While I recall, remembering them so well, Guido of Prata when himself with us, And Ugolin of Azzo, used to dwell: Frederic Tignoso and his goodly troop; The Traversara, Anastagi race; Now disinherited both houses droop! Ladies and knights, the toils repose and grace They wrapt us in of courtesy and love There where the best blood such bad hearts debase! “O Brettinoro! why dost thou not move From thy proud seat, thy family wholly gone, And many more, to shun corruption’s course? Bagnacaval does well to have no son, And Castrocaro ill, and Conio worse To breed such Counties taking further pains: And well enough too, when their devil is dead, May the Pagani do, though some remains Bear witness ’gainst them of impureness fled. O Ugolin de’ Fantoli! most sure Is thy good name, since no degenerate head Is looked for now its brightness to obscure. But go thy ways now, Tuscan! more delight I find in weeping than in words—too stirred By this talk of our country.” We were quite Sure those dear souls our way’s direction heard, And from their silence knew that we went right.

Soon as proceeding we became alone, A voice, like lightning when it strikes, did say, Rushing on tow’rds us with its thunderous tone, “_Whoever findeth me the same shall slay!_”(97) Then fled as thunder, when the bolt is thrown From the torn cloud, in rumbling dies away. When on our ears a moment’s truce there fell, Another crash came of like rattling shock As of a rapid thunder, peal on peal: “_I am Aglauros, who became a rock!_” On this, I drew back from my forward pace To cling for shelter close behind the bard, And when the air was hushed in all its space, He said to me: “That was the bit(98) full hard Which should each man within his limit stay. _You_ take the bait so fondly that the small Hook of th’ old enemy makes you his prey, And bridle boots you naught, nor warning call. Heaven calleth to you, and the eternal round Shows you of beauties that about you roll, And still your eye is grovelling on the ground; Wherefore He smites you who discerns the whole.”

The Veil Withdrawn.

Translated, By Permission, From The French Of Madame Craven, Author Of “A Sister’s Story,” “Fleurange,” Etc.

VII.

Lorenzo, Duca di Valenzano, belonged to one of the noblest families of upper Italy; but his mother was a native of Sicily, and it was from her he inherited his title as well as the fortune already in his possession, which would be considerably increased if an important lawsuit (the usual accompaniment of a Sicilian inheritance), which brought a great part of it into litigation, should terminate successfully. His object in coming to see my father was to place this business in his hands; and, after his first visit, he usually came once or twice a week. At first he merely bowed to me as he passed, or, at most, addressed me a few words on leaving the room. The remainder of the time was spent in looking over voluminous documents with my father. Nevertheless, these visits soon became a little incident in my monotonous life, and I began to look forward to them with a certain impatience.

The duke, at this time, was scarcely more than thirty years of age; but he by no means seemed young in my eyes. A few premature wrinkles and an observant, thoughtful look imparted a gravity to his face which was not, however, its prevailing expression; for it was frequently ironical and sarcastic to the last degree, and so mobile that it was not always easy to decide on the impression it left. His general appearance, however, was noble and striking, as well as the tone of his voice, which involuntarily commanded attention to all he said.

Several weeks elapsed without any other variety than the few moments, more or less prolonged, which he passed at my table at the end of each visit. He generally made some unimportant remarks respecting my lessons, my bird, or my flowers, which he noticed I cultivated with a care somewhat unusual in our clime. In fact, he only spoke to me as he would to a child. I replied in a corresponding tone, and, very soon, not only without embarrassment, but with a pleasure I made no attempt to conceal. I had begun to be devoured by _ennui_ in so inactive and solitary a life, and I eagerly welcomed any diversion that came in my way. My father, at such times, remained silent and grave, and seemed somewhat impatient when these brief conversations were prolonged a little more than usual.

One day, when the duke approached my table as usual, I had a large atlas open before me, and he noticed that I was examining the map of Asia. I was studying without any effort, and yet with a certain interest resulting from curiosity which, added to an excellent memory, made me an unusually good scholar. The duke looked at the map a moment, and, after some observations that excited my interest, he pointed to a place near the Himalaya mountains, and remarked: “One year ago to‐day I was there.” I knew his extensive travels had rendered him celebrated, as well as his success as a sculptor, doubly surprising in a man of his rank and so enterprising an explorer. I had acquired this information from conversations respecting the duke since his arrival at Messina, where his presence had caused a sensation.

On this occasion, seeing my interest strongly excited, he seemed to take pleasure in giving an account of that remote region, which I sometimes interrupted by questions that appeared to surprise him. The facility with which I was endowed made me really superior in many respects to most girls of my age; and as for information, I might have been considered a phenomenon in my own country.

The conversation that day might have been indefinitely prolonged had not my father found a pretext for abridging it by suddenly proposing to take the duke to the further end of the garden, in order to examine some ruins and a Greek portico on a height from which there was an admirable view. The duke looked at me, as if he wished I could join in the walk; but my father not seconding this mute suggestion, he was forced to accompany him, not, however, without giving me, as he left the room, a look that seemed to express compassion, interest, and respect.

As soon as I was alone, I abruptly closed my atlas, rose from my seat, and abandoned myself to a violent fit of irritation and grief, as I hurried with long steps through the extensive gallery, exclaiming aloud against the undue sternness and severity of my father.... He did not see that he was thus rendering the seclusion he had imposed upon me beyond my strength to bear—a seclusion that would have been transformed by one word of affection, sympathy, or even kindness. Instead of this, did he not even appear to be annoyed that I should receive any from this stranger?

It was impossible for me to resume my studies. I had an hour to wait before Ottavia would come, as she did every day, to accompany me to the garden—as if I were a mere child, instead of being allowed to wander at my own pleasure till sunset. Hitherto I had endured everything humbly; but my patience was now exhausted, and I felt a disposition to revolt which I only repressed with difficulty. Was this merely against a _régime_ of such excessive severity, or was it the result of a slight return of confidence in myself inspired by the interest, and almost deference, which this stranger had just manifested? It was doubtless both; and the consequence was, I felt an agitation I could not subdue, and an irrepressible longing for any change whatever in a mode of life that had become insupportable. Tired of walking up and down, I at last took a seat by the window, where I could, at a distance, see my father and his client. I watched them with an attention that soon diverted my thoughts and ended by wholly absorbing me.

I at once noticed that, instead of proceeding to the end of the garden to see the ruin my father had spoken of, they had stopped in a broad alley leading from the house to a white marble basin, in the form of a vase, which stood in the centre. This alley, bordered with a clipped hedge of box, extended beyond the basin to a small grove of olive‐trees leading to the hill it was necessary to ascend in order to see the ruin. They seemed to have wholly lost sight of the proposed object of their walk; for when I first saw them, they had scarcely reached the basin, and were now slowly returning towards the house. The duke appeared to be listening to my father, every now and then striking the hedge they were passing with a stick he held in his hand. All at once he stopped, and, passing his arm through my father’s, he led him to a bench, on which they both sat down. I could see them distinctly, and, without hearing what they said, could distinguish the sound of their voices. It was the duke’s I now heard. At first he spoke with his head bent down, as if with some hesitation, but by degrees with more animation and fire, and finally with clasped hands, as if pleading some cause or asking some favor.... Once he raised his eyes towards the window where I was, though he could not see me. Was he speaking of me?... Had he ventured to intercede in my behalf?... I looked at my father anxiously. His face expressed the greatest surprise as well as extreme dissatisfaction, but it gradually changed. He became very attentive; and when at last the duke extended his hand, he took it in his, and seemed to be making some promise. Then they rose and resumed the way to the house, but by a shady path where my eyes could no longer follow them.

That day our dinner was less gloomy than usual. My father conversed with Mario as he had not done for a long time, and the latter, with satisfaction, attributed to himself this change (which, to do him justice, had been the object of persevering effort). But Livia, who had more penetration, saw there was some other reason; for she speedily observed that this change was especially evident towards me. In fact, for the first time since the fatal day that seemed like a dividing line in my young life, I once more saw in my father’s eyes the fond look I was formerly accustomed to; and this paternal and almost forgotten expression gave me new life and a sensation of joy and happiness that made me raise my head as a flower beaten down by the storm looks up at the first return of the sun.

The explanation was not long delayed. The next day my father sent for me at an earlier hour than I generally went to him, and after a preamble which I scarcely comprehended, and which by no means served to prepare me for what I was about to hear, he informed me that the Duca di Valenzano had asked for my hand. I remained stupefied with astonishment, and my father continued: “It was impossible to expect a proposal like this for one of my daughters; but however brilliant it may be, I should unhesitatingly decline it were not the duke personally worthy of love and esteem. As to this I am satisfied from all I hear respecting him. But it is for you to decide about accepting his hand. I will not impose my will on you. Consider the subject, Ginevra. The Duca di Valenzano will come this evening to receive your reply.”

My father might have said much more without my thinking of interrupting him. I was in such a state of utter amazement that I could hardly realize what he said, and the perspective thus suddenly opened before me conveyed no definite idea to my mind. It was easier to believe he was jesting with me than to suppose such a man as the duke would propose for me to become his wife!...

I returned to my chamber extremely agitated, and this feeling was not diminished by witnessing my sister’s emotion and Ottavia’s noisy demonstrations of joy when I told them of the proposal that had just been communicated to me. The Duca di Valenzano was not only a person of high rank, but he was thought to possess every accomplishment, and it was evident that every one looked upon my consent as a matter of course.

_Un homme accompli!_ Before going any further, I cannot help stopping to remark here to what a degree the world, generally so severe, shows itself indulgent in certain cases; and how often this indulgence is shared even by those who try to think they are not influenced by external circumstances! Assuredly neither my father, nor my sister, nor the simple Ottavia attributed the favorable impression produced on their minds to the brilliant position of this unexpected suitor, or the special merit he had acquired in their eyes, to the mere fact of his having thought of sharing his lot with me.

It would have been difficult for me to express my own feelings, for I hardly understood their nature. I was flattered; I was touched; I was even very grateful, for it was evident that the duke had begun by pleading my cause with my father, and hitherto he had been by no means unpleasing to me. Why, then, could I not think of him now without a kind of repugnance, fear, and aversion? And why did I feel as if I should prefer never to see him again? I asked myself these questions, at first silently, and then aloud, as was often my habit when with Livia and Ottavia, who, though so different from each other, were nevertheless so alike in their affection for me.

“That is quite natural, _carina_,” replied Livia. “You scarcely know the Duca di Valenzano, and the very word _marriage_ is one of serious import, and even fearful, when it falls for the first time on the ears of a young girl. But this will pass away.”

“Do you think so?”

“Oh! yes. I am sure of it. When you know him better, and especially when he, in his turn, comprehends the qualities of your mind, and heart, and soul, he will conceive such an affection for my dear Ginevra that she will soon love him in return, and not a little, I imagine.”

“I think so, too,” said Ottavia, laughing. “They say he is very captivating, to say nothing of his being one of the greatest and wealthiest noblemen of Italy. Ah! ah! what a different tone those wicked people will assume who say....”

Livia looked at Ottavia, who stopped short.

“Livia! do not stop her,” I exclaimed. “Go on, Ottavia; I insist upon it. I wish to know what wicked people you refer to, and what they say.”

Ottavia once more regretted her precipitation, and would rather have remained silent; but I continued to question her till she acknowledged some people had taken the liberty of saying I should never marry on account of “what had taken place.”

“What a vague, cruel way of speaking!” exclaimed Livia indignantly. “Everybody knows now there was nothing, absolutely nothing at all, in that gossip; that it was all a mere falsehood.”

“Everybody?” ... I said with sudden emotion. “But has not my father continued to treat me as if I were culpable?” Then after a moment’s silence, I added: “Do you think these falsehoods have come to the ears of the Duca di Valenzano?”

“How can I tell?” replied Livia. “And of what consequence is it? His proposal shows that he is sure, as well as we, that you have nothing at all to reproach yourself for.”

I made no reply. A new thought struck me, and I felt the necessity of being alone, in order to reflect on what had been suggested by her words. I therefore left my two companions abruptly, and took a seat at the end of the terrace on a little parapet that looked on the sea, and there I remained nearly an hour.

That night, when the Duca di Valenzano returned, my father, at my solicitation, told him that, before coming to any decision, I wished to have some private conversation with him. It was not without difficulty I induced my father to convey this message; but the duke immediately assented, and with so much eagerness that it might have been supposed my request had only anticipated a wish of his own.

VIII.

I was in my usual place in the gallery, and alone, when the duke entered at the appointed hour. I rose, and extended my hand. He was astonished, I think, to find me so calm, and perhaps so grave, and looked at me a moment in silence, as if he would divine what I was going to say to him. Seeing that I remained silent, he at length said:

“Donna Ginevra, I thought myself skilled in reading the expression of your eyes; but in looking at you now, I cannot tell whether the word that is about to fall from your lips is yes or no.”

I found it difficult to reply; but overcoming my embarrassment at last, I succeeded in saying:

“Yes or no?.... If I only had that to say, M. le Duc, I could have charged my father with it.... But before speaking of the reply I am to make, I must make one request. You must tell me sincerely what you think of me, and I will afterwards tell you with the utmost frankness wherein you are mistaken.”

He looked at me with an attentive air, and then smiled, as he said:

“Tell you what I think of you?... That might lead me to say more than I have yet the right to say. But I will tell you, Donna Ginevra, what I do not think, and, in so doing, I shall, I imagine, comply with your request. Let me fully assure you I attach no importance whatever to the words of a coxcomb; and I would call any one a liar, and treat him as such, who would dare to repeat them!...”

He saw, by the expression of joy that flashed from my eyes, that he had guessed aright.

“Poor child! ... poor angel!” he continued, “it would be strange indeed if I took any other attitude than this before you.” And he was about to kneel at my feet, when I eagerly prevented him.

“Do not do that, I beg of you!” I exclaimed. “And say, if you like, that I am a child, but do not call me an angel.... Oh! no, never say anything so far from the truth! Listen to me, for I requested this interview only that you might know all—what is true as well as what is false.”

“What is true?” he said in a slight tone of surprise.

“Yes. Listen to me. I thank you for not having believed what ... what was said concerning me, for that, indeed, was false. I am, however, culpable, and it is right you should know it. Perhaps you will then change your mind, and think no more about me.”

He looked at me again, as if he would read the depths of my soul.

“Is it with this design,” he said, “that you speak so frankly?”

I knew not what reply to make, for I no longer knew what I wished. I found a charm in the mingled tenderness and respect of which I so suddenly felt myself the object. Besides, I had suffered greatly from my long seclusion, and my heart involuntarily turned towards him who was trying to deliver me from it.... My fear and repugnance vanished beneath his sympathetic look.

“No,” I said at last, “it is not for that reason.”

“Then speak frankly,” he said, “and let me hear this important revelation, whatever it may be.”

“And will you promise solemnly never to reveal my secret?”

“Yes, I solemnly promise.”

In spite of the solemnity of his words, I saw it was with difficulty he repressed a smile. But when he saw the agitation produced by the recollections thus awakened, his expression became serious. For a moment a cloud came over his face; but in proportion as I entered into the details of that last night of my mother’s life—my thoughtlessness, my shock, and, finally, my despair and repentance—he became affected, and listened with so much emotion that his look inspired me with confidence, and I finished without fear the account I had begun with a trembling voice.

As has been seen, I thought myself more guilty than I should have been had there been any truth in the vague, unmerited reproaches I had endured; for the slight fault I had really committed seemed indissolubly connected with the fearful calamity that followed!... That was why I thought myself unpardonable, and why I preferred to endure the most unfounded suspicions concerning me rather than reveal the truth to any one in the world—above all, to my father. But it seemed to me I ought not, for the same reason, to conceal it from him who had so generously offered me his hand, whatever might be the result. I therefore continued, and he listened without interrupting me. When I had ended, he spoke in his turn, and what he said decided the fate of my life.

I already felt relieved by the complete revelation of a secret I had hitherto kept with an obstinacy that was perhaps a little childish. And in listening to the soft accents of his sonorous, penetrating voice, my heart was more and more comforted, and soon allowed itself to be persuaded into what it was sweet and consoling to believe—that, as he said, I exaggerated the consequence of my thoughtlessness; that if I had afflicted my mother, I had time to ask and obtain her forgiveness; that I was ignorant of her dangerous condition, and, when I became aware of it, I supposed I had been the cause; ... but all this was unreasonable.... And as to the flower.... Here he stopped, and his brow darkened for a moment. “Answer me frankly,” he said slowly; “if Flavio Aldini were still alive, if he were here under this window to‐day, and implored you to give him that little sprig of jasmine I see in your belt....”

He had not time to finish.

“Is it possible,” I exclaimed, “you, who say you understand me, who pretend to have read my heart, can mention a name that has become so odious to me?...”

Then I continued, I imagine to his great surprise:

“You are the first to whom I have acknowledged the fault he made me commit, for I do not consider the ear of the priest to whom I confessed it as that of man. There I experienced the indulgence of heaven, and was forgiven by God as well as my mother.... But would you know what cost me the most that day? Not, certainly, my sorrow for the past; not my firm resolutions as to the future; nor even the humble acceptation of all the humiliations that have been inflicted on me.... No, what cost me the most was to promise to overcome my resentment, to subdue the bitterness awakened by the very name of Flavio, and to utter it every day in prayer for the repose of his soul!...”

I was, in speaking thus, very remote from the regions familiar to Lorenzo. While I was uttering these words, my face was lit up with an expression very different from any he had ever seen there. He gazed at me without seeming to hear what I said, and at length replied with evident emotion:

“I thank you for telling me this, though one look at you is sufficient to efface all doubt, as darkness vanishes before the approach of day.”

After a moment’s silence, he resumed: “And now, Ginevra, I implore you to delay no longer the reply I have come to receive.”

The recollections of the past had made me forget for a few moments the present; but these words recalled it, and I looked at him as if confounded. There was a moment’s silence. My heart beat loudly. At length I silently took from my belt the little sprig of jasmine he had just spoken of, and gave it to him.

He understood the reply, and his eyes lit up with gratitude and joy. I felt happier than I had anticipated. Was not this, in fact, what I had dreamed of, what I had longed for—to be loved? And would it not be easy to love in return such a man as this?

As these thoughts were crossing my mind, and I lowered my eyes before his, he suddenly said:

“Do you know how beautiful you are, Ginevra?”

At these words I frowned, and a blush rose to my forehead which once might have been caused by gratified vanity, but now was only occasioned by sincere, heart‐felt displeasure. “Never speak to me of my face, I beg of you,” I said to him, “unless you wish to annoy or displease me.”

He looked at me with the greatest astonishment, though he felt no doubt as to my perfect sincerity, and, taking my hand in his, said:

“You are a being apart, Ginevra, and resemble no one else in any respect. It will be difficult sometimes to obey your request, but I will do so.”

Had I been able to read Lorenzo’s heart, I should, in my turn, have been astonished, and perhaps frightened, at the motives that had induced him to link so suddenly his life with mine.

The beauty of which I was no longer vain; the talents I possessed without being aware of it; the strangeness of finding me in a kind of captivity, and the somewhat romantic satisfaction of delivering me from it and changing my condition by a stroke of a wand—such were the elements of the attraction to which he yielded; and if it had occurred to any one to remind him that the girl who was about to become his wife had a soul, he would very probably have replied by a glance of surprise, a sarcastic smile, or a slight shrug of his shoulders, as if to say: “Perhaps so, but it does not concern me.”

It happened in this case, as often happens in many other circumstances, that a word, a look, or the tone of a voice impresses, persuades, and influences, and yet (perhaps for the happiness of the human race) does not reveal the inner secrets of the soul.

My engagement was announced the next day, and the last of May appointed for the marriage. There was a month before the time—a month the remembrance of which still stands out in my life like a season of enchantment. The restored confidence of my father, joined to the thought of our approaching separation, had revived all the fondness of his former affection. Lorenzo had succeeded in making him regret the excess of his severity towards me. Indebted to him, therefore, for the return of my father’s love as well as the gift of his own, he seemed like some beneficent _genie_ who had dispersed every cloud, and restored to my youth the warm, golden light of the sun. I thanked him for this without any circumlocution, and sometimes in so warm a manner that he must have been the most unpresuming of men to suppose me indifferent to the sentiments he so often expressed, though not so ardently as to disturb me. He respected the request I made the first day. He suffered me to remain the child I still was, in spite of having experienced such varied emotions. Perhaps the strong contrast he thus found in me formed a study not devoid of interest to a man _blasé_ by all he had seen and encountered in the world.

The preparations for so brilliant a marriage completely filled up the time of the busy Ottavia, who was charged by my father to omit nothing in the way of dress requisite for the _fiancée_ of the Duca di Valenzano. Mario, prouder than he was willing to acknowledge of an alliance that reflected lustre on the whole family, showed himself friendly and satisfied. Besides, the transformation that had taken place in my whole appearance within a few months, as well as in my way of life, had softened his manner towards me; and the more because he attributed the merit of it to himself, and often repeated that, had it not been for him, my father would not have had the courage to persevere in a severity that had had so salutary a result. He loved me, however, as I have had occasion in the course of my life to know; but as there are people in the world who are kind, and yet are not sympathetic, so there are also many who on certain occasions manifest some feeling, and yet are not kind. Mario was of the latter class. At certain times, on great occasions, he seemed to have a heart capable of affection and devotedness; but, as a general thing, it was rather evil than good he discovered in everything and everybody, without excepting even those with whom he was most intimately connected, and perhaps in them _above all_.

Livia alone, after the first few days, seemed to have a shade of thoughtfulness and anxiety mingled with her joy, and Mario, who observed it, unhesitatingly declared it was caused by the prospect of remaining an old maid, doubly vexatious now her younger sister was about to ascend before her very eyes to the pinnacle of rank and fortune. But I knew Livia better than he, and, though unable to read all that was passing in her soul at that time, I was sure that no comparison of that kind, or any dissatisfied consideration of herself, had ever crossed her mind.

But I did not suspect that her pure, transparent nature, as well as the instinct of clear‐sighted affection, enabled her to see some threatening signs in the heavens above me that seemed to every one else so brilliant with its sun and cloudless azure. But the die was cast, and it would have been useless to warn as well as dangerous to disturb me. She therefore confined herself to reminding me of all my mother’s pious counsels. She made me promise never to forget them, and she, too, promised to pray for me. But when I told her she must continue to aid me with her advice, and remain true to her _rôle_ of my guardian angel, she shook her head, and remained silent.

One day, when I spoke in this way, she replied: “Do not be under any illusion, Ginevra. Marriage is like death. One may prepare for it, one may be aided by the counsels, the prayers, and the encouragement of friends till the last moment; but once the line is crossed, as the soul after death finds itself alone in the presence of its God, its heavenly bridegroom, to be eternally blessed by his love or cursed by its privation, so the wife finds herself alone in the world with her husband. There is no happiness for her but in their mutual affection. If this exists, she possesses the greatest happiness this world can afford. If deprived of it, she lacks everything. The world will be only a void, and she may still consider herself fortunate, if this void is filled by sorrow, and not by sin!...”

“What you say is frightful.”

“Yes, it is frightful; therefore I have never been able to covet so terrible a bondage. O my dear Gina! may God watch over you....”

“You terrify me, Livia. I assure you I should never have regarded marriage under so serious an aspect, from the way in which people around us enter into it.”

Livia blushed, and her eyes, generally so soft, assumed an expression of thoughtfulness and severity.

“I am nearly twenty‐six years old,” she said, “and am therefore no longer a girl, as you still are. But in a few days you will assume the duties of womanhood. You will place your hand in Lorenzo’s, and pronounce the most fearful vow there is in the world. Let me therefore say one thing to you, which I am sure is the faithful echo of your mother’s sentiments, and what she would certainly tell you likewise. Ginevra, rather than imitate any of those to whom you refer, rather than seek away from your own fireside a happiness similar to theirs, it would be better for God to call you to himself this very hour. Yes,” she continued with unwonted energy, “sooner than behold this, I would rather—I who love you so much—I would far rather see those beautiful eyes, now looking at me with so much surprise, close this very instant never to open again!”

I was, indeed, surprised. For were not these words, or at least the idea they conveyed, what I had found written in the little book Livia had never read, and was it not my mother herself who actually spoke to me now through the voice of my sister?...

IX.

This conversation left a profound and painful impression on me, but it was counteracted by the increasing attachment Lorenzo inspired. During this phase of my life I only perceived his charming, noble qualities, the unusual variety of his tastes, his mental endowments, and, above all, his love for me, which it seemed impossible to return too fully. It would have required a degree of penetration not to be expected of one of my age to lift the brilliant veil and look beyond. Therefore the natural liveliness of my disposition, which had been prematurely extinguished by successive trials of too great a severity, gradually revived. It was no unusual thing now to hear me laugh and sing as I used to. The influence of this new cheerful life counteracted the effects of the factitious life I had led the previous year. Under Lorenzo’s protection, and escorted by Mario, I was allowed to take long rides on horseback, which restored freshness to my cheeks, and inspired that youthful feeling which may be called the pleasure of living—a feeling that till now I had been a stranger to. My mind was developed by intercourse with one so superior to myself, and who endeavored to interest and instruct me. In a word, my whole nature developed and expanded in every way, and for awhile I believed in the realization here below of perfectly unclouded happiness.

A sad accident, however, occurred, which cast a shadow over the brief duration of those delightful days. It was now the last day but one before our marriage, and for the last time we were to make an excursion on horseback, which was also to be an adieu to the mountains, the sea, and the beautiful shore that had been familiar to me from my infancy. For, immediately after, we were to leave Messina; and though it was to go to Naples, I thought more of what I was about to leave than what I was to find, and the melancholy of approaching separation seemed diffused over all nature around me. Our horses were waiting at a gate at the end of the garden, which, on that side, opened into the country. Mario and Lorenzo had gone before, and I was walking slowly along to join them, holding my skirt up with one hand, and leaning with the other on Livia, who was going to see our cavalcade set off.

Mario had already mounted his horse, but Lorenzo, on foot beside Prima, my pretty pony, was waiting to help me mount. He held out his hand. I placed my foot on it, and sprang gaily up. As soon as I was seated, he stepped back to mount his own horse, while Livia remained beside me to arrange the folds of my long habit. Just then the wind blew off her light straw hat, to which was attached a long, blue veil, and both passing suddenly across my horse’s eyes before I had fairly gathered up the bridle, he took fright. I was unable to check him. He sprang madly away, bearing me along the narrow alley leading from the garden to the highway. I heard the screams of those who remained motionless behind, but nothing afterwards except a hum in my ears. A flash seemed to pass before my eyes, but I retained my consciousness. I realized that I was lost. The alley, like that in the garden, was bordered with a thick hedge of box extending to the road, which was here at an immense height along a cliff overlooking the sea and protected by a low parapet. My ungovernable horse was evidently about to leap over it and precipitate me below.... I recommended myself to God, dropped the bridle, gathered up the folds of my habit with both hands, and, murmuring the words, _Madonna santa, aiutate mi!_(99) I allowed myself to fall on the hedge which bordered the alley. I might have been killed in this way no less surely than the other; but I escaped. The thick, elastic box yielded to my weight without breaking, which prevented me from receiving any harm from the fall. I remained stunned and motionless, but did not lose my senses. I know not how many seconds elapsed before I heard Lorenzo’s voice. I opened my eyes, and smiled as I met his gaze. I shall never forget the passionate expression of love and joy that flashed from his pale, terrified face, which was bending over me! He raised me from the verdant couch where I lay, and pressed me in his arms with mute transport. I, too, was happy. I felt an infinite joy that I had been saved and was still alive. I leaned my head against his shoulder, and closed my eyes. My hat had been thrown off, and my hair, completely loosened, fell almost to the ground. In this way he carried me back amid cries of joy from those who had followed us. Nothing was heard but exclamations of thanksgiving to God and the Virgin when, escorted by a crowd swelled by all on the road or in the neighboring fields, who had perceived the accident, we arrived at the principal entrance to the house. There they made me sit down, and in a few moments I was sufficiently restored to realize completely all that had happened.

Lorenzo continued to support me, and poured forth his joy in tender, incoherent words. My father embraced me. Ottavia wept, as she kissed my hands. Mario himself was affected. In the first moment of confusion I did not notice that my sister alone was wanting. But this absence soon struck me, and I eagerly asked for her, calling her by name as I looked around me. There was a moment’s hesitation, and I saw two of the servants near me making the odious sign of which I have already explained the signification. And—must it be said?—Lorenzo’s hand that held mine contracted also, and I saw that he, likewise, was so absurd as to wish to protect me in this way. I rose.... I no longer felt the effects of the fall I had just had. I pushed them all aside, and him the first. The circle around me opened, and I saw my sister, pale and motionless, leaning against one of the pillars of the vestibule! I forgot everything that had occurred. I thought of nothing but her, and threw myself on her neck.

“Do not be alarmed, my dear Livia,” I said loud enough for every one to hear. “I assure you I have received no injury. I thought you were more courageous. It does not seem like you to be so frightened. The Madonna, you see, has protected me. I know you said a fervent _Ave Maria_ for me when you saw me so swiftly carried away, and your prayer was heard....”

Livia pressed me in her arms without speaking, and tears began to flow from her eyes. Leaning on her arm, and refusing assistance from any one else, I started to go to my chamber. But just as I was leaving the porch a thought occurred.

“And my poor Prima,” I said. “What has become of her?”

The reply to this question made me shudder. The poor animal had sprung over the parapet, and fallen down the precipice into the sea!... Our delightful excursions had ended in a sinister manner, and more than one painful feeling mingled with my joy at having escaped so great a peril. My heart felt heavy and oppressed, and my first act on entering my chamber with Livia was to fall on my knees before a statue of the Madonna, which, in honor of the month of May, was brilliant with lights and flowers.... Livia knelt beside me, but her prayer was longer than mine, and I saw that she continued to weep as she prayed.

“Come, Livia,” I said to her at last, not wishing her to suppose I thought her sadness could have any other cause than my accident, “your distress concerning me is unreasonable. You weep as if I had been carried by my poor Prima to the bottom of the sea, instead of being here alive with you.”

Livia rose, wiped her eyes, and smiled.

“You are right, Gina,” she said in a calm tone. “I ought to profit by the few moments we have together, for we shall not be left alone long. I have something to tell you, dear child—something that will surprise you, perhaps—not about you, but myself.”

I looked up in astonishment.

“Let me first put up your long, thick hair, and take off your habit, so soiled and torn. Then you shall sit quietly down there, and I will tell you what I have to say.”

I allowed her to do as she wished, and obeyed her without reply or question. She appeared thoughtful and agitated, and I saw there was something extraordinary on her mind.

When I had, according to her injunction, taken the only arm‐chair there was in my chamber, Livia seated herself on a stool near me.

“Listen to me, Gina,” she said. “It will not take long for what I have to say. Do not interrupt me. You are really here before me,” continued she, passing her hand over my hair in a caressing manner, and looking at me affectionately. “God has protected you, and I bless him a thousand times for it. But say if, instead of this, the horror of seeing you disappear for ever had been reserved for me an hour ago—me who love you more than my own life—do you know to what the witnesses of this catastrophe would have attributed it? Do you know what, perhaps, they think now?...”

I blushed in spite of myself, but made a negative sign, as if I did not comprehend her.

“You shake your head, but you know very well what Lorenzo and Mario would have thought, and who knows but my father himself, and everybody else?... Was I not beside you this time also? Did I not bring you ill‐luck?... Did not every one around you just now have this idea in their minds, and were they not ready to exclaim, ‘Jettatrice’—‘_Jettatrice_,’ ” repeated she in a stifled voice—“a name harder to bear than an injury, more difficult to defy than calumny, it is really on her to whom it is applied, and not those she approaches, this fatal influence falls!”

“Livia!” I exclaimed, turning red once more, but trying to laugh, “is it really you, my pious, reasonable sister, who uses such language? The folly to which you allude has more than once vexed me to tears, and I must confess I cannot now bear that you should seriously speak to me in such a way.”

Livia smiled, as she embraced me, and I saw it pleased her to hear me reply in this manner. But she soon resumed more gravely:

“You know very well, Ginevra, what I think of this myself. Therefore for a long time I despised this folly, and endeavored to overcome the cruel impression it left upon me; for,” continued she, her voice trembling with emotion in spite of herself, “it is a peculiarly hard trial, you may suppose, to feel your heart full of tenderness, sympathy, and pity for others, and yet seemingly to bring them danger and misfortune.... For instance, to extend your arms to a child and see its mother hesitate to allow you to take it, or even to look at it. But let us change the subject. I have never alluded to this trial, and, if I speak of it now, it is not to excite your sympathy, but, on the contrary, to tell you I am no longer to be pitied. The hour that has just passed was horrible, it is true, but it put an end to my hesitation and doubt. I see my way clearly now, and peace has returned to my soul.”

Her eyes, though still full of tears, wore an expression of celestial joy. I looked at her with astonishment, but did not try to interrupt her. She continued:

“Gina, my darling sister, you have found your sphere, and I have found mine. May God grant you all the happiness, yes, all the joy, to be found in this world! But it will not equal mine. Pity me no longer, I repeat. It is to me he has given the better part.”

Her voice, her accent, and her looks expressed more than her words. I understood her, and was seized with strange emotion. Yes, very strange! and a feeling very different from what might have been supposed.

I loved Livia, and my approaching separation from her filled me with so much sorrow as to dim my happiness. Now I felt that a barrier even more insurmountable than distance was to come between us. It was not, however, affliction on my part, or pity for her, that I experienced. It was—shall I say it?—an inexplicable feeling of respect and _envy_—a vague, unreasonable wish to follow her; a mysterious aspiration for something higher, nobler, and more perfect than wealth, position, rank, and the _éclat_ so soon to surround me, and more precious than the love itself that had fallen to my lot!

I remained a long time incapable of making my sister any reply, my eyes, like hers, fastened on the far‐off horizon, now tinged with the softest evening hues.

O my God! a ray of the same light fell on us both at that moment; but for her it was the pure, calm light of the dawn; for me it was like a flash of lightning which gives one glimpse of the shore, but does not diminish the darkness of the coming night or the danger of the threatening storm.

To Be Continued.

Anglican Orders.(100) I.

Canon Estcourt’s book is, in all respects, a most remarkable one, and can hardly fail to make an era in the controversy. It is a monument, not merely of successful research, but of that intimate acquaintance with a very complicated and difficult subject which nothing but the assiduous labor of years can give. It is perfectly calm and judicial both in its tone and in its conclusions; for learning, like charity, is long‐ suffering. It does not contain, we believe all parties will admit, a single instance of overstrained or _ad captandum_ argument, whilst moving with measured pace to its unassailable conclusions. So studiously gentle has Canon Estcourt been throughout in his language, and so scrupulous in his choice of weapons, that we can hardly wonder if some of his Catholic readers are startled as though the trumpet had given an uncertain sound, and if Anglicans, like the executioner’s victim in the story, hardly know at first that the fatal blow has been struck.

The scope which Canon Estcourt proposes to himself (p. 3) is to ascertain the value of Anglican pretensions to orders as judged by the standard of Catholic theology. Anglicans have professed themselves anxious that the Holy See should reconsider their case. They insist that the practice of ordaining converts from the Anglican ministry who aspire to the priesthood is, upon Catholic principles, inconsistent with any real knowledge of the history of Anglican ordinations.

Few things, we suppose, would surprise a Catholic more than to find that the authorities of the church had been pursuing a course in regard to Anglican orders which, though morally justified by a host of suspicious circumstances, yet was not in accordance with the real facts of the case. Still, such a misfortune, however improbable, is not inconceivable. There is nothing incompatible with the principles of the Catholic faith in the supposition that the Holy See may have been practically misled in a matter of historical evidence, where such misleading could involve no misrepresentation of truth and no fatal mischief. It would have been otherwise had a formal decision been given upon any point of doctrine, as, for instance, the validity of this or that form; or, again, if the decision, though merely practical in its form, yet, like the admission of Greek orders at Florence, had held an integral portion of church life dependent upon its correctness.

We think Canon Estcourt has proved that Anglican orders, regarded in the light of the latest research into their documentary history, are thoroughly untrustworthy; and that any reconsideration of their case by the authorities of the church could only result in a confirmation of the ancient practice. He shows, 1st, that the consecration, under any form, of Parker’s consecrator, Barlow, is doubtful, and that it is exceedingly doubtful if the assistance of Bishop Hodgkin at Parker’s consecration would make up for the inefficiency of the consecrator. 2d. That, although certain deficiencies in the Anglican form for the priesthood, upon which various Catholic controversialists have laid stress, are not _in se_ invalidating, yet that, regard being had to the genesis and context of the form, and to the theology of those who framed and first used it, it cannot be regarded as an implicit signification of the Catholic doctrines of the priesthood and the sacrifice—such as a form consisting of the same words might be, amongst Greeks or Abyssinians—but as an implicit denial of the same. Thus the Anglican form is substantially different from any form which the church has accounted as even probable, and is quite inappropriate for conferring the “_potentiam ordinis_.”

Before proceeding to examine Canon Estcourt’s treatment of the two main points of the question, the status of Parker’s consecrator, and the value of the Edwardine form, it will be well to consider an objection that may be brought against him from the Catholic side. It may be urged that, in his anxiety to do justice to his opponents, he has allowed them to assume a better position than they have any right to occupy. Anglicans owe the assumed assistance of a duly consecrated bishop at Parker’s consecration, and the assumed use of a form as Catholic as the Edwardine, to the assumed correctness of the Lambeth _Register_. This document records that on the 17th of December, 1559, Parker was consecrated at Lambeth, according to the rite of Edward VI., by Barlow, Coverdale, Scory, and Hodgkin. Of these, Coverdale and Scory had been consecrated by undoubted bishops, using the Edwardine rite; Hodgkin by an undoubted bishop, using the Catholic rite. This _Register_ was first produced by Francis Mason in 1616; and even Canon Estcourt, whilst granting the truth of its main statements, denies that it can be accepted as “an authentic and contemporaneous account of the facts as they occurred.” On the other hand, there is a time‐honored account which has long passed current amongst Catholics, and which still finds able and zealous defenders amongst their number.(101) According to this account, at a meeting held at the Nag’s Head inn in Chepeside, Scory alone performed the ceremony upon Parker and sundry other ordinandi, by laying the Bible upon their head or shoulders, and saying, “Take thou authority to preach the word of God.” Here, whatever may be said of the consecrator, the form is confessedly insufficient.

Canon Estcourt, following Lingard and Tiernay, simply rejects the Nag’s Head account as controversially worthless, and accepts that given by the Lambeth _Register_ as substantially correct. We think that he is amply justified in so doing. Of course, however, each account must stand upon its own basis, and the rejection of the one does not involve the admission of the other.

The Nag’s Head Story.

As Canon Estcourt, in his enumeration of sources of evidence (p. 11), remarks, “A story that has passed from person to person merely by verbal tradition, even if names are quoted as authority, but without written testimony, cannot be accepted as evidence, nor allowed to have weight as an argument, even it considered probable as an historical fact.” Now, it is notorious that the Nag’s Head story depends merely upon hearsay testimony, without a particle of documentary evidence. Whatever vague rumors may have been current, there is no proof that the story ever assumed a “questionable shape” until F. Holiwood (Sacrobosco) published it in 1604. Stapleton, one of our most learned and vigorous controversialists, in a work published only five years after the date assigned to the Nag’s Head consecration, does not mention it; and, moreover, says in so many words that the Anglican bishops were consecrated according to the rite of Edward VI. Neither has Saunders a word of it among all his well‐merited vituperation of the “Parliament bishops,” in his _Clavis Davidica_; nor Rischton, the continuator of his _De Schismate_. These writers certainly lacked neither information nor courage. It is true that when once the Nag’s Head story was brought out, controversialists on either side were apt to interpret the expressions of the earlier Catholic writers as referring to this particular charge; but when we turn to them, we find nothing more than the general charge of invalidity.(102)

Dr. Champneys, who wrote in 1616, relates the story upon the authority of F. Bluett, a prisoner in Wisbech Castle, who said he had it from Mr. Neale, the eye‐witness. This last‐named person, being at the time Bishop Bonner’s chaplain, was sent by him, so the story runs, to inhibit Kitchen of Llandaff from consecrating, and thus witnessed the whole irregular proceeding. All the threads of tradition—with one exception, which we shall notice further on—appear to centre in F. Bluett. He told Dr. Champneys; he told, so says Dr. Champneys, F. Holiwood, who printed the story, in a condensed form, in 1604. Dr. Kenrick thought he had discovered from Pitts(103) another mouth‐piece of Neale’s in Neale’s friend, Mr. Orton; but it is not so. Pitts, in his biographical notice of Neale, after stating that various particulars, which he gives, are upon the authority of Orton, proceeds to say of Neale: “This was the very same man who was sent by Bonner,” etc., emphatically marking off the Nag’s Head story as not being one of the things he had heard from Orton, though otherwise sufficiently notorious.

Of Bluett nothing is known, except that he was for a long while prisoner for the faith, which of course speaks volumes for his honesty. But a lengthened imprisonment is not unfavorable for delusions, especially of a religious character. When we come to consider the character of the reputed first‐hand in the line of tradition, Mr. Thomas Neale, we find ourselves upon very different ground. If F. Bluett’s lengthy imprisonment is deservedly reckoned in his favor, what shall we say of a man who was able, on the accession of Elizabeth, after having been Bishop Bonner’s chaplain, to take a public professorship in Oxford, and who, on his giving this up, was in a position to build himself a house opposite Hertford College, long known by the name of Neale’s Buildings? These facts, admitted on all hands, sufficiently bear out Anthony à Wood’s account of him: that his religion “was _more_ Catholic than Protestant,” that he dreaded being called in question “for his _seldom_ frequenting the church and receiving the sacrament.” À Wood is certainly not writing with a controversial purpose, and this is hardly the line that a Protestant depreciation of a hostile witness would take. The defenders of the Nag’s Head story have had to meet the objection that Bonner dared not, whilst a prisoner, have taken the bold step ascribed to him, by an appeal to his notorious fearlessness. On the other hand, every one admits that Neale was an arrant coward; “of a timorous nature,” says à Wood; “of a nature marvellously fearful,” says Pitts. Now, if Bonner showed his courage by inhibiting, what must have been the courage of the man who ventured into the lion’s den to execute the inhibition, and stood doggedly by to see how far it was obeyed? Surely we should have reason to be surprised if, after such an exhibition of courage, Neale had been afraid to put the matter on paper, or to breathe a word of it except to F. Bluett.

It has been attempted to establish the Nag’s Head story upon another line of tradition, independent, not only of Bluett, but of Neale. Mr. Ward, in his _Nullity of the Protestant Clergy_, when mentioning the well‐known examination of the Lambeth _Register_, in 1614, by certain Catholic priests then in confinement, at the request of Archbishop Abbot, continues: “But Mr. Plowden, yet living, does depose that he had it from F. Faircloth’s own mouth, with whom he lived many years an intimate friend, this ensuing answer of F. Faircloth’s to Abbot: My lord, said he, my father was a Protestant, and kept a shop in Chepeside, and assured me that himself was present at Parker’s and the four Protestant bishops’ consecration at the Nag’s Head in Chepeside,” etc. This is mere hearsay, but we confess that we see no grounds for doubting that F. Faircloth made just the answer attributed to him. He was doubtless a firm believer in the Nag’s Head story as related by Bluett, and his father, who had been a shopkeeper in Chepeside, was able to tell him that the Nag’s Head Inn was no myth; nay, that there had been a meeting of bishops there; that he, Faircloth senior, had seen them. Who does not know how often and how honestly ocular evidence for an unimportant item is accepted as evidence of the whole? If old Faircloth had been able to give any real confirmation of the story, surely more would have been made of him.

Even if it be admitted that a consecration of some sort did take place at the Nag’s Head, there is an important discrepancy in the versions given by Holiwood and Champneys of the Neale and Bluett story, which is fatal to it as an accurate account of what took place. Holiwood says that Scory “caused John Jewell to rise up Bishop of Salisbury, and him that was Robert Horn before to rise up Bishop of Winchester, and so forth with all the rest.” If this is to be taken as an exact account of what took place, no specific form at all was used; and F. Fitzsimon follows to precisely the same effect: “Scory orders them all to kneel down; then, taking the hand of Parker, says, ‘Rise, Lord Bishop of Canterbury’; in like manner to Grindal, ‘Rise, Lord Bishop of London,’ ” etc. But, according to Dr. Champneys, “Having the Bible in his hand, they all kneeling before him, he laid it upon every one of their heads or shoulders, saying, ‘Take thou authority to preach the word of God sincerely’ ”—a very distinct form indeed, however invalid.

We reject, then, the Nag’s Head story, 1st, as lacking all but hearsay evidence, and hearsay evidence is at the command of any cause; 2d, as exhibiting various notes of intrinsic improbability; 3d, as wholly irrelevant, in the present aspect of the controversy, to the question of Anglican orders. It is irrelevant, because, whatever was or was not done at the Nag’s Head, it is quite clear that the parties concerned, the government, and the bishops were no more satisfied with it than Catholics would have been, but continued to move for Parker’s consecration precisely as if nothing had been done. At the same time, we protest against the notion that the Nag’s Head story was a gratuitous lie. For, first, it is admitted that the bishops did meet at this identical inn for purposes convivial or otherwise, and to such meeting—viz., the confirmation dinner—both Fuller and Heylin, Strype and Collier, trace the story.(104) Secondly, the well‐known disbelief in orders prevailing amongst the Protestant party; their repeatedly shrinking from the Catholic challenge to produce their proofs; their insistence, when speaking of their episcopacy, that ordination by a priest was valid, when taken together, justified Catholics in the growing suspicion that there was a terrible flaw somewhere, an irregularity which even an Elizabethan conscience stickled at. No one who reflects upon the genuine horror and contempt which the sight of the hen‐pecked bishops of England, with their woman‐ pope, excited throughout Christendom, can regard the Nag’s Head story as an extravagant or gratuitous outcome of Catholic imagination.

The principal interest of the fable lies in the fact that it fairly got through the Anglican skin, and forced the production of the Lambeth _Register_. All the denials of their orders by controversialists like the Jesuit Harding, all Saunders’s taunts about petticoat government, affected them no whit. Orthodoxy and honesty might go to the winds, but one virtue they did set store by, and that was Christian gravity; and this tavern‐ story so stung them that they could keep their counsel no longer.

The Lambeth Register.

We shall now proceed, taking Canon Estcourt as our guide, to examine, in chronological order, the various documents connected with Parker’s consecration.

On the 19th of July, 1559, Elizabeth issued the _congé d’elire_ to the Chapter of Canterbury, that see having been just seven months vacant after the death of Cardinal Pole. On the 9th of August the election took place. September 9, a royal commission was issued for the confirmation and consecration of Parker, to whom letters‐patent of the same date were addressed. The commission was addressed to Tonstall of Durham, Bourne of Bath and Wells, Pole of Peterborough, and Kitchen of Llandaff, being four out of the five remaining Catholic bishops, Turberville of Exeter being the only one omitted. But joined with the above four were the returned refugees, Barlow and Scory. Of the four Catholic bishops, the first three positively refused to consecrate, and were shortly after deprived. Kitchen of Llandaff, unfaithful though he was, somehow managed to get out of it; perhaps on the score of his weak sight—the excuse attributed to him in the Nag’s Head story.

Next in order comes a paper yet remaining in the State Paper Office, which may be called the programme of the consecration. Canon Estcourt gives a fac‐simile. It details the various steps to be taken for the consecration of Parker, and contains marginal notes in the handwritings of Cecil and Parker. Cecil’s notes are significant. Upon the direction in the text, in accordance with a statute of Henry VIII., that application should be made for consecration to some other archbishop within the king’s dominions, or, in default of him, to four other bishops, he remarks: “There is no archb. nor iiij bishopps to be had; wherefore _quærendum_, etc.” Upon the direction that King Edward’s ordinal be used, he remarks: “This booke is not established by parlement.”

The second commission, December 6, 1559, was addressed to Kitchen, Barlow, Scory, Coverdale; Hodgkin, the Suffragan of Bedford; Salisbury, Suffragan of Thetford; and Bale, who had been Bishop of Ossory. It concludes with the following dispensing clause: “Natheless supplying by our supreme royal authority of our proper motion and assured knowledge, if there be or shall be aught wanting (in those things which, according to our aforegiven mandate, shall be done by you, or any of you, for performing the aforesaid) of what is requisite or necessary, whether according to the statutes of this our realm or the laws of the church, the quality of the times and the pressure of circumstances demanding it.” Canon Estcourt produces a fac‐simile, “taken from the original draft extant in the Public Record Office, with the autograph signatures of the civilians giving their opinion that the commission ‘in the form pennyd’ may be lawfully acted on.”

The Lambeth _Register_ testifies that, in accordance with the commission, “four of those named—viz., Barlow, Scory, Coverdale, and Hodgkin—did, on the 9th of December, confirm Parker in Bow Church, the elect appearing by his proxy, Nicholas Bullingham; and that, on the 17th, the same four bishops performed the ceremony of consecration in accordance, save in one particular, with the ritual of Edward VI. We thus summarize Canon Estcourt’s summary of the reasons for giving credence to the above facts recorded by the _Register_: 1. The official minute with Cecil’s and Parker’s notes. It was never used in the controversy until referred to by Lingard. It can be no forgery, for the forger would not have been such a fool as to forge Cecil’s remarks as to the illegality of the proceeding. This document shows the intention of the parties concerned to proceed as the _Register_ says they did proceed. 2. The letters‐patent issuing the commission of December 6, 1559, are enrolled in Chancery on the patent‐ rolls, the highest official test of genuineness. The original draft of the commission is still preserved in the State Paper Office, with Cecil’s writing on it, and the autograph signatures of the civilians. This paper has never been produced in the controversy, and no forger would have taken such useless trouble. 3. In the recently discovered diary of Henry Machyn, a merchant tailor in London, we find the following entries: The xxiii day of June [1559] were elected vi new Byshopes com from beyond the sea, master Parker Bysshope of Canturbere, master Gryndalle Bysshope of London, docthur Score Bysshope of Harfford, Barlow [of] Chechastur, doctur Bylle of Salysbere, doctor Cokes of Norwyche.”

... Upper part of page burnt away.

“Parker electyd bishope of Canterbere.”

“The xvii day of Desember was the new byshope of [Canterbury] doctur Parker, was mad ther at Lambeth.”

“The xx day of Desember afornon, was Sant Thomas evyn, my lord of Canturbere whent to Bow Chyrche, and ther wher v nuw byshopes mad.”

The genuineness of these entries is beyond all suspicion. Had they been made for a controversial purpose, they would have been used earlier in the controversy. Although the diary contains various inaccuracies—_e.g._, the date assigned to Parker’s election, which is before the real date of his _congé d’elire_, and the loose use of the term “mad,” which, in regard to the bishops at Bow Church, should stand for confirmation, and in Parker’s case for consecration—still, it is evidence that on the date given in the _Register_ something was done to Parker which could be described as “being made bishop.” Bow Church was the regular place for confirmation, Lambeth for consecration. The fact that the five, or rather six, bishops were consecrated on S. Thomas’s day, on the eve of which they had been confirmed, although this last was at Lambeth, and not at Bow Church, makes the confusion in their case not unnatural.

4. There is a detailed memorandum of the consecration, in a contemporary hand, preserved among the MSS. of Foxe, who died in 1587, “probably nearly of the same age as the _Register_ itself, perhaps even older”—_i.e._, older than the _Register_ in the condition in which we now possess it. This document has been but recently introduced into the controversy, and will be again appealed to when the actual condition of the _Register_ is under consideration.

5. Stapleton’s assertion that “the Bishoppes were ordered, not according to the acte 28 (25) H. VIII., but according to an acte of Edw. VI., repealed by Queen Mary, and not revived in the first year of Q. Eliz.”

6. Act 8 Eliz., cap. 1, not only lays down the law for the future, but enacts that all acts done “about a confirmation or consecration, in virtue of the queen’s letters‐patent, _were_ good and perfect; and that all persons consecrated bishops according to the order of 5 and 6 Edward VI. _were_ rightly made and consecrated.” This is equivalent to an assertion that such consecration had actually taken place.

In addition to these proofs, there are various incidental references to Parker’s consecration on the 17th in contemporary works and letters, which have been carefully collected by Mr. Bailey in his _Defensio_, p. 19.

Altogether, there is no gainsaying the evidence for the substantial correctness of the Lambeth _Register_. At the same time, Canon Estcourt shows, we think, conclusively that the existing Lambeth MS., as we have it, is not the original record of what took place, but rather a glossed version thereof, in which certain important and awkward facts are, without being denied, carefully suppressed. Besides the Lambeth MS., there are two others; one in the State Paper Office, the other in Corpus Christi College, Cambridge. The former, to judge by its corrections, would seem to have been a rough draft, and was probably submitted to Cecil for approval before the registration. Canon Estcourt thinks that the Cambridge MS. was a transcript from that in the State Paper Office, inasmuch as they agree in giving the form, “_Accipe Spiritum Sanctum_,” in Latin, whereas that of Lambeth has it in English. Because of this and other variations, neither of these MSS. can be regarded as a transcript from that of Lambeth, or as tending to authenticate its present condition.

Canon Estcourt prints the Foxe MS., of which we have spoken, side by side with the Lambeth _Register_; and we see that, whilst in the former Barlow is distinctly stated to have been the consecrator, and the rite used that of Edward VI., the latter makes no distinction between Barlow and the other three, and makes no reference whatever to the ordinal of Edward VI.

Whether the Foxe MS. is a commentary upon the _Register_ or upon the rough draft, or, as Canon Estcourt is inclined to think, is taken from the _Register_ as it originally stood, it is, anyhow, the testimony of a contemporary ally of the parties concerned to the existence of important circumstances which the existing _Register_ carefully suppresses.

It is difficult for us—as, indeed, it was for Catholics of the generation immediately succeeding that of Elizabeth’s accession—to understand the nervous anxiety that possessed the Protestant party lest they should give their enemies the slightest legal pretext against them. The completeness of Elizabeth’s triumph naturally tended to obliterate, in the minds of her victims, the precarious condition of parties in the beginning of her reign. There is, however, ample testimony that this nervousness did exist. When Horne, the Elizabethan Bishop of Winchester, tendered Bonner, a prisoner in the Marshalsea, the oath of supremacy, the latter demurred, on the ground that Horne was no bishop in the eye of the law, forasmuch as he had been consecrated according to the ordinal of Edward VI.—which had never been legalized after its proscription, 1 Mary, sess. 2, c. 2—and had also contravened the statute 25 Henry VIII., c. 20, requiring as consecrators either an archbishop and two bishops or four bishops. As it was notorious that Horne was consecrated by Parker and two other bishops, this last count was understood as tantamount to saying that Parker was not legally archbishop, on the ground that, of the bishops concerned in that ceremony, three had been deprived and the fourth deposed. This bold plea that, to use the words of one of Cecil’s correspondents, quoted by Canon Estcourt, p. 119, “there was never a lawful bishop in England, so astonished a great number of the best learned that yet they knew not what to answer him; and when it was determined he should have suffered, he is remitted to the place from whence he came, and no more said unto him.”

After this we can understand the persistency with which controversialists like Jewel, who were in the secret, shirked the challenge, so frequently addressed them by Catholics, to show the steps of their succession.

It is highly probable that the Protestant party, in the anxiety caused by Bonner’s onslaught, so far tampered with the _Register_ as to gloss over the vulnerable points. It is noteworthy that this same paper of Foxe’s contains a summary upon Bonner’s case, showing the connection in the author’s mind. It would be unreasonable to admit the mere implication of the _Register_, that there was no distinction of consecrator and assistants, against the explicit statement of the Foxe MS.

The one point in which Parker’s consecration, according both to the Lambeth _Register_ and to the Foxe MS., deflected from the Edwardine ordinal was this: that whilst the latter prescribes that the consecrator alone should hold his hands upon the elect’s head during the prayer of consecration, all four bishops are said to have held their hands upon Parker’s head.

But, as Canon Estcourt observes, we are not to suppose that, in acting as they did, Barlow and the others had devised something new and unknown before, and which therefore requires exceptional treatment. On the contrary, they were following the rubric of the Exeter Pontifical, which in this point agrees with the Roman rite.

Supposing, then, Barlow and his companions to stand in the relation of consecrator and assistants, would the incapacity, from want of consecration, of the consecrator be supplied by the capacity of an assistant? Mr. Haddan appeals triumphantly to Martène’s dictum that “the bishops who assist are for certain not merely witnesses but co‐ operators.”(105) But this goes but a little way. It is admitted on all hands that the assistants are something more than mere witnesses, although they emphatically fulfil that office. They are at least co‐operators by the official signification of their approval and support. Those who held up the arms of Moses did something more than witness to the marvels wrought by those up‐lifted hands. The comparatively small number of theologians who maintain the necessity of three bishops for a valid consecration are the only ones who maintain that the assistants are, properly speaking, consecrators. Anyhow, the action must be regarded as taking place _per modum unius_, for the _opus_ is one, not manifold; but once annihilate the principal consecrator, and the _ratio_ by which the assistants coalesce _in unum opus_ is gone. If we may be forgiven a homely phrase in connection with a solemn subject, Tom is doing nothing; therefore those who are merely operative in virtue of their assistance of him are merely helping him to do nothing. We do not know any theologian who has said in so many words, or whose theory requires, that the assistant should be held as compensating for the inefficiency of the consecrator. Canon Estcourt, with characteristic moderation, urges that it is at least probable that no such compensation could take place, and therefore, according to Catholic principles, the safer side would have to be taken, and the ceremony repeated.

It is, then, of vital importance to the Anglican cause that there should be no doubt whatever about Barlow’s consecration. Canon Estcourt does not deny that it is probable he may have been consecrated. He does not pretend to do more than show that there are the gravest reasons for doubting the fact of his consecration. We wish to examine fairly the _momenta_ on both sides.

Barlow’s Status.

William Barlow had been professed as an Augustinian Canon of S. Osith’s Priory, in Essex. He had been early distinguished as the _protégé_ and obsequious servant of Anne Boleyn. “In October, 1534, he was sent as ambassador into Scotland, in conjunction with Thomas Holcroft, in order to persuade King James to renounce the Pope.”(106) In the early part of the next year, he was again in Scotland, “in company with Lord William Howard, who conveyed the garter to King James”; and January 22, 1536, for the third time went to Scotland, “on a joint embassy, again with Lord William Howard.” He had been elected to the bishopric of S. Asaph on the 16th, six days before. He was confirmed by proxy either on the 22d or the 23d of February. He remained in Scotland during February and March, and seems to have left in the beginning of April. On the 10th of April, Barlow was elected Bishop of S. David’s, and on the 21st was confirmed in person in Bow Church. “The archbishop’s certificate of the confirmation is dated on the same day, but makes no mention of consecration, nor is the fact recited, as usual, in the grant of temporalities which was issued on the 26th.” On the 27th, a summons to Parliament is sent: “Reverendo in Christo Patri W. Menevensi Episcopo.” On the 1st of May, he is installed at S. David’s, and before the 13th is writing a joint letter, with Lord William Howard, from Edinborough, addressed to the king and Cromwell, in which he signs himself Willmŭs Menev, the style of Bishop of S. David’s. He calls himself and is called Bishop of S. David’s on and after April 25, but not before. On this account, several of the defenders of his consecration have plausibly conjectured that he was consecrated on April 25, “which,” Mr. Haddan tells us, “was a Sunday, and when he was certainly in London.” Mr. Haddan himself, however, prefers to follow the order of precedence in the House of Lords and in the Upper House of Convocation, which places Barlow _after_ the Bishops of Chichester and Norwich, who were consecrated, the latter certainly, the former probably, upon June 11, 1536. He assigns June 11 as the date of Barlow’s consecration. Lord William Howard left Edinburgh for England on or before May 23, and Barlow writes to Cromwell on that same day that he “has protracted his taryaunce somewhat after my lord’s departure,” “for a daye or twayne,” at the request of the Queen of Scots. From this Mr. Haddan concludes that on June 11, when a consecration was known to have taken place, he was in London. Canon Estcourt, however, has brought to light a warrant of Cromwell’s to the Garter king‐at‐arms, who had accompanied the embassy, and did not return until June 12, on which day he presented himself to Cromwell. The warrant is dated June 12. The king‐at‐arms would doubtless have returned, when the embassy was at an end, with Lord William Howard, and therefore before Barlow. But we are not left to conjecture; the warrant speaks of Barlow as “the bishopp then elect of S. Asaph, now elect of S. David’s.” Therefore, on the 12th, he was still unconsecrated.

Barlow’s episcopal register is wanting both at S. David’s, and at Bath and Wells (to which last he was translated in 1541); and at S. Asaph’s no register at all exists for the period when he nominally held the see.(107) The next consecration of which we have any record—after the 12th of June, when we know Barlow was unconsecrated—took place on July 2; but on June 30, Barlow took his seat in the House of Lords, and from that time acts and is treated as though he lacked nothing of the episcopal status.

We are now in a position to collect and estimate the momenta for and against Barlow’s consecration. On behalf of his consecration, it is urged, 1st, that it “must be regarded as certain until it can be disproved”;(108) for no adequate motive can be assigned for the omission of a ceremony which could not be omitted without incurring severe penalties, to which the archbishop who neglected to consecrate would be also subject. 2d. That he was acknowledged, both by Parliament and by his brother bishops, to be in all respects a bishop after June 30, 1530, when he took his seat in the House of Lords; and that no syllable was breathed against his consecration, either by friend or foe, from that date until Dr. Champneys first questioned it in 1614, forty‐eight years after his death, and eighty from the commencement of his episcopate. 3d. The fact that his consecration is not recorded in the archiepiscopal register is not much to the purpose, since out of thirty‐six consecrations, in Cranmer’s time eight exclusive of Barlow’s, in his predecessor, Warham’s, time, six out of twenty‐six are not entered.(109) 4th. His episcopal acts respecting the property of his sees would have been legally invalid in default of consecration; but although these acts were legally disputed, no one suggested the flaw of non‐consecration.

On the other hand, it must be remembered that the question is really not whether Barlow’s consecration can be “disproved,” but whether, in spite of what may be legitimately urged in its behalf, there are not sufficient grounds for suspecting that it never took place. 1. Neither Barlow nor Cranmer believed in consecration. In their answers to the “questions on the sacraments” which were submitted to the king, they say that, for making a bishop, “election or appointing thereto is sufficient.” Barlow, in a sermon delivered by him at S. David’s, November 12, 1536, is charged with having said: “If the king’s gr., being supreme head of the Church of England, did chuse, denominate, and elect any layman, being learned, to be a bishop, that he so chosen, without mention being made of any orders, should be as good a bishop as he is or the best in England.” 2. This doctrine was undoubtedly favored by the king; for in another part of this same paper on the sacraments, where the bishops are attempting to take a rather more Catholic line, we have notes in the king’s handwriting to this effect. The bishops having answered, “Making of bishopes hath twoo partes, appointment and ordering,” his remark is, “Where is this distinction fonde?” and they continuing, “Appoyntament, whiche the appostels by necessyte made by common election, and sometimes by their owne several assignment, could not then be doon by Christen princes, bicause at that time they were not; and nowe at these days appertayneth to Christen princes and rulers;” the king’s note is: “Now sins you confesse that the appostylles did occupate the won part, whych now you confesse belongyth to princes, how can you prove that orderyng is wonly committed to you bysshopes?”

3. Canon Estcourt (p. 69) shows that the other side has no right to assume that Barlow and Cranmer would have incurred any penalties by the _mere pretermission_ of consecration; for the act 25 Henry VIII., cap. 20, declares: “If any archbishop shall _refuse_ or do not confirm, invest, and consecrate, he shall incur a præmunire”; and there is no special mention of the bishop elect among the persons liable to penalties, the clause running in general words: if “any person admit or execute any censures, etc., or other process or act to the contrary or let of due execution of the act.”

The notion that the leases and other episcopal acts connected with diocesan property would not be legally valid in default of consecration is a gratuitous assumption. Certainly neither Mr. Haddan nor Mr. Bailey has attempted to produce any evidence. What the law really takes cognizance of in such questions is the possession of the temporalities, an indisputable right to which is given by the writ of restitution.

The recognition of Parliament, upon which so much stress has been laid, cannot be regarded as any proof of consecration, since it naturally and inevitably ensued upon the issue of this same writ. This is sufficiently proved by the fact that Parliament summoned Barlow to take his seat, and gave him his full episcopal title, when, as has been shown above, he certainly was not consecrated. Doubtless some of the more zealous of the Catholic party might have made a disturbance had they realized the omission; but, as Canon Estcourt observes (p. 78), Gardiner was absent as ambassador in Paris during the whole of 1536 and 1537.

As to Cranmer’s register, it is true that it was very carelessly kept; but of the nine unrecorded consecrations, Barlow’s would be the only one for which no collateral evidence whatever can be furnished. No document recites it, and every date that has been as yet conjectured for it has been exploded. Barlow’s contemporary, Foxe, in his record of the Lambeth consecration, whilst specifying accurately the dates of the consecration of the other bishops engaged, is only able to say of Barlow that he was consecrated “tempore Henrici VIII.”

Canon Estcourt points out that although there was no regular register kept at S. David’s—and we know that the breviaries and martyrologies which contained records of episcopal succession were burnt in the next reign as superstitious—yet that it is sufficiently odd that all the chapter books have been lost, and that the _Liber Computi_, still extant, has a break in it for several years before 1539.

But this is not all. Canon Estcourt has found out, on examining the original document first printed by Mason as the restitution to Barlow of the temporalities of S. David’s “out of the Rolls Chapel in Chancery,” that the enrolment had really been made in the office of the exchequer, as though the matter were purely secular, instead of on the patent rolls in chancery. Then, on examining the original form—which Mason reproduced imperfectly, so as to conceal its real character—and comparing it with the normal writ of restitution, it turns out to be, no writ of restitution, but “a grant of the custody of temporalities on account of the vacancy of the see,” with the extraordinary addition of “to hold to him and his assigns during his life.” These grants of the custody of the temporalities of a diocese which had accrued during a vacancy were common enough. The peculiarity of Barlow’s grant is that it is a grant of custody made to do duty for a writ of restitution. The grant of custody was ordinarily made as a preliminary to the writ of restitution. No limit was assigned to it, but it naturally and necessarily merged in the restitution, of which it was a gracious foretaste. In the case of Cranmer, indeed, as Canon Estcourt points out, the grant of custody was made after he had received the restitution of the temporalities in the usual form; but the grant is carefully limited to the profits accruing from the commencement of the vacancy to the date of restitution. Barlow’s grant is for life, and, by anticipating in its completeness all that the writ of restitution could give, it would preclude the crown from making restitution in the proper form without a surrender of the grant of custody. Before consecration, a bishop cannot sue out a writ of restitution, as the act requires, but the king sometimes _ex gratia_ allowed it; the form, however, of such indulgence is well known, and is very different from that of the document in question.(110)

The form actually chosen “may be supposed to have saved the necessity of obtaining either the archbishop’s mandate or the archdeacon’s commission”; in fact, to have made Barlow free of his see at once without any official formalities, and to “secure him in the enjoyment of the temporalities of the see, whether his character of bishop was perfected spiritually or not.”

“The effect of the grant, both in Barlow’s own mind and in official quarters, may be seen from what followed. The next day a writ of summons to the House of Lords was issued, and Barlow himself immediately assumed the style and title of bishop.” “It seems highly probable that this special and novel form was deliberately adopted as suiting the views of all parties, and being highly favorable to any ulterior designs which the king might have upon the temporalities of the church at large.”

It must be remembered, too, that many of the arguments tending to show the unlikelihood of the omission, such as its unprecedented character, the want of apparent motive, or, again, the exceedingly imperfect character of the registration, tend to diminish the chances of detection. True, Barlow was not a man inclined to sacrifice much to his convictions; but he had a hearty hatred for sacerdotalism, a strong sense of humor, and, if we judge from his sermon quoted above, the impudence, if not the courage, of his opinions. A competitor for a tyrant’s favor must always risk something to keep a front place, and on this point he knew how the king was minded. Altogether, he would seem to be by no means an unlikely man to have played the part assigned to him.

We conceive that these momenta do amply justify grave suspicions of Barlow’s consecration, and consequently the repetition of any rites depending for their validity upon his consecration.

Grapes And Thorns. Chapter XIII.

By The Author Of “The House Of Yorke.”

F. Chevreuse had no time to linger in the house of mourning; for it was his duty to inform Mr. Schöninger at once of his deliverance. But that it was necessary to guard the unhappy mother from any chance of hearing the news too abruptly, even the claims of a supreme misfortune like hers could not have been allowed to take precedence of a wrong so deep as that from which he had suffered. After he was informed, silence would, of course, be impossible; for when Mr. Schöninger knew, the whole world must know.

Until the evening before, the priest had not permitted himself even to guess what might be the contents of the package entrusted to his charge. Humanly speaking, he knew nothing. Whatever he might have learned by virtue of his sacred office was hidden in the bosom of God; not even in his most secret thoughts did he suffer his mind to dwell upon it. The only action he had taken in the matter was such as might have seemed necessary to one who had no more than a faint suspicion of what was about to take place; he had requested F. O’Donovan to be with him that day, and he had made sure that Mrs. Gerald should have the only preparation possible for whatever might threaten her, in a well‐made communion.

For her sake he had opened the package the evening before, in order to be able to put Honora Pembroke on her guard. He did not read the confession to her, nor did he read it himself, but glanced over the letter which Annette had enclosed to him.

“A great misfortune is about to fall upon our dear friend,” he said, “and I trust to your piety and discretion to do what you can for her. Her son will not return home. He has fled from the country, and she may never see him again. To‐morrow she will know all, and the world will know all. Mr. Schöninger, who has been unjustly accused and condemned, will be released. You must be strong and watchful. See that nothing disturbs her tonight, or interferes with her making a good communion. Do not think of yourself, but of her. There is not much to do; perhaps there will be nothing to do, but simply to stand guard and see that nothing comes near to trouble her mind, and to have her at home in the morning at ten o’clock, and without visitors.”

“It will kill her!” said Honora when she could speak. “It will kill her!”

F. Chevreuse sighed. “I think it will; but there is no help for it. Justice must be done.”

It had indeed killed her, and more quickly, therefore more mercifully, than they had anticipated. And now F. Chevreuse, having been the messenger of disgrace and desolation, had to be the messenger of joy.

He wiped away resolutely the tears that started at sight of that pitiful victim of maternal love. “To‐day, at least,” he said, “I must have no feeling. I must do my duty faithfully, and only my duty. I cannot allow myself to sympathize with the slayer and the slain in the same hour.”

It was very hard for such a man not to sympathize with a true joy or sorrow whenever it came within his ken—him to whose lips, even in moments of care or sadness, the frank laugh of a child would bring a smile, and to whose eyes, even in moments of joy, the sorrow of a stranger would call the sudden moisture. But the very excess, and, still more, the contrast, of these contending emotions enabled him to hold himself in a sort of equilibrium. Like one who walks a rough path carrying a cup filled to the brim, and looks not to right nor left, lest he should lose its contents, so F. Chevreuse carried his full heart, and would not yield to any emotion till his work was done.

When he entered the corridor leading to Mr. Schöninger’s cell, he was somewhat surprised at meeting Mr. Schöninger’s lawyer coming out. The surprise was mutual, but they merely saluted each other, and passed on.

“He doesn’t give up yet,” remarked the turnkey confidentially. “His lawyer comes every little while, and the warden has given orders that they shall talk without a guard. He, the lawyer, is the only person who can talk alone with a convict, except the chaplain, and, of course, you, sir!”

F. Chevreuse had self‐possession enough to bow his acknowledgments. “But I wish to enter the cell this morning,” he said; “I don’t want to talk through the bars; and I wish to enter alone.”

The man looked embarrassed.

There was a limit even to the privileges of F. Chevreuse.

“You can lock me in with him, and go away,” the priest said, impatient of delay. “I will be responsible for you this time. I looked for the warden, but he is not about the house. Let me go in, and, as soon as the warden returns, say I wish to see him.”

The guard yielded, though unwillingly. There was something imperative in the priest’s manner which he did not venture to resist. Moreover, F. Chevreuse was so well known as a man who scrupulously upheld legitimate authority, and obeyed to the letter the regulations of any establishment he might enter, that it was evident there must be some urgent reason when he would set a rule aside.

The bolts were drawn back, the door grated on its hinges, and the priest stepped into the cell. He scarcely took any notice of the prisoner, who sat looking at him something as a newly‐caged lion may look when first his keeper ventures into the cage, but watched the guard while he locked the door again, and listened to the sound of his retreating steps as they echoed along the corridor.

The prisoner’s voice, deep and harsh, demanded his attention before he turned to him. “May I ask, sir, the meaning of this intrusion?”

F. Chevreuse almost started at the sound. His mind had been so occupied by sorrowful and pathetic images, and he had, moreover, so associated Mr. Schöninger with thoughts of joy and freedom, that the concentrated bitterness of those tones smote him discordantly. He had for the time forgotten that the prisoner could not even suspect that his visitor was one who brought good tidings. His surprise was so great, therefore, at this repelling question, that for a moment he looked at the speaker attentively without replying, and the look itself held him yet a moment longer silent.

Mr. Schöninger had changed terribly. It was as though you should take some marble statue of a superb heathen deity, and carve down the contours, sharpen the lines without changing them, carefully, with mallet and chisel, gnaw away the flesh from muscle and bone, and cut in the lines of anger, impatience, and hatred, and of an intense and corroding bitterness. Then, if the statue could be made hollow, and filled with a fire which should glow through the thin casing till it seemed at times on the point of melting it quite, and bursting out in a destroying flame, you would have some semblance of what this man had become after seven months of imprisonment.

F. Chevreuse was terrified. “Mr. Schöninger!” he exclaimed, “I have come to bring you liberty. Do not look so at me! Try to forgive the wrong that has been done you. All shall be righted. The criminal has confessed, and you are to go free as soon as the necessary steps shall be taken.”

Not a gleam of pleasure softened the prisoner’s face. Only his brows darkened over the piercing eyes he fixed on his visitor. “So Mr. Benton has betrayed me!” he said in a low voice that expressed more of rage and threatening than any outcry could have done.

“I do not know anything of your lawyer, nor have any communication with him,” the priest replied. “I do not know what you mean by betrayal. I repeat, I have come to bring you good news. Do not you understand?” He began to fear that Mr. Schöninger had lost his reason. “Your innocence is established. You are known, or will at once be known, to have been greatly wronged.”

“It is a trick!” the prisoner exclaimed passionately. “Benton has either betrayed me or bungled, and you think to offer me as a gift—for which I am to be grateful, and merciful too—what I have won for myself. I will not take liberty from your hands!” He started up, and, with a gesture of the hand, seemed to fling the priest’s offer from him. “Do you fancy, sir, that I have been idle here? Does a man sleep in hell? Did you fancy that I was going to wait for justice to come to me? No! I was shut into a cage; but I am not the sort of animal who can be tamed and made to play tricks for my keeper. I have been busy while the world forgot me.”

“I did not forget you,” hastily interposed the priest. “And others also have tried.”

“Tried!” echoed the prisoner scornfully. “Sir, when a clay‐bank falls on a poor workman, everybody runs to the rescue. Not a minute is lost. People rush in haste to dig him out before he is dead. That you call humanity. You do not even dignify it by the name of charity. A man would be a brute to do otherwise than help in such a case. But here am I, overwhelmed with a mountain of wrong and disgrace, shut in a cage that is changing me into a madman, and people pause to consider; they are politic, they are careful not to soil their fingers or inconvenience their friends in giving me liberty. I am a Jew, and, therefore, out of the pale of your charity. But, Jew though I am, priest, I take the side of the Christ you pretend to adore against your accursed and hypocritical Christians. If your doctrines were true, still I am a better Christian than any of those who have believed me guilty.”

He seemed to have quite forgotten the priest’s errand, or not to have understood what it meant.

“What you say may be all true,” F. Chevreuse replied calmly. “But that can be thought of another time. You have something more pleasant to dwell on now. Have you understood my errand here?”

In spite of the deep and wearing excitement under which he labored, Mr. Schöninger perceived that his visitor was trying to soothe him, and was somewhat alarmed at his violence. He controlled himself, therefore, and, as much from physical weakness as from a desire to appear self‐possessed, resumed his seat, motioning his visitor to another.

“From the time when Annette Ferrier came here and begged me to fly, I have known whose place I was occupying,” he said in measured tones, his gaze fixed steadily upon the priest’s face. “I sent for my lawyer the next morning, and put him on the track. I had not enough proof to prevent the fellow going away; but his every step has been followed. I know where he stopped in London and in Paris; and a despatch from Rome has come saying he is there. To‐morrow morning an answer will be sent to that telegram, ordering his arrest.”

F. Chevreuse was confounded. For a moment he knew not what to say.

“I think you will perceive that I do not need your assistance, sir,” Mr. Schöninger continued haughtily. “The power is in my hands, and I shall use it as seems to me best.”

“And so,” said the priest, recovering his speech, “you are willing, from pride and a desire for revenge, to stay here weeks, perhaps months, longer, and await the result of another trial, rather than accept the tardy justice which that unhappy man offers you, not knowing that you suspected him, and rather than permit me to be the medium of his reparation! I can make great allowances for the effect which your terrible wrongs and sufferings must necessarily have produced on your mind; but I did not expect to see you show a needless acrimony. I did not think that you would wish to strike down a man, even one who had injured you, in order to take violently what he offers you with an open hand, not knowing, remember, that you have the power to compel him.”

Mr. Schöninger still looked steadfastly at his companion, but with a changed expression. He looked no longer suspicious, but uncomprehending. Indeed, his mind was so preoccupied and excited that he had only half listened to the priest’s communication, and the only impression he had received was that Lawrence Gerald’s friends, knowing his danger, were trying to temporize, and that, while securing his escape, they would obtain the release of his substitute by some quibble of the law. He was not sufficiently recollected to perceive, what he would at any other time have acknowledged, that F. Chevreuse was not the man to lend himself to such a plot in any case, still less in this.

“Four weeks ago,” the priest resumed, “Lawrence Gerald and his wife gave me a packet which was to be opened and acted on to‐day. They were going away for a little journey, they said. I did not know where they were going, and I do not know, nor wish to know, where they are. I will not interfere with the course of the law, nor shield any offender from justice, especially at the cost of the innocent. But since, in this case, I have been the sufferer by that crime, I claim the right to forgive, and to wish, at least, that the criminal, whoever he may be, should be left to the stings of his own conscience. I would have said the same for you had I ever believed you guilty. That packet contains Lawrence Gerald’s confession. Only two persons have been allowed to know it before you, besides the two who had to prepare them for the reception of such news. The mothers had a right prior even to yours, and I needed two assistants. Now, whatever you may do, my duty is the same. I have to place that confession in the hands of the authorities, and testify that I received it from Lawrence Gerald and his wife, and that I signed without reading it. Then my work will be done. I do not know much of the technicalities of the law, nor what delays may be necessary; but I presume your further detention will be short and merely nominal.”

He paused, but Mr. Schöninger made no reply: he only sat and listened, and looked attentively at the speaker.

“If I could rejoice at anything, I should rejoice at your release from this wretched place, and from the still more wretched charge that was laid on you,” F. Chevreuse continued; “but I have witnessed too much sorrow to be able to say more than God speed you.”

Mr. Schöninger did not appear to have heard the last words. He stood up and drew in a strong breath, and shivered all through. The thought that it was to be for him no slow fight for liberty, but that liberty was at the threshold, had at length entered his mind.

“Let me out of here!” he exclaimed, almost gasping. “I cannot breathe! Open the door. You cannot hold me any longer. Open the door, sir!” he cried to the warden, who stood outside, looking at him in astonishment.

F. Chevreuse began a hasty explanation to the officer; but the prisoner seized the bars of the door in his delirious impatience, and tried to wring them from their places.

“Seven months in a cage!” he exclaimed. “I cannot bear it another hour. Open the door, I say! Why do you stand there talking?”

“With all my heart, Mr. Schöninger!” the warden said. “But you must try to be calm. You have borne confinement patiently for seven months; try to bear it a little longer till the formalities of the law shall have been complied with. We cannot dispense with them. There shall be no delay, I assure you, sir.”

Mr. Schöninger was too proud to need a second exhortation to control himself; was, perhaps, annoyed that he should have incurred one. He immediately drew back, and seated himself. “Allow me to say, sir,” he remarked coldly, “that I have not borne imprisonment patiently. I have merely endured it because I was obliged to submit to force. And now will you please to open the door? I will not go out till I may; but set the door wide. Do not keep me any longer under lock and key.”

The warden called to his guard, who were not far away. Indeed, several of them, curious to know what was going on, had gathered in the corridor, only just out of sight of those in the cell.

“Unlock the door of Mr. Schöninger’s cell,” he said in a loud voice. “He is no longer a prisoner.”

The bolts shot back, and the door clanged open against the stone casing.

“Let me be the first one to congratulate you, sir,” the officer added.

Mr. Schöninger did not see the hand offered him, though he replied to the words. He was looking past the officer, past the wondering faces of the guard who peeped in at the door, and his glance flashed along the corridor, through which a ray of sunlight shone from the guard‐room, and fresh breezes blew. A slight quiver passed through his frame, and he seemed to be resisting an impulse to rush out of the prison.

It was only for one instant. The next, he became aware of the eyes that curiously observed him, and, by the exercise of that habit of self‐control which had become to him a second nature, shut off from his face every ripple of emotion.

“I thank you, sir!” he said in answer to the warden’s compliments. “And perhaps you will be so good as to send those men away from the corridor, and to let Mr. Benton know that I want to see him here immediately.”

The guard disappeared at once, one of them as messenger to Mr. Schöninger’s lawyer; but the warden still lingered.

“You will want to change your clothes,” he said. “And after that, I shall be happy to place a room in my house at your disposal, where you may receive your friends and transact business till the time comes for you to go free.”

Mr. Schöninger glanced down with loathing on his prison uniform, remembering it for the first time since that day of horror and despair when he had waked from a half‐swoon to find himself invested with it and laid on the narrow bed in his cell.

Perhaps the officer, too, remembered that day when he had said that he would rather resign his office than receive such a prisoner into his care, when he had exhausted arguments and persuasions to induce him to submit to prison rules, and how, when at last he had felt obliged to hint at the employment of force, he had seen the strong man fall powerless before him.

“These clothes would hardly fit Mr. Lawrence Gerald,” Mr. Schöninger remarked, smiling scornfully. “But perhaps there will be no question of his wearing them.”

The warden uttered an exclamation. “Is it Lawrence Gerald? It cannot be!” He had not been told the name.

“And why not, sir?” demanded the Jew haughtily.

The officer was silent, disconcerted by the question, which he did not attempt to answer.

“Poor Mrs. Gerald!” he said, looking at F. Chevreuse.

Mrs. Gerald’s fondness for her son was almost a proverb in Crichton.

“Mrs. Gerald’s troubles are over,” said the priest briefly.

Mr. Schöninger went to the window, and stood there looking out, his back to his companions. To his hidden tumult of passions, his fierce, half‐ formed resolutions, his swelling pride, his burning anger and impatience, this news came with as sudden a check as if he had seen the cold form of the dead woman brought into the cell and laid at his feet.

He had been thinking of the world of men, of the bigoted crowd which had condemned him unheard, of the judge who had pronounced sentence, and the jury who had found him guilty—of all the cold outside world which has to be conquered by strength, or to be submitted to; and now rose up before him another world of pitying women, whose tenderness reversed the decisions pronounced by the intellects of men, or swept over them with an imperious charity; who were ever at the side of the sufferer, even when they knew him to be the sinner, and whose silent hearts felt the rebound of every blow that was struck. He saw the priest’s mother, a sacrifice to the interests of her son; the criminal’s wife, as he had seen her that night in his cell, with the only half‐veiled splendor of her silks and jewels mocking the pallid misery of her face; and now this last victim, more pitiful than all! A sighing wind seemed to sweep around him, far‐ reaching and full of mingled voices, the infinite wail of innocent and suffering hearts. How gross and demoniac in comparison were the bitter, warring voices of hate and pride and revenge! To his startled mental vision it was almost as though there appeared before him hideous and brutal forms cowering away from faces full of a pure and piercing sorrow.

He perceived that he had been taking low ground, and, with a firm will, caught himself back, setting his foot on the temptation that had been making him a companion for demons. Wronged he had been in a way that he could not help; but he could at least prevent their lowering him in mind. They should not induce him to yield to passion or to meanness.

He turned proudly toward his two companions, who still waited for him to speak. “If the arrest of Lawrence Gerald is not necessary for my release, then I hope he may escape,” he said. “It is bad enough to be shut up in this way when one has a clear conscience; but with such a conscience as he must have, imprisonment could lead only to madness or suicide.”

“Or to penitence,” added F. Chevreuse with emphasis.

Mr. Schöninger did not reply; this alternative was beyond his comprehension. But he glanced at the priest; and in doing so, his eyes were attracted to the doorway, which was quite filled by the ample figure of Mrs. Ferrier.

“I couldn’t help coming, father,” she said quite humbly. “And, besides, Honora Pembroke said she thought it right that I should. I sha’n’t stay long or say much. I only want to say that when Mr. Schöninger goes out of this place, my house and all in it are at his disposal.”

The scene she had witnessed had quieted her completely, and there was even a certain dignity in her submissive air. But when she turned to Mr. Schöninger, her tears burst forth again, in spite of her efforts to restrain them. “You’ll have to learn to forgive and forget,” she said in a stifled voice, which she vainly strove to render calm. “I’m the only one left to make amends to you.”

Mr. Schöninger came forward instantly, and extended his hands to her. “I have nothing to forgive in you,” he said warmly; “and I would not wish to forget your kindness. I thank you for your offer, but I cannot give any answer to it now. If I decline, it will not be because I am ungrateful. And now let me say good‐by to you till a more favorable time.”

She had had the discretion not to wait for this intimation, and had of herself made the motion to go.

“Try to forgive and forget,” she whispered hoarsely; and, pulling her veil over her tear‐swollen face, hurried away.

This was Mr. Schöninger’s first visitor, but not his last. Before an hour had passed, the news had overspread the whole city, producing a strange revulsion of feeling. There were, perhaps, those who were, at heart, sorry to know that the Jew was innocent. They had from the first expressed their belief in his guilt, and they had been loud in their opinion that he should be sentenced to the full extent of the law. This class were not only disappointed in their prejudices, but humbled in their own persons. They could not but feel that they had rendered themselves at once odious and ridiculous. But the majority of the people were disposed to render full justice. All the Protestant clergymen called on him, though but few of them had ever spoken to him. It was right, they said, that every man of dignity and position in the city should pay some respect to the stranger who had suffered in their midst such a cruel injustice, and the fact that he was a Jew should make them all the more anxious in doing so; for the public must see that they did not persecute any one for his religious belief. Judges, lawyers, bankers, professors, men of wealth, who were nothing but men of wealth—all came to express their regrets and to offer their hospitality.

He saw none of them, though he sent courteous messages to some. He was too much engaged in business that day to receive visitors. Only one received a decided rebuff. “As for the judge who sentenced me to be hanged,” Mr. Schöninger said, “no compliment which he can pay will ever render his presence tolerable to me.”

All the young ladies took their walk in the direction of the prison that day, and all the young gentlemen followed the young ladies; and, in passing, they lingered and looked, or cast sidelong glances, at the windows of the warden’s parlor, where it was understood Mr. Schöninger was. People who did not like to be suspected of romance or of curiosity had some excuse for going in that direction, and those who had business in the prison were esteemed fortunate. Probably one‐half the town took occasion that day to look at the windows of the warden’s house. But it cannot be said that they were wiser for having done so, for not a glimpse did one of them get of Mr. Schöninger.

But when the soft spring evening deepened, and all the curious crowd had withdrawn, and the same full moon which Lawrence Gerald and his wife had seen the night before, flooding with its radiance the melancholy splendors of Rome, was veiling with a light scarcely less brilliant the beautiful young city of Crichton, two men emerged from the warden’s house, and, taking a quiet by‐street, where the trees made a delicate shadow with their budding branches, climbed the hill to South Avenue. They walked leisurely, and almost in silence, only exchanging now and then a quiet word; but one who watched closely the taller of the two might have perceived that his quiet signified anything but indifference to the scene around him, and that he was full of a strong though controlled excitement. He stepped as though curbed, and every moment glanced up at the sky or at the branches over his head, and drew in deep breaths of the fresh spring air. A fine delight ran bubbling through his veins. All the feverish mass of humanity, with its petty hates and still more hateful loves, its jealousies, its trivial fears and despicable hopes, was put aside, and he was entering into a new and freshly‐blooming creation, where mankind, too, might partake of the nobility of nature.

They passed Mrs. Ferrier’s house, with its broad front and long gardens, looking very stately in that softening light, and, after a few minutes, reached the summit of the hill, where only a single tree stood guard, and all about them the world, of which they seemed to be the centre, lay spread in tranquil beauty, its hills and dales, its towns and forests, bound with a ring of mountains that showed with a soft richness against the sky. The city lay white beneath them, and the Saranac wound like a silver ribbon across the view. Where the hills dipped, one sparkling point, audible with dashing foam, told where the Cocheco danced day and night with white and blithesome feet.

F. Chevreuse, standing one silent moment to contemplate the scene, was startled to see his companion break from his side, and, running to the tree at a little distance, catch one of its branches, and swing himself into the air by it. The priest’s first glance was one of dismay; his second, a smiling one. He understood the abounding joy of which the act was an outbreak, and was pleased with the boyishness of it, and that the impulse should have been yielded to in his presence. Sad as he was, he could not help feeling glad to see another possessed by a full and unthinking happiness.

Mr. Schöninger laughed, as he returned to his companion.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said; “I am not a lunatic. I am free! Do you know what a delight it is to be in a place where you can swing your arms without hitting anything? I could run here half an hour, and neither turn nor be obliged to stop; and I can stand upright without feeling as though my head were going to strike.” While speaking, he was continually making slight motions, as though trying if he had the free use of his limbs; and when he stopped, he lifted his head to its full height, and drew in a long breath.

“How delicious the air is!” he exclaimed. “How fresh and pure! It comes here from the forests and the mountains and the sea. There is no smell of lime or close dampness or human breaths in it. Pah! F. Chevreuse, when you preach again, and tell your people what they have to be thankful for, in spite of sorrow and poverty, remind them of the air they breathe, the sun that shines on them, the sky above their heads, and the power to move about as they will. If this sky were gray, and pouring down rain, I should still think it beautiful; for it is the sky, and not a stone.”

He walked away again to a little distance.

“Instead of being obliged to give a reason for being happy, I think we should be obliged to account for being unhappy,” he said, coming back. “How many sources of delight we have which we overlook because we are accustomed to them! Mere motion, walking, running, any natural and unconstrained motion, is a pleasure; breathing is a pleasure; the eyes have a thousand delights. It is a source of pleasure to exercise one’s strength and overcome obstacles. I never went up a hill in the country or climbed any height but I felt like singing. Swimming, skating, riding, driving—how exhilarating they are! And for all these delights you do not need the companionship of man. Yourself and nature—these are enough.”

“I did not know you were so fond of nature,” F. Chevreuse said, smiling.

“I do not think I ever mentioned it to any one before,” remarked the other carelessly.

The priest was struck by this reply, and looked with astonishment on the man who for thirty years had loved nature, yet never said a word in praise of it. Could it be because of a reserved and unsocial disposition? Or was it that he had been too much isolated? The priest was almost afraid to speak, lest he should check a confidence at once so charming and so manly. He quite understood that it was the unusual and deep agitation of Mr. Schöninger’s mind which had brought this feeling to light, as the sea, in its agitation, may toss up a pearl.

He said nothing, therefore, but waited for his companion to speak again, not observing him, but looking up at the illuminated dome above.

“When one is free, and has the use of one’s limbs, and is happy, then one believes in a good God, who is a father to his creatures,” Mr. Schöninger resumed in a voice as gentle as he might have used when a child at his mother’s knee. He had been holding his hat in his hand; but in speaking, he covered his head. At the same instant, F. Chevreuse uncovered his, and the Jew and the Christian, each after his manner, acknowledged the presence of God in that thought, which was almost like a visible presence.

“To me,” said the priest, “the acknowledgment comes more surely when I am in trouble. It seems to me that if I were in chains and torments, he would be nearer to me than ever before.”

“That is because you have been taught to believe in a suffering God,” was the calm reply. “I have been taught to see in God a being infinitely glorious and strong, a mighty, shoreless ocean of deep joy. That he could suffer pain, that his puny creatures could torment and kill him, has always been to me a thought at once absurd and blasphemous. It is probably for this reason that you see him best in sorrow, and I in joy.”

He stood a little while thinking, then added quietly, as if speaking to himself: “Yet it is a sweet and comforting thought.”

F. Chevreuse blushed red with a sudden gladness, but said nothing. It was no time for controversy; and, besides, he had the wisdom to leave souls to God sometimes. That people are to be converted by a constant pelting of argument and attack he did not believe. His experience had been that converts of any great worth were not made in that way, and that the soul that studied out its own way helped by God, and teased as little as possible by man, was by far the most steadfast in the faith.

They went slowly down the hill together in the direction of the priest’s house, and stopped a moment to lean on Mrs. Ferrier’s gate in passing. That lady had just entered her house, having been all the day and evening at Mrs. Gerald’s. She would gladly have stayed all night had Honora allowed it.

The two men had, unseen or unrecognized, been near enough to hear the long sigh the good creature gave as she mounted the steps to her door, and the exclamation she made to the servant who followed her: “Little did I think last night at this time what horrible things were going to happen within twenty‐four hours.” Some persons have that way of dating backward from startling events, and renewing thus the vividness of their sensations.

She did not know what kind thoughts were following her in at the door, or she might have been comforted.

They went on, and soon came in sight of what had been Mrs. Gerald’s home. The blinds were all closed, and not a ray of light was visible. Under the vines and large, over‐hanging trees the cottage appeared to shrink and hide itself.

“I would like to go in for one minute, if you do not object to waiting,” F. Chevreuse said. “That poor girl means to sit up all night, and she is likely to have no one else in the room. It is a gloomy watch, and she may feel better, if I speak a word to her.”

“Pray do not think of me!” Mr. Schöninger exclaimed.

F. Chevreuse stepped into the yard, and, as he held the gate open for his companion, Mr. Schöninger followed, though with some hesitation. There were many reasons why he would not be willing to enter that house. Indeed, the priest well knew that it was no time to take him there openly; but for some reason he wished him to come near enough, at least, to feel the sorrow and desolation which had fallen upon it. Perhaps he wished to soften Mr. Schöninger still more toward the unhappy man the burden of whose guilt he had borne; perhaps he wanted to remind him how entirely that burden had been removed from him by showing how cruelly it had fallen elsewhere.

The priest tried the door before ringing, and, finding it not locked, stepped quietly into the entry, which was lighted through the open doors of rooms at either side. In one of these rooms sat three or four persons. He said a few words to them, and closed the door of their room before going to the other.

Mr. Schöninger held back a moment, but could not resist longer the temptation to approach. The outer door was still open, and a soft light shone over the threshold of it from the parlor. Drawn step by step, he went to the threshold, and stood just where the light and shadow met, and the door framed a picture for him. The room seemed to be nearly all white and flowers. White draperies covered the windows, the pictures, and the cabinets and tables, the coldness changed to a tender purity by flowers and green leaves, arranged, not profusely, but with good taste. On what appeared to be a sofa covered with black lay a motionless, white‐draped form lying easily, as one might sleep; but there needed not the covered face to show that it was the sleep of death. Candles burned at the head of the sofa, and a _prie‐dieu_ stood before it. All this Mr. Schöninger took in at a glance; but his eyes rested on what was to him the principal object in the room—Honora Pembroke, sitting near the head of the sofa, with the light of the candles shining over her. She looked up, but did not speak, as F. Chevreuse came in and knelt at the _prie‐dieu_. Her eyes dropped again immediately to her folded hands, and she sat there motionless, an image of calm and silent grief. Her face was pale and utterly sad and languid with long weeping, her hands lay wearily in her lap, and her plain black dress, and the hair all drawn back together and fastened with a comb, showed how distant from her mind was the thought of personal adornment. Yet never had she looked more lovely or shown how little her beauty depended on ornament.

Mr. Schöninger, looking at her attentively, perceived that her face was thinner than when he had seen it last; and though the sight gave him a certain pain, it gave him, too, a certain pleasure. He would have thought her cruel had she been quite prosperous and happy while he was in torment.

F. Chevreuse rose from his knees, and Miss Pembroke looked up and waited for him to speak.

“Had you not better go to bed, and leave the others to watch?” he asked. “You will be exhausted.”

“I do not want to leave her, father,” she replied. “If she had had a long illness, it would have been different; but it is all so short, so sudden!” She stopped a moment, for her voice begun to tremble a little; but resumed: “She has no one left but me, and I want to stay by her till the last.”

“You will not be lonely?” he asked, dropping further objections.

“Oh! no. The others will sit all night in there, with the doors open between. At daybreak Mrs. Ferrier is coming down, and then I shall go to rest. I am glad you came in.”

“I was passing by with Mr. Schöninger,” he said, “and I asked him to wait for me a moment.”

Her eyes had dropped again while she spoke, seeming too heavy to be lifted; but as the priest said this, she glanced into his face; then, becoming aware that the street‐door was open, looked toward it.

Mr. Schöninger stood there motionless.

A change passed over her face, her sadness becoming distress. She rose from her seat and went to him, her hands clasped.

“Mr. Schöninger,” she said, “she was the last person who would have wronged you or any one.”

Then, seeing that he had not come as an accuser, she held out her hands to him.

The night before he had been like one buried alive, and his hand had been against all the world; to‐night life had crowded back upon him with its honors, its friendships, its pathos, and this last scene of sorrow and tenderness.

He bent, and kissed the hands she gave him, but did not utter a word, and they parted instantly. Honora returned to the _prie‐dieu_, and, kneeling there, hid her face and began to weep again, and Mr. Schöninger went out to the gate without giving a backward glance.

F. Chevreuse joined him immediately.

“All these wretched doings have left Miss Pembroke very lonely,” he said. “She has really no one left who is near to her, though she has a host of friends. But what, after all, is a host of friends, as the world calls them, worth? When a thunderbolt falls on you, people always gather round, and a great deal of kind feeling is struck out; but, perhaps, you have needed the kindness a great deal more in the long, dry days when there was no thunder. It is the constant, daily, intimate friendship that gives happiness. But there! it is of no use to abuse the world, especially when one forms a part of it, and is thus abusing one’s self. All of us feel our hearts warm towards people who are in great affliction, when we do not think of them in their ordinary trials. It is only God who is constant to all needs, who knows all. Mr. Schöninger, you are welcome.”

They had reached the house, and the priest turned on the threshold to offer his hand to the man whom he had so long courted in vain, and who had so many times refused his friendship. He knew that he had conquered when his hospitality was accepted.

He had conquered, in so much as he had won the Jew’s friendship and confidence; for, having renounced his distrust, Mr. Schöninger was, in an undemonstrative way, generously confiding. Hard to win by one whose circumstances were so alien to his own, when won, there was no reserve.

F. Chevreuse’s sitting‐room was never a very pleasant one, except for his presence. It had too many doors, was too shut in from outside, and had also the uncomfortable air of being the first of a _suite_. One never feels at rest in the first room of a _suite_. He felt the unpleasantness of the place, without in the least knowing the cause of it, and always took his special visitors into his mother’s room.

Mother Chevreuse had, woman‐like, known precisely what her son’s apartment lacked, and had given it a pleasant look by employing those little devices which can introduce a fragment of beauty into the most desolate place; but her mantle had not fallen on Jane, the housekeeper, and thus it chanced that the priest had, without knowing it, lost more than his mother.

Her sitting‐room was cheerfully lighted when the two entered it, and the table, prepared for supper, awaited them. It was the Thursday before Palm Sunday, and F. Chevreuse had eaten nothing since taking a cup of coffee and a crust of bread in the morning; and now, the work and excitement of the day over, and nothing worse than he had anticipated having happened, he felt like resting and refreshing himself. If Mrs. Gerald had been alive and mourning, he would have been tormented by the thought of her; but she was safe in the care of God, and he left her there in perfect trust.

Andrew, the man‐servant, sacristan, and factotum of the establishment, was lurking somewhere about when the priest entered, and came forward to make a crabbed salutation. If he ever felt in an amiable mood or was satisfied with anything, this man took good care that no one should know it; and not all the cheerfulness, patience, and amiability of F. Chevreuse could for a moment chase away the cloud that brooded over his face, or make him acknowledge that there was anything but tribulation in his life. The priest bore more patiently the constant, petty trial of such a presence about him because he believed that sorrow for the death of Mother Chevreuse had changed the old man from bad to worse, when the truth was that the lady had skilfully hidden much of their servant’s crabbedness, or had so displayed the comical phase of it that it had ceased to be an annoyance, and was often amusing.

“Tell Jane to give us our supper right away, Andrew,” the priest said. “And bring up a bottle of wine with it.”

“Jane is gone to bed, sir,” Andrew announced, and stood stubbornly to be questioned, his whole air saying plainly that all had not been told.

“Gone to bed!” echoed F. Chevreuse. “What is the matter with her?”

“She says she is sick.” The man suffered an acrid smile to show in the corners of his mouth.

“Jane sick!” said the priest, much concerned. “Is there any one with her? Has anything been done for her?”

In speaking, he took a step toward the door.

“Oh! don’t you trouble yourself, sir,” interposed Andrew quickly, finding that he must deny himself the pleasure of a long cross‐examination. “She says she doesn’t want anything or anybody. She’ll get well when she’s ready. She’s got the supper, and I can manage to bring it up. All the doctors and all the nurses in the world won’t make her well till she’s a mind to be.”

“Well, well!” said F. Chevreuse, rather mortified at this exposition of his domestic trials. “Bring up the supper.”

Jane had, in fact, one of those convenient illnesses sometimes indulged in by some women, and now and then by men, when they are seized by a fit of ungovernable ill‐humor which they dare not show in its true guise, or when they desire to appear very much abused, or to escape blame for some ill‐ doing. F. Chevreuse had not been home since early morning, and dinner had been prepared, had waited, and been put away—no small grievance to even a good‐natured housekeeper. Secondly, about noon, when all the rest of the city knew it, Andrew above all, the great news of the day had burst upon Jane. It was too much; and when, toward evening, Andrew had come home with an order that supper should be prepared for two that night, and a little extra preparation made, and that, moreover, the priest’s visitor would stay all night, the housekeeper’s cup ran over. News had started from the priest’s house, and made the circuit of the city, electrifying everybody, and she had been the last to hear it, and had heard it at last from Andrew! She would not have dared to hint such a thing; but she thought that F. Chevreuse should have told her before leaving the house, even if he had commanded her silence. It would have saved her the mortification of being taken entirely by surprise and displaying such utter ignorance.

While she mused, the fire burned. She would henceforth bear herself very stiffly toward F. Chevreuse. Since he thought that she was not to be trusted, that she was nothing but a servant, she would act like a servant. All those things which she had done for his comfort without being asked she would now wait to be asked to do. He should see the difference between a housekeeper, who should, according to her opinion, be in some sort a friend, and a mere hired servant. She would be very dignified, and immensely respectful and reverential; would be astonished if he should ask if anything was the matter; would do in great and anxious haste whatever he should command, and no more than he commanded; and she would go to F. O’Donovan for confession. In short, this woman, who knew that all the comfort of the priest’s home depended on her, marked out for herself a line of conduct which would have made that home a place of penance to him, and herself a minister of torment; while at the same time she could not only hold herself guiltless of fault, but even assume an air of unwonted sanctity.

To be frankly and honestly disagreeable or wicked, one does not need to study; but a pious hatefulness requires careful preparation.

Her plan of future conduct arranged, Jane perceived that a notable pivot was needed where it should turn from her past behavior; and what so suitable as a short illness? Besides, she did not feel equal to assuming her new _rôle_ as yet. The temptation was too strong to give way to anger. She bewailed Mrs. Gerald, therefore, with many tears; Mrs. Gerald’s death, which might have happened from any other cause, being the only point in the whole story which she would recognize or hear anything about. Weeping brought on a headache, and the headache increased. At five o’clock in the afternoon Jane bound her head up in a wet linen band, and began to feel unable to stand or walk. Duty alone compelled her to keep about. What would become of the house, if she were to give up? What could a poor woman do who had no home or friends of her own, and was obliged to take care of a priest’s house? She must work and watch early and late, sick or well. Nobody but herself knew what a trial it was. And here the victim began to weep over her own misfortunes.

Presently, at six o’clock, Jane began to feel a pain in her back; but nothing would induce her to rest. F. Chevreuse had sent word that he would have some one to sup and stay all night, and she must get the bed‐room ready, and cook something extra. She didn’t see how she could do it, but it must be done.

When her gossips had gone home, after vainly offering their assistance, Andrew came in and found the housekeeper holding on to her head with one hand, while with the other she did work which there was not the least need of doing. He had been watching with great interest the progress of her malady, and perceived that it was near the crisis.

The supper‐hour had been casually mentioned in the priest’s message as about seven o’clock. At half‐past six Jane could not suppress an occasional moan of pain; and at ten minutes before seven she consigned the supper, which was all prepared, to the care of Andrew, and staggered into her own room, holding on by chairs and tables as she went. She would not, perhaps, have indulged in such violent symptoms had she seen the smiles with which her fellow‐servant beheld her tottering progress across the room. Fully persuaded that she had vanquished his scepticism, and half convinced herself that she was suffering severely, Jane set herself to listen for the priest’s coming.

Seven o’clock came, but not F. Chevreuse; half‐past seven, and still he had not appeared.

Jane stole out into the kitchen, scarcely able to stand, and renewed the spoiling dishes. She did not wish to leave anything to be complained of, meaning to be herself the only one ill‐used. At length she heard a foot on the door‐step, and, making haste to shut herself into her room, with only a very little opening left, Jane became a prey to grief and pain.

All these movements Andrew had listened to with great edification; but what Andrew did not know was that the invalid, skurrying out to stand at the foot of the stairs when she heard talking in the room above, had had the pleasure of listening to the whole conversation regarding her state of health.

Ten minutes after, F. Chevreuse, without much surprise, it must be owned, saw his housekeeper coming feebly into the room where he sat at table, her face red and swollen with laborious weeping, and expressing chief among its varied emotions and sentiments a saint‐like and anxious desire and determination to sacrifice herself to the utmost rather than omit the smallest possible duty.

It was an unwelcome vision. There was a point beyond which even he did not want to have his sympathies drained. He felt that he was human, and would like to rest both mind and body.

“I am afraid, F. Chevreuse,” she began, in a very sick voice, leaning against the side of the door—“I am afraid that your toast is too dry. I made it fresh three times....”

“Never mind, Jane,” he interrupted, rather impatiently. “It does very well. You need not trouble yourself.”

Jane came into the room a few tottering steps, and rested on the back of a chair.

“I don’t know how Andrew brought things up,” she said, very short of breath, but not so much so but she could fire this little shot. “I suppose they are all at sixes and sevens. But I wasn’t able to do any....”

“If you are not well, you had better go to bed,” said the priest quite sharply. “Andrew will do all I want done.”

Taken unawares by this unusual severity, Jane lost her discretion. “It is my place to look that things are properly done in the house, and I shall do it,” she said, half defiant, half hysterical, and took a step nearer to the table.

As she did so, her eyes fell on the pale and haggard face of their guest. At that sight she paused, transfixed with a genuine astonishment, for she had expected to see F. O’Donovan; and, after one wild glance, as if she had seen a ghost, uttered a cry and covered her face with her hands.

“Jane!” exclaimed the priest in a voice that told her he was not to be tried much further. “Have you lost your senses?”

“My heart is broken for Mrs. Gerald!” she cried, weeping loudly. “I haven’t been able to stand hardly since I heard about her. Oh! such a wicked world as this is. I shall be glad when the Lord takes me out of it. To think that I shall never see her again, that....”

F. Chevreuse laid down his knife and fork, which he had made a pretence of using. “You and Mrs. Gerald were by no means such intimate friends that her death should plunge you in this great affliction,” he said. “Her nearest friends bear their sorrow with fortitude. Your agitation is therefore quite uncalled for. I have no further need of you to‐night. If you want anything done for you, Andrew will go for some of your friends.”

There was no possibility of resisting this intimation, and the housekeeper retired speechless with rage and mortification.

“Mr. Schöninger,” remarked the priest gravely, when they were alone, “women are sometimes very troublesome.”

“F. Chevreuse,” returned his visitor with equal gravity, “men are sometimes very troublesome.”

“That is very true,” the priest made haste to admit. “I didn’t mean to say anything against women.”

And yet, at the woman’s first glance and cry of horror and aversion, Mr. Schöninger’s face had darkened. “Was he always to have these vulgar animosities intruded on him?” he asked himself.

It was one of those annoyances which a proud and fastidious person would like to have the power to banish for ever with a gesture of the hand or a word.

The two friends talked long together that night, and Mr. Schöninger told the priest quite freely all his plans.

“I shall stay here and take up my life where I left it off, except that I must now give up all contest for that disputed inheritance,” he said. “All I had has been thrown away in the struggle. Whether there would, in any case, have been a possible success for me I do not know. It is now too late. This infernal persecution—I shall never call it anything else, sir—has destroyed my last chance, and I have only to dismiss the subject from my mind as far as possible. I received to‐day a letter signed by all my former pupils, begging me to resume my instruction of them. They expressed themselves very well, and I shall consent. The Unitarian minister has invited me to play the organ in their church, but I have not decided on that yet.”

“I would like to have you play in my church,” the priest said. “Our organist is dead, and the singing is getting to be miserable. Our music would, I am sure, be more pleasing to you; but, if doctrines make any difference, you would find yourself more at home with the Unitarians. I don’t see any difference between them and the reformed Jews.”

“Doctrines do not make any difference, especially as I am not obliged to listen to them,” Mr. Schöninger replied with a dignity that verged on coldness. “In music I do not find any doctrines; and it is not necessary to believe in order to give the words their proper expression. Or rather, I might say that the artist has a poetical faith, a faith of the imagination, in all things grand, noble, or beautiful, and can utter with fervor, in his art, sentiments which have no place in his daily life; or, if they have a place, it is not such as would be assigned to them by the theologian. In his mind a pagan goddess and a Christian priest may have niches side by side, and it would be hard to say which he preferred. Your Raphael painted with equal delight and success a Madonna and a Galatea. Your Mozart wrote Masses and operas, and vastly preferred to write operas. He says that he wrote church music when he could do nothing else.”

“So much the worse for them!” said F. Chevreuse rather hotly. “Raphael would have painted better Madonnas—Madonnas which would have answered their true purpose of inspiring holy thoughts—if he had devoted his gifts entirely to God; and Mozart would have written better Masses, if he had done the same. When you see a thorough Christian artist, it will be one who will never lower himself to a subject contrary to, or disconnected with, religion. The others have been false, and consequently have had only glimpses where they might have had visions. Some of them were great, but they might have been immeasurably greater. No, I repeat, do not imagine that you are going to feel or play our music as you might if you were a good Catholic. But excuse me!” he said, recalling himself. “I have given you rather more of a lecture than I meant to. I still want you to take our music in hand, if you will.”

“I will with pleasure, if you will be content with my interpretation of it,” Mr. Schöninger said with a smile.

He was not in the least displeased with the priest’s lecture, and, on the contrary, decidedly liked it. He was stirred by anything which consecrated art as an embodiment of the divine rather than a mere expression of the human.

Surprise is but a short‐lived emotion; and when Mr. Schöninger was left alone that night, with the first opportunity in many months of thinking in an unobserved solitude, he wondered more at his own calmness than at anything which had happened to him. The hideous suffering from which he had but just escaped looked far away, and so alien that he could contemplate it almost with a cold inquisitiveness, as something in which he had no part. It was scarcely more to him than the delirious dreams of a fever which had passed away. Indignation and a desire to revenge himself might rise again, would rise again; but for the present they slept. The first joy of freedom, too, was over. Nothing remained but a feeling of quiet and security. Doubtless he had, without knowing it, been soothed by the many kind and regretful words that had been addressed to him that day, and felt less disposed to dwell on his own wrongs when he knew that so many others were thinking and speaking of them.

All round the room assigned to him hung the pictures that had belonged to Mother Chevreuse—an old‐fashioned portrait of her husband in the uniform of a French officer, a S. Ignatius of Loyola, a S. Antony preaching to the fishes, a print, on a gold ground, of the miraculous Lady of Perpetual Succor, and a Santa Prassede sleeping on her slab of granite.

Mr. Schöninger held his candle up to examine each of these, all but the portrait familiar to him in their originals; and as he looked, the places where he had first seen them, the stately palaces and the quiet churches, enclosed his imagination within their walls. He saw again the lines of sombre columns leading up to the glowing mosaics of the tribune, where the vision of S. John hung petrified in air; the dim lamp in the mysterious chapel of the _Colonna Santa_ shone out again inside its grating, and the walls glittered dimly back. He saw the thickets of camellias mantled with bloom under an April sky, a little forest of white at the right hand, and a forest of rose‐red at the left, and ever the fountains sparkling through.

How strange it was! He set down his candle, almost impatiently, as if a beautiful vision were being melted in the light of it, and blew it out. How strange it was! When he was in Rome, he had hated it while he admired it; but now, as the thought of it came up, his heart yearned out towards it, and grew tender and full with longing for it. How strange that his dearest affections should cluster where his deepest hates had pierced, and that, whenever an accusing thought arose, an excusing one immediately answered it. The city of the Ghetto was becoming to him also the city of the silvery‐haired old man who had opened its gates. To remember him was like remembering a pure white star that had shone out one still evening long ago.

Mr. Schöninger put aside the curtain that hardly barred the full moonlight from the room, and leaned out into the night. Not many streets distant Honora Pembroke sat wakeful and mourning, alone with her dead. By what fatality was it that the silent woman lying there, and the weeping one beside her, should have the power to stand, with their softness and their pallor, between him and his remembrance of that gloomy mansion of hate and crime, the shadow of whose portal had but just slipped from him? The cold and trembling hands he had kissed that night had quenched for a time all anger in his heart.

He sighed, thinking of that sad household, and his gaze turned tenderly and steadily in its direction. He would have liked to call down a blessing on the head he loved had it not been so much nearer the source of all blessing than he was. She was right, no matter what she believed. All she held good was good, at least as far as she was concerned, and no blame of false doctrine could be imputed to her.

A ray of light stronger than that of the moon shining across his eyes attracted his attention. It came from F. Chevreuse’s sitting‐room, the one window of which was at right angles with the window where he leaned. A small, displaced fold of the curtain showed him the priest on his knees there before a crucifix, his hands clasped, his black‐robed form as motionless as if it had been carved out of ebony. Here, too! Could he have no other friend than a Christian priest for his hand and heart to cling to?

Yet all was sweet and peaceful, and everything conspired to soothe him. The air touched him with a breath too soft to be called a breeze, the city was still about him, and only a foamy murmur told where the sleepless river flowed.

Triumph, joy, and sweetness he had felt, and at last came gratitude to God and forgiveness of man. One of his last thoughts that night was of pity for Lawrence Gerald.

In that pity he was not alone; for nearly the whole of Crichton shared it. They had known the young man from his childhood, had blamed and petted him, had put every temptation in his way, and been ready to defend him when he yielded. In spite of his haughtiness and assumption, there was not a single person in the city, perhaps, who really disliked him. His captivating beauty and wayward sweetness won more affection than the highest virtues or the noblest gifts of mind would have won. When a stranger and a Jew was accused, they could believe him to have been actuated by the most cruel malignity; but it was impossible to impute such feelings to Lawrence Gerald. He was weak and imprudent, and had become involved, and so led on beyond his intention. Each one could imagine, even before the confession was made public, just how it had happened; and when they read the confession, the feeling was almost universal in favor of his escape. Only a few, sternly just, insisted on hoping that he would be brought to suffer the full penalty of the law. Fathers and mothers whose boys, scarcely more governable than he, had played and grown up with him, looked with terror on their own children; and young men who secretly knew themselves to have been preserved only by what they would have called chance from crimes as bad as his, shuddered at the thought of his being brought back among them to be tried for his life. A sort of panic seized upon all when they saw what horrors could grow out of that which had seemed to be mere youthful errors, and how criminal had been the leniency of public opinion and of the law. Mr. Schöninger’s case had held no moral for them, for he was an alien; but what Lawrence Gerald was some of their own might be. They were conspicuously generous, these people, in that charity which stays at home and makes excuses for its own little circle; and for this time, at least, they regretted that their charity had not gone beyond that boundary, and extended to the stranger within their gates.

“I confess before Almighty God, to the man who has been so wronged on my account, and to my friends and neighbors, whom I have deceived”—so Lawrence Gerald’s confession began—“that I am guilty in deed, though not in intention, of the death of Madame Chevreuse, for which Mr. Schöninger is now unjustly condemned. I had gambled, and was in debt to a man who threatened to expose me if I did not pay him at once. I knew that the exposure would ruin me. I should have lost my situation, my marriage would have been prevented, and my mother’s heart would have been broken. The debt was not a new one. I had not gambled for a good while, and had resolved never to do so again; and I have kept that resolution. If I would have broken it, and increased my debt, the man would have waited. I was tempted to, but I resisted. It seemed to me better to take the money—I did not call it stealing—when I could get it, and repay it privately after my marriage. I knew that I could have it then, a little at a time. I had known many men to be excused for such things—men who had used money that belonged to others, meaning to repay it some time, and the law had not punished them severely. Yet there was not a case where the need seemed to be as great as mine. I thought of it a long time before I felt as if I could do it, and then I didn’t resolve that I would. I only felt that I would take advantage of whatever chance occurred. I never arranged anything. F. Chevreuse dropped his latch‐key into the furnace register one day when he was at my mother’s. I got it out afterward, and kept it. I knew already that the key of our street‐door would unlock his. Those two helps I regarded as an intimation of what I was to do. I even thought them providential; and I promised God that if I should succeed in getting the money and paying my debts, I would lead a good life in future. I didn’t know that I was blaspheming. Afterward I heard F. Chevreuse say just how much money he had, and where he kept it. He was talking to my mother and me. I took that as another intimation. I said, Such a good man as he would not be permitted to help me along in this way, if I were not to do what I am thinking of. Then I knew that for one night he would be away; but still I did not resolve. I only followed wherever circumstances led me; and every circumstance led me straight on to crime. We were at Mrs. Ferrier’s that evening singing, and the night was dark. If it had been a bright night, I should not have ventured to go to the priest’s door. I said to myself that it was perhaps God who had made the night dark for me. I went home from Mrs. Ferrier’s, and went to my own room, taking the key of the street‐door with me. I stayed there till all were asleep; and I thought that if my mother had left her chamber‐door open, I would not go out, for she might hear me going down‐stairs. She usually left it open, but that night it was shut. I went down the back stairs, and got out of a little window at the back of the house; and even then I did not say surely to myself what I was going to do.

“It was necessary that I should have some disguise, and I had none; but I had seen Mr. Schöninger lay his shawl down in Mrs. Ferrier’s garden, and I thought he had left it there. I took that for another sign. If the shawl were not there, I would go home again. It was there, and I wrapped myself in it, and walked toward the priest’s house, ready to turn back at the least obstacle. The only person I saw was a policeman, and he was behind me, so that I was forced to go forward. A thunder‐shower was coming up, and the sound of it deadened my steps. When I reached the door, I stopped again, and, for the first time, made a plan. If any one should find me unlocking it, I would say that my mother was sick, and I had come for Mother Chevreuse. If Andrew or Jane should meet and know me as I entered, I would tell the same story, and would ask for Mother Chevreuse, and then confess the whole truth to her. I knew she would pity, and perhaps she would help, me. If Mother Chevreuse herself should come upon me, and recognize me, I would confess to her, and beg her mercy. Nobody saw or heard me till I had got the money into my hands, and was going away; and then it was too late to confess. All my irresolution had gone away, and I was desperate. It was no longer a question of confessing to one person, but of being exposed before three, and, of course, before the world. All the excuses I had made for myself before became as nothing, and I knew that I was a thief. The money was in my hands, I had earned it, and I meant to keep it. The rest is all like a flash of lightning. Why did she cling so to me? I told her twice to let go, or I might hurt her. My blood was all in my head. If those two servants had come and seen me there, I should have killed myself before their faces. I heard their steps coming, and I pushed her with all my strength. I did not stop to think where we were. She let go then; but I have felt her soft hands clinging to me ever since. It maddens a man to have a woman’s soft hands clinging to him when he wants to get away. After that, I ran back to Mrs. Ferrier’s garden, and left the shawl, and then I went home.

“When I was sick, and thought I was going to die, and couldn’t get another priest, I confessed to F. Chevreuse, and he forgave me; but he told me that I must consent to his telling all in order to clear Mr. Schöninger as soon as I should be dead. I consented; but I did not die, and so he could do nothing. I hereby give him leave to tell all that I then told him. I have not been to confession since, because I didn’t want to give him a chance to say anything to me. I forgot then to tell him that I had the money still, but I shall give it back with this. Of course I did not dare to use it. I told the man I owed to do his worst about it, and he did nothing, only said he would wait till I could pay him. I found I had gained nothing, and lost all.

“My wife found me out, I do not know how, and I never asked; and it is she who writes this from my dictation. John, my mother’s footman, found me out, and I have never asked him how. He will sign this, but without reading it. I think he has no proof against me. F. Chevreuse knows nothing except what he has learned in the confessional. This will be left with him, to be opened four weeks from to‐day. With him, also, I leave a letter to my dearest mother, whom I am not worthy to name, and a letter for Mr. Schöninger.”

The letter to his mother was buried with her. No one ever read it, unless those dead eyes could see. The letter to Mr. Schöninger was simply to beg the forgiveness which, the writer added, he scarcely hoped to receive.

The confession was written in a clear, even hand, with evident deliberation and painstaking on the part of the amanuensis; and if the writer’s heart had trembled, not a line showed it. Only here and there a large blister on the paper showed where a tear had fallen.

Mr. and Mrs. Grundy were shocked at the writer’s insensibility; but then Annette Ferrier always was queer, they added.

Perhaps only one of the many who read that confession was aware of the sting it contained for F. Chevreuse, or dreamed that those “soft, clinging hands” would be felt by him also, as well as by the criminal, for many a day. Mr. Schöninger shrank with a pang of sympathetic pain when he saw the words, and almost wondered that Annette Gerald could, even in that moment of supreme misery, have been unaware of their cruelty.

“I own to you,” F. Chevreuse confessed years afterward to F. O’Donovan, “that when I first read those words, I realized for one moment how a man might be willing to kill another. The image of him flinging off my mother’s clinging hands—well, well! The time will never come when I can speak calmly of it. Fortunately for me then, it was Holy Week, and I had my crucified Lord before me, and plenty of work on my hands. Mr. Schöninger helped me, too. I knew what he meant, though he made no explanation. He only said, ‘Your Christ is strong, if he can keep your hand from clinching.’ ”

Christ was strong, and the Jew was yet to feel his might.

Just at present, however, he had earthly things to think of, and a trial to endure particularly disagreeable to one of his temperament. He had to be a second time the lion of the hour, to be stared at, followed, observed in all he did, listened to in all he said—in short, to be the temporary victim of public curiosity.

Conquering his disgust and annoyance, he chose the best method of making this trial a short one, by showing himself quite freely. He took rooms at a quiet hotel frequented by business men, and very seldom visited by ladies. If the mood should take him to pace his room at night, he did not choose that any sympathizing heart should be counting his footsteps. He called on his former pupils, and made appointments with them, and listened with patience to their earnest, and often tearful, protestations of regret and indignation in his regard. He gathered up into his hands, one by one, the threads of ordinary life, and tried to interest himself in them again, and to renew some of his old pleasures; but he could not unite them and weave his heart in with them as before. A gulf, of which he only now became aware, lay between him and the past. It was not the sense of wrong and loss, it was not even that he had a greater distrust of mankind; it was at once higher and deeper than anything merely personal: it was a disgust and fear of life itself, as he had seen and felt it, a sense of instability and of hollowness everywhere. His desires for wealth and power and fame dropped into an abyss, and left no sound to tell that they were substances or had encountered any substance in their descent. Like one who, walking over a bridge, suddenly perceives that, instead of solid arches of stone beneath, there is only a thin and trembling framework between him and the torrent, he felt that he might at any moment fall through into the unknown world, or into nothingness.

This man had called himself a Jew, partly from an inherited allegiance, which ran in his blood, though it was no longer niched in his brain, partly, also, from a generous unwillingness to desert the unfortunate. He cherished the fragments of his ancient traditions as the poet and the antiquary cherish the ruins of an antique temple, in which the vulgar see only broken rocks and rubbish, but from which their imaginations can rebuild portico and sculptured frieze and painted ceiling. Their eyes can discern the acanthus leaf where it lies half choked in dust, and the dying glimmer of what once was gold, and, faintly burning through its encrusting soil, the imperishable color of that rare stone, blue as the vault of a midnight sky. In the ruin of his people Mr. Schöninger still beheld and gloried in that sublime race which, in the early world, had borne the day‐ star on their foreheads.

But it was only a memory to him, and the present was all vanity.

While in prison, he had thought that liberty was, of all things, the most precious. In his emptied heart it had been the one object of longing; and in the first moments of freedom he had found it intoxicating. But the joy it gave effervesced and died away like foam, and the emptiness remained. Looking back on that prison life, he almost wondered at the agony it had caused him, or even that the shameful death which had threatened him should have had power to move him so, or that the opinions and the enmities of men should have struck such bitterness from his soul. What was it all but motes in the beam? “Vanity of vanities, and all is vanity.”

But life must be lived, and work must be done; and he took up the duties that came to hand, and performed them almost as if he loved them.

One small pleasure, indeed, he gave himself. Escaping from the city, with as much care as if he had been flying from justice, he took a long, solitary walk in the pine‐woods where, nearly a year before, he had gone with a May party, and, searching there, he brought back handfuls of pale, nodding snow‐drops, and sent them by a trusty messenger to Honora Pembroke.

“They are for her or for Mrs. Gerald, as she may choose,” he said.

She made no answer, but the messenger saw her lay the delicate blossoms in the white hand of the dead, while her tears fell on them, drop by drop.

Mr. Schöninger’s generosity of feeling would have prompted him to attend the funeral, but his good taste prevented. He would have been too much observed there. He watched the procession as it passed by his window—an old‐fashioned, solemn, genuine New‐England funeral; no mourning carriages with laughing people inside, no hired bearers but a long line of friends and neighbors, who knew and lamented the dead, walking after her with downcast faces, to stand by her grave till the earth should have covered her in.

In a town like Crichton such a death for such a cause would create a deep impression; and crowds stood all about the cottage when the friends who were admitted came out from its doors, and a grave silence prevailed in all the streets as they passed through them.

It was Good Friday; and that evening, for the first time, the new organist was to take charge of the choir in the Immaculate Conception. There was but little to do, for the singers were not in training—only a hymn or two to sing before the sermon, and nothing after.

Mr. Schöninger was glad that he should thus be able to leave the church before the sermon without seeming disrespectful to F. Chevreuse, as he would have seemed in going out and coming in again when the sermon was over. He had not the least objection to hearing Catholic sermons, provided they did not bore him—had, indeed, heard many of them; but he did not wish to hear F. Chevreuse speak on the passion and death of Christ. To him, that had always been the weakest point in the Christian theology. He could reverence almost to the verge of adoration the sublime humility and sweetness and patience of that life which they called divine; but he shrank from the agony which crowned it as something weak and unfitting. A life so perfect ending thus was to him incongruous; as though the eye, travelling up a lofty and exquisite column, should see a rude block at the top instead of a perfect capital.

“If it does not prove the falsehood of the whole,” Mr. Schöninger said to himself, “it proves a great mistake somewhere; and I would rather not hear such a man as F. Chevreuse try to make it seem reasonable.”

But he would not be in too great a hurry to go. He lingered a little, arranged the music, and stopped at the door of the choir long enough to hear the priest announce his text: _The Lord hath laid upon him the iniquities of us all_.

“My Isaiah!” he thought. “I wonder what he meant in writing that?”

“Good Friday is, to my mind, not so much a day of sorrow as a day of remorse,” the priest began. “The Jews were ungrateful, and we are ungrateful.”

“That dear, just soul!” Mr. Schöninger muttered with a smile, as he went slowly out.

Going down the stairs, he caught now and then a sentence. “We sin, and are forgiven, and then we sin again; and we sin against a God whom we acknowledge; they sinned against a God in whom they did not believe.”

And again: “Peter sinned once, but he never denied his Master a second time; Magdalene was once a sinner, but never again.”

Mr. Schöninger stopped at a narrow pointed window near the foot of the stairs, and looked out into the night. He had half a mind to go back and listen to the sermon. There was something enchaining in the way F. Chevreuse preached. His were no cut‐and‐dried orations where the form is first laid out, and each part fitted in as exact as a mosaic, and where no fault can be found, except that there is such an absence of faults. He poured his heart out; he announced a truth, and then, in a few sentences, he threw a picture before their eyes to illustrate it; he walked the platform where he stood, and seemed at times so transported by his feelings as to forget that he was not talking to himself alone.

Mr. Schöninger paused in the lower door, and listened again, hating to stay, hating still more to go away, so empty did his soul feel.

The speaker gave a brief backward glance over what he had already said. They had seen the agony in the garden, and now they were going to see what it meant. They had seen the cup put aside by the hand of Christ, and now they were going to see him drink it to the dregs. They had seen him bear uncomplainingly the stripes and the thorns, now they were going to hear him cry out in the agony of desolation.

With a rapid touch he sketched the scene—the surging, angry crowd, driving and hurrying forward a man in the midst, who drags and stumbles under a heavy cross.

The priest wrung his hands slowly, walking to and fro, with that sight before him. “O my God!” he said, half to himself, “is it thus that I see thee? Thy divinity is reduced so small—so small that it requires all the fulness of my faith to discern it. This man is covered with dust and blood. He hath fallen beneath his load, and the dust of the street is on him, on his hands, and even his face, with the blood and the sweat. They buffet him, they laugh at him”—the speaker faced his congregation suddenly, stretching out his hands to them. “A God! a God!” he cried, and was for a moment silent.

Mr. Schöninger turned away, shuddering at this image of Divinity in the dust.

Yet he had not gone far when, in spite of him, his feet were drawn back.

F. Chevreuse stood beside the great black and white crucifix, to which he did not seem to dare to lift his eyes.

“The cup is at his lips at last! _He has lost sight of the Father!_ The Lord has laid upon him the iniquities of us all. All the murders, all the adulteries of the world are on him; all the sacrileges are on him; all the brutality, the foulness, the lies, the treacheries, the meannesses, the cruelties—they are all heaped upon him. All iniquities, past, present, and to come, overclouded and hid his divine innocence out of sight. And the Father, seeing him so, relented not, spared him not, but poured on his head the full measure of his hatred of our sins, as if he were the criminal who was guilty of them all.”

Mr. Schöninger started back as if lightning had flashed in his face, uttered a faint cry, and hurried from the church.

He knew why the veil of the temple was rent and the face of the sun darkened; and he knew why the Son of God had bled at every pore.

He walked once rapidly round the square, baring his head to the tender coolness of the air. When he reached the church again, F. Chevreuse had finished speaking, and was just turning away. But he paused, as he saw Mr. Schöninger walk up the aisle as unconscious of the astonished congregation who gazed at him as if the church had been empty.

He knelt at the communion railing.

“F. Chevreuse,” he said in a voice that every one heard, so still were all, “I have not yet kissed the cross on which my God was crucified.”

F. Chevreuse drew the small crucifix from his girdle, and presented it, his hands trembling and tears rolling down his face; and all the congregation fell on their knees while the Jew kissed the cross on which his God was crucified.

To Be Continued.

The Jesuit Martyrs Of The Commune.(111)

In this little volume the Rev. F. de Ponlevoy has faithfully recorded the _Acts_, as he well entitles them, of five brave men of our own time, who went forth “rejoicing,” like the apostles of old, “that they were accounted worthy to suffer reproach for the name of Jesus.”

The author has not attempted a biography or any detailed account of the lives of these brave men previous to their arrest “in the name of the Commune,” but simply an exact statement, far more impressive, of their known words and acts from that moment which so plainly marked them as chosen ones of God.

These Jesuit fathers suffered in most saintly companionship, and the world will heartily echo the pious wish of our author that other societies may do for their martyred brethren that which he has so lovingly accomplished for his.

The Jesuits in Paris during the war of 1870 saw plainly the gathering signs of darker days yet to come for France; but it is not in their traditions to yield anything to fear, and so they were resolved, the moment the armistice was concluded, to open their school of S. Geneviève and College of Vaugirard. At the very beginning of the war with Prussia, these two establishments had been freely passed over to the military authorities for the use of the sick and wounded, hundreds of whom had been there received and tenderly cared for, many of the fathers attaching themselves to the ambulances and hospitals with the utmost devotion. Consequently these buildings now needed many repairs and to be almost entirely refurnished. The residence in the Rue Lafayette had fared better, as the greater part of the community were Germans who had been obliged to leave France at the beginning of the war, while the house fell under the protection of the American minister, charged by Prussia to watch over the interests of its people in Paris. Add to which this modest mission had the deserved reputation of being very poor—not much of a bait for the blood‐ hounds of the Commune. At the house in the Rue de Sèvres such measures were taken as prudence seemed to suggest, leaving the rest to Providence. Thus at first it had seemed best to keep some members of the order in Paris—men at once necessary and willing to stay. Some were sent to the provinces, and others remained scattered throughout the ungrateful capital. At the conclusion of the armistice the College of Vaugirard was hastily prepared for pupils, and its reopening fixed for the 9th of March, by which time nearly two hundred students had applied for admission. But on the 18th the long‐threatened revolution burst forth, and the rector, more anxious for the pupils than for the fathers, hurried both to the country‐house of the college, at Moulineaux, between Issy and Meudon. However, they were soon compelled to retreat precipitately, first to Versailles, and finally to Saint Germain‐en‐Laye; for, placed exactly in the narrow belt between the belligerent lines, they found themselves, upon the breaking out of hostilities between Paris and Versailles, veritably between two fires. The deserted College of Vaugirard was surrounded, occupied, and pillaged, but no one was there to be arrested.

The school of S. Geneviève required more time for repairs, and was to be opened on March 20; but the insurrection, coming in the interval, necessitated new delays, and parents were notified to await further announcements. The rector, F. Léon Ducoudray, born at Laval, May 6, 1827, a man of great spirit and energy, was not one to lose time or to be dismayed in the hour of trial. He at once sent out four of the fathers, one to negotiate a loan in England or Belgium to meet the exigencies of the moment, and the others to seek in the provinces an asylum for the exiled school, which was finally removed to a country‐house at Athis‐Mons, on the railway line to Orléans, not far from Paris. The pupils were notified that the school would open on April 12; the rector, who had remained in Paris to superintend the final arrangements, was to join his community on Monday, the third.

On Sunday, the second, F. Ducoudray perceived that F. Paul Piquet, a sick priest left at S. Geneviève, was rapidly sinking, and at a quarter‐past eight in the evening this good father had the happiness of leaving this world and its momentarily‐increasing trials. It was a great loss to the house, and at this time a very painful embarrassment. The next morning (Monday) the Commune issued a decree confiscating all the furniture and property belonging to religious houses, and at S. Geneviève they every instant expected a visit on the part of the new rulers of the city. Nevertheless, F. Ducoudray sent for several of the fathers to come up from Athis to attend the funeral ceremonies of the deceased priest, set for Tuesday, April 4.

All at once, just after midnight on Tuesday, before these fathers had returned to Athis, the buildings were encircled by a battalion of National Guards, armed to the teeth. The Rue Lhomond, the Rue d’Ulm, the Passage des Vignes, the very woodyard at the foot of the garden, all were guarded. There were repeated blows at the door of No. 18. The brother porter went at once to say that the keys, according to custom, were in the rector’s room, and that he would go and get them. But at this simple and reasonable answer the outsiders got into a rage; a summons was sounded three times at rapid intervals; the whole neighborhood was startled by a general discharge at all the windows of the Rue Lhomond; there were loud threats of bringing cannons and _mitrailleuses_ from the Place de Panthéon near by. Presently the doors were opened, and the rector himself appeared, calmly requesting to be allowed to make some remarks in the name of common justice and of individual liberty. But the day for these things had gone by. For sole response the leader signified, revolver in hand, that he constituted the rector his prisoner in the name of the Commune, and should occupy and search the house for the arms and munitions of war therein concealed. But in reality they were here, as everywhere else, on a hunt for the cash‐box. “That which we most need,” said a member of the Commune, “is money.”

Right away every one in the house was on his feet, and each one followed his instinct; but first of all one priest hurried to the private chapel, where, for precaution, the Blessed Sacrament had been previously placed, and hastened to secure it against profanation.

The envoys of the Commune were in number and force enough to carry on several operations at once. They arrested everybody they could lay their hands on—priests, lay brothers, even the servants of the school—and, as fast as they found them, seated them in the entrance hall, and kept them there for several hours. They ransacked the entire house; the rector himself led them everywhere. The search was very long and very minute, without the desired result; for they found no arms and very little money. F. Ducoudray, without falsifying himself in the slightest, replied with so much unconcern, with such dignity and politeness, that they said to each other in astonishment: “What a man this is! What energy of character!” At last, after three painful hours, they took him to the hall; but even from the first moment they separated him from his brethren, and put him in a little vestibule of the chapel in front of the parlors. It is almost superfluous to add that the pillage of the house commenced almost at once, accelerated, and the next day completed, by bands of women and children.

At five in the morning the recall was sounded; it was the signal for defiling and departing for the préfecture of the police. The prisoners were ranged between two lines of National Guards. First came the rector, a little ahead of the others; behind him the Rev. FF. Ferdinand Billot, Emile Chauveau, Alexis Clerc, Anatole de Bengy, Jean Bellanger, Theodore de Regnon, and Jean Tanguy, four lay brothers, and seven servants.

“Well,” said F. Ducoudray, with a radiant countenance, to F. Caubert, who was nearest him. “_Ibant gaudentes_,(112) did they not?”

“What is he saying there?” asked the uneasy guards. F. Caubert repeated the sentence; God knows what they understood by it!

At the préfecture a major exclaimed: “Why have you brought me these rascals (_coquins_)? Why didn’t you shoot them on the spot?”

“Gently,” answered one of the guard; “it is necessary to proceed calmly, or you yourself might get it before the rest.”

The same officer then asked, revolver in hand, for the director.

“I am here,” replied F. Ducoudray, advancing.

“I know that you have arms concealed in your house.”

“No, sir.”

“I have it on certain authority.”

“If there are any, it is without my knowledge.”

“You have an iron will. We are going to see about that, we two; and if we do not find them, you do not get back here.”

Then followed a number of charges against the priests, such as poisoning the sick and wounded in the hospitals and ambulances, perversion of youth, and complicity with the government of Versailles. F. Ducoudray, following the example of his divine Master, made no reply, and, after being loaded with insults, was finally taken secretly and locked up in a cell of the _Conciergerie_ prison. The others were confined in a common hall of the depot prison, intended for vagrant women.

In the meantime, two priests and one brother, who had escaped detection in the tumult, remained at S. Geneviève. The brother was an invalid confined to his bed, and the two priests, one of whom had been concealed all night in the garden, met in his room after the guards had left, and it remained for nearly two months virtually their prison.

The saintly president of the house of the Rue de Sèvres, F. Pierre Olivaint, had seen all his flock sheltered from the gathering storm, and on that Monday was alone in the house with one reverend companion, F. Alexis Lefebvre, and several devoted brothers, incapable of fear. All day long warnings and entreaties poured in upon him to cause him to fly in advance of the impending visit from the Commune. “But what would you have?” he answered tranquilly. “I am like the captain of a vessel, who must be the last to leave the ship. If we are taken to‐day, I shall have but one regret: that it is Holy Tuesday, not Good Friday.”

“Why, now, my child,” he said again, at six o’clock, to one who implored him to save himself while there was yet a moment, for it was certain there was to be a visit on the part of the Commune that very evening—“why, now, my child, why do you excite yourself? Is it not the best act of charity we can perform to give our life for the love of Jesus Christ?” And then he went to the lower floor, facing the hall door, and calmly went on with his office. “I am waiting,” he said to a friend who passed by, pressing his hand.

Just as they were assembling in the refectory for the evening collation, at the usual hour of a quarter‐past seven, the brother porter was summoned; a delegate of the Commune was at the door, behind him a company of National Guards. The brother was instructed to detain them in the vestibule or in the parlor until the superior himself should come. Brother Francis did so, in spite of the impatience and threats of the visitors. In anticipation of this visit, but two hosts had been left in the morning, and now each father hurried to his room, and each had his _viaticum_ ready. F. Lefebvre returned the first, soon followed by F. Olivaint. The delegate announced the object of his mission—to look for arms and munitions kept in reserve by the Jesuits; but, being himself called away on important business, deputed citizen Lagrange to take his place. This man, well worthy of the deed, ordered every avenue of escape to be guarded, and then, followed by nearly half his force, began the tour of inspection, accompanied by F. Olivaint, and preceded by two brothers, one with a light, the other carrying the keys; two other brothers were stationed at the entrance with the guards, and, as each room was examined, Lagrange left two of his men to guard it. To have any idea of the shameless impiety and vulgar insolence of these functionaries of the Commune, one must have seen and heard them; for three hours the search continued, amid threats and mockery, through all which F. Olivaint remained calm and reserved.

The critical moment came while in the procurator’s chamber, where the cash‐box was discovered. “Hurry and open it,” they cried. “Where’s the key?”

“I haven’t it; it is not even here,” answered F. Olivaint. “Our father procurator, who is absent, has it with him.” Then came the tempest; one of the brothers was sent off with three guards, arms in hand, to hunt up the father procurator, and bring him back alive or dead. In the end, F. Caubert really did arrive, and opened the box. It was empty. Naturally, the siege had suppressed all receipts and increased all expenses; for a long time the Jesuits had lived only by borrowing. “We are robbed,” Lagrange exclaimed. “All right, the superior and the steward are my prisoners, in the name of the Commune. Off to the préfecture of police!” F. Lefebvre begged to be taken with his brethren. “No, no,” was the answer. “You stay here and hold this house in the name of the Commune.” And actually the sentence was prophetic; for the house guarded by F. Lefebvre was spared with him.

At about half‐past eleven o’clock the two prisoners departed, never to return; they sought in vain for a carriage, to make the long transit. As they passed out, F. Olivaint saw, in the crowd in the street, a group of compassionate friends; he saluted them with a smile, as if to say: “Weep not for me.”

Lagrange and his company quartered themselves at the Place Vendôme, as proud of their prowess that night as if they had captured Versailles; a single _piquet_ of armed men took the prisoners to the préfecture, and there, instead of being placed with the others in the common hall, they were immediately and secretly locked up in the cells of the _Conciergerie_.

“FF. Olivaint and Caubert are in prison,” F. Lefebvre wrote to our author at Versailles. “They absolutely would not take me. I am alone at the house, with Brother Bouillé, both fearless, thank God! The others are dispersed, and come from time to time to see me. I have placed the Blessed Sacrament in the gallery near my room, and, when they return, I shall consume the sacred hosts. The church will be closed. They are arresting the priests. Monseigneur himself is at the préfecture of police; they say these are the hostages, I am told. Pray, pray for me, my father! Oh! how happy I should be to give my life for our Lord!”

F. Ducoudray accepted his imprisonment without any surprise. “Before long,” he had said, on March 19, to the Prince de Broglie—“before long our churches will be closed, our houses devastated, our persons arrested, and God knows who will regain his liberty. The things which are to be done will have a particular character of hatred to God, and—that which is very sad for a priest to say—there will prove to be no other argument for the miserable ones who are to be masters of Paris than the cannon. I have lived for seven months in the very midst of these men, and I have not met with one heart or one honest mind among them.”

“For six months,” he wrote under date of Feb. 20, “I have seen only grief and mourning.... My God! must I say to you that I can still hope? Paris has lost the last fibre of moral and religious sense. Its population is mad, delirious. Can we hope for the return of divine mercy when this immense city thinks only of founding a society based on the absence of religion and on the hatred of God? Only a miracle can help us out of the abyss in which we are plunged. I hold my peace.... My heart is too heavy, and my soul too gloomy.”

F. Olivaint, loving his country not less, was filled with joy from the very moment of his arrest. “_Ibant gaudentes_,” he said with sparkling eyes to the archbishop’s secretary, who passed his grating—“_Ibant gaudentes_; it is for the same Master!” “France,” he said, “like the world, requires to be ransomed by blood—not the blood of criminals, which sinks into the ground, and remains mute and barren, but the blood of the just, which cries to heaven, invoking justice and imploring mercy.”

“There must be victims,” said F. Caubert. “It is God who has chosen them.”

On the evening of Holy Thursday there came a change. The archbishop, the president, Bonjeau, FF. Ducoudray, Clerc, and de Bengy, each in a separate compartment of a prison carriage, were conveyed from the _Conciergerie_ to the prison of Mazas. F. Olivaint and F. Caubert were left alone at the _Conciergerie_, in separate cells, debarred from all possible communication.

“And from this hour,” cries F. Ponlevoy, in tender remembrance,(113) “I seem to myself to be really writing an episode of the Catacombs. The church is ever fruitful in generous souls, but it is the hour of trial that more than any lays bare the depths of the heart; and if, on one side, there is in the martyrs a patience beyond all grief, there is in the Christian a charity stronger than death itself.”

A system of correspondence was organized outside those now hallowed prison walls, and continued to the very end, consoling and sustaining the captives, and laying up treasures for the faithful far and wide through the edifying little notes thus preserved. And finally, on Thursday, April 13, safe means were found to convey to the prisoners at the _Conciergerie_ not simply a consolation, but the Consoler himself. Only a few hours after this was accomplished, FF. Olivaint and Caubert were removed to Mazas, whither three of their order, as we have seen, had preceded them.

The prison of Mazas, on the boulevard of the same name, is constructed on the system of cells. At its door all motion ceases; life itself fades out; the isolation is complete; the unfortunate detained there are buried alive. But the love and devotion of the faithful contrived to pierce even these gloomy walls, and letters were again carried back and forth between the imprisoned priests and their exiled brethren. These letters contained few facts, but, put together, make a most exquisite journal of the interior life of the saintly captives. F. Ducoudray opens this series of letters by a formal one to his superior, giving an account of the situation and of his own personal disposition. “You know our history and its sadness,” he writes.

“Here I pass much time in prayer, and a little in suffering. Isolation, separation, uncertainty, and, above all, the privation of not being able to celebrate Mass—this is indeed cruel!

“No possible communication _cum concaptivis meis_. They are there, near to me, in the same corridor; that is all I know.

“This is the part it is the will of God we should perform. For us, we have only to follow the apostle’s counsel: ‘_In omnibus exhibeamus nosmetipsos, sicut Dei ministros, in multa patientia, in tribulationibus,... in carceribus, in seditionibus, ... per gloriam et ignobilitatem, per infamiam et bonam faman_.’(114)

“Say to my friends,” F. Olivaint wrote to one of his brethren, “that I do not find anything to complain of; health pretty good; not a moment of _ennui_ in my retreat, which I continue up to the very neck.... I know nothing of my companions.” “I thank you from the bottom of my heart,” to another, “for your charity to the poor prisoners. Here is a work I did not fully comprehend until I was in prison. How well you practise it—I might almost say too well!... No, the time does not seem long to me.” ... “In reality,” he writes again, “I do very well in body; and as for the spirit, it seems to me that I am making a retreat of benediction, _Deo gratias_.” ... Later on: “I am at the twenty‐fourth day of my retreat. I had never hoped that a retreat of a month would be granted me; and see, now I am touching that term. Well, if we do not regain our liberty by the end of the month, I shall not, I hope, lose anything in this way by the prolongation of the trial. You will understand that here we have no news to give. And those frightful cannon that never cease grumbling! But that, too, reminds me to pray for our poor country. If it were required to give my miserable life to put an end to its troubles, how quickly I would make the sacrifice!”

Those cannon jarred on the ears of the other captives. “We hear day and night the roar of cannon,” F. Clerc wrote to his brother. “I conclude that the siege and my detention will not end to‐morrow.... People talk of the cloister of religious houses; that of Mazas is not to be despised.... We have neither Mass nor sacraments. Never, I well believe, did prisoners more desire them. I pray to the good God, I study, I read, I write a little, and I find time goes quickly, even at Mazas.... Do not take further measures to see me; I fear further efforts would bring you annoyance, and I have little hope of the result. These gates will be opened by another hand than yours; and, if they open not, we know well that we must be resigned.... I am proud and happy to suffer for the name I bear. You know well the blow did not take me by surprise. I did not desire to evade it, and I wish to support it. I do not hope for the deliverance of which you speak.... The less I am master of myself, the more I am in the hands of God; there will happen to me what he wills, and he will give me to do that which he wishes I should do. _Omnia passum in eo qui me confortat._”

F. Caubert writes in the same tone: “My health up to the present remains good. For the rest, I have all that is necessary, and even over. Besides, the moral serves to strengthen the physical in giving courage and strength. Now, this comes to me because I am full of confidence in God, and most happy to do his will in all that he really demands of me. For the rest, the prison rule, in spite of its stern and austere side, is not in itself injurious to the health. They have us take the air every day for an hour, solitarily, and each in his turn. The delicate stomachs can obtain the food they need. Twice a week they give us soup and a bit of beef. The house is conducted with propriety, order, and regularity.... We can visit the doctor or the apothecary daily. There is a library comprising a pretty good number of books of great variety, and any one can ask for them to pass the time. As for the details of the _ménage_, that which they bring me is quite sufficient, and I need no more. It simplifies matters not to have my cell encumbered, otherwise I should get things a little pell‐ mell.”

To hear these good fathers, everything was right, everybody good to them. Undoubtedly they suffer, but, as they are patient, they suffer less than others; as they have hope, they endure better than others; finally, as they love Christ crucified, their joy is greater than their pain. A Frenchman and a Jesuit conquered by hard treatment or most distressing privation! Never! Starving, dying by inches, in stripes and in prison, under the tomahawk, at the stake, in hunger and thirst, in burning India or the snows of Canada, at the mercy of Western savages or Paris revolutionists, it is ever the same thing—everything is right and nice and fine; much better than could be expected. The story, fresh in our minds, of our own early missionaries, exiles of the first Revolution, prepares us to hear the sweet patience of the American forests echoing to‐day in the prison of Mazas. God wills it. _Ad majorem Dei gloriam._

M. Ponlevoy, who had the tender curiosity to visit the prison of Mazas on a holiday, when it could easily be inspected, says: “I saw those three stories of long corridors, with double galleries, radiating around a centre where lately there was a chapel—ah! if the Commune had but had at least the humanity to leave to the captives the divine Prisoner of the tabernacle—on both sides, on all the floors, the doors loaded with bolts and provided with regular gratings, and those narrow cells, of which the inventory could be made in a single glance! Facing the entrance, the grated window, which measured the air and light; in one corner the hammock; opposite, the little table, with just room enough for a straw chair; behind the door a plank for a cupboard, a broom, and some pieces of coarse crockery completed the furniture. As for the famous promenade so often mentioned in their letters, it was a little triangular prison‐yard, shut in by a grating in front, and walls on the sides, without shelter anywhere, and no other seat than a stone in one corner. During their solitary recreation the captives could absolutely see no one, unless the guard under the arch who held them in surveillance.”

But the human heart is still human, however resigned the will. Say what they would, the prison was still a prison, and Mazas certainly was more like Calvary than paradise. After all, Christians are not stoics, and the martyr himself feels the weakness of the flesh, that he may overcome it by the vigor of the spirit.

“This poor heart!” writes brave F. Ducoudray. “It sometimes will be tempted to escape and to bound. The imagination willingly takes its part. Neither lets itself be ruled as much by reason as I would wish. Thence come, at times, certain fits or impressions of weariness, the suffering of the soul, throwing it into languor, discouragement, uneasiness, and disgust. ‘_Magnum est et val de magnum, tam humano quant divino posse carere solatio et pro honore Dei, libenter exilium cordis velle sustinere._’(115) There is matter in that one comprehends only when one feels it. I had the good thought, when leaving the house, to put into my pocket a small volume containing the _New Testament_ and the _Imitation_. I have read S. Paul much. What a great and admirable heart! It expands my soul to read it, for it has been ‘_in laboribus plurimus, in carceribusabundantius_,’(116) as he writes himself. And I, though I am yet but a _carcere uno_, I boast of suffering somewhat. But if we are those of whom it is written: ‘_Eritis odio omnibus propter nomen meum_,’(117) how contemptible our tribulations in comparison with those of the great apostle!” “I am still,” he wrote at another time, May 5, “more ill omened than the greatest pessimist. You tell me they fix the 20th as the final term of the civil war. I much fear it will be prolonged even to the 30th. Military operations go slowly. The war beyond the ramparts offers difficulties; the war of the streets has its difficulties also—most bloody ones, alas!... We touch upon the week of great events, or, at least, the beginning of great events.... What a punishment! It was expected. It is here.”

Two or three human consolations were vouchsafed the prisoners, after a time. On May 5 they were permitted to read several of the daily papers approved by the Commune, and about the same time F. Ducoudray had the inestimable privilege of twice seeing and saluting, at a short distance, F. Clerc, and of once seeing far off F. Bengy, his beloved brethren and fellow‐prisoners.

In May another favor was vouchsafed. F. Clerc’s brother had been incessant in his attempts to obtain an interview with him, but without any success; at last a dear friend, a lady, received permission to visit the prisoner, and, as a French lady must needs have an escort, she took M. Clerc for hers. This was an inexpressible happiness to the noble‐hearted priest, and his thanks to God for the favor were boundless. F. Caubert, whose simple and exquisite letters, full of golden thoughts, we would gladly linger over if there were only space enough, received, May 11, a visit from the Minister Plenipotentiary of the United States, which was very agreeable to him. “It appears,” he said, “that I had been recommended to him by some person of his acquaintance. He came to inquire most cordially, in true American style, how I got along, and if I had need of anything.” Here, in uncertainty, inaction, and shut out from all the world, these brave men made light of all the trials and privations to which their bodies were so long and painfully subjected. The Communists knew too much, however, to think of breaking their spirit by bodily suffering; they had the means of creating cruel anguish in the heart of every priest within those prison walls, and well they knew how to use it. From every cell came a cry such as no rack or stake could draw from them.

On Easter Sunday, fifth day of their confinement, F. Clerc wrote to his brother: “To‐day is the feast of feasts, the Pasch of the Christians, the day the Lord has made. For us there is no Mass to say or hear.” Just at the hour of leaving the _Conciergerie_, FF. Olivaint and Caubert had the happiness, so longed for and so unexpected, of receiving the “Consoler himself.” Then came the long days at Mazas, and no such consolation possible. “Oh! if we could but soon ascend the altar!” cries F. Ducoudray in the early days at Mazas. “Here is a privation to which I can never become accustomed.”

“Here,” F. Clerc wrote May 5—“here no confession, no Mass, not even on Sunday. We are lodged, fed—it is enough for animals.”

“I pass my time,” F. Ducoudray again, “praying much, suffering some; for the privation of the Holy Mass, the isolation, the separation, are cruel, but I see not the end.”

On May 8 an order was promulgated which put an end to all visits; on that very day F. Ducoudray had expected to receive our Lord himself. “What a sacrifice!” he exclaims. “I have offered to our Lord this hard trial, incomparably more painful yesterday than ever, on account of the precious pledge of the love of the divine Master. I seek to make my poor heart the altar on which I sacrifice. I shall add that of yesterday as new fuel to the sacrifice.”

“Six Sundays passed in darkness,” writes F. Olivaint, May 14. “How many days without ascending to the altar!” And the next day: “I am at the forty‐first day of my retreat. After to‐day, I intend to meditate only on the Eucharist. Is it not the best means of consoling myself that I cannot ascend to the altar? If I were a little bird, I would go somewhere every morning to hear Mass, and then I would willingly come back to my cage.”

The fathers outside the prison walls, understanding well the longing indicated by these and similar expressions, had endeavored in every way to find means to answer their desires. But it required infinite precautions to secure the faithful and sure transmission through all the formalities of surveillance. What is there prudence and love together may not accomplish? At last the doors opened; the prisoners came not out, but the Redeemer entered. Towards mid‐day of the 15th the Long‐Desired arrived. That tells all. Only FF. Ducoudray, Olivaint, and Clerc could be reached at first. Each of these was given four sacred hosts, and each preserved and carried on his breast, as on a living altar, the _God of his heart and his heritage for all eternity_.

“There is no more prison,” F. Clerc wrote to his brother, “no more solitude; and I have confidence that if our Lord permits the wicked to satisfy their malice, and for a few hours to prevail, he will profit by them in that very moment to glorify his name by the feeblest and vilest of his instruments.”

Once again, May 22, an opportunity was found to reach the captives. Two feeble but intrepid women traversed the vast, deserted districts to Mazas. This time all measures had been taken, and each prisoner received a share—four sacred hosts wrapped in a corporal, as in a shroud, duly enclosed in a little box with a silk case and a cord, in order that it might be carried around the neck. Coming at that hour, the Saviour seemed to say again: “I return, not to live with you, but to carry you with me.” For the end was at hand.

We linger for a few moments over the last letters gathered here in a most fragrant, fadeless wreath. On the 16th F. Clerc wrote his last letter, truly his _nunc dimittis_:

“Ah! my God, how good thou art! How true it is that the mercy of thy heart will never fail!... I had not dared conceive the hope of such a blessing—to possess our Lord, to have him for companion of my captivity, to carry him on my heart, and to rest on his, as he permitted to his beloved John! Yes, it is too much for me, and my thought cannot compass it. And still it is. But is it not true that all men and all the saints together could not conceive the Eucharist? O the God of the Eucharist! how good he is, how compassionate, how tender! Does it not seem as if he made again the reproach: _You have asked nothing in my name; ask now, and you shall receive?_ I have him now without having asked; I have him now, and I will never leave him more, and my desire, fainting for want of hope, is reanimated, and will only increase in the measure that possession lasts.

“Ah! prison, dear prison, thou whose walls I have kissed, saying, _Bona crux_, what happiness thou hast won me! Thou art no longer a prison; thou art a chapel. Thou art no longer even a solitude, because I am not alone; but my Lord and my King, my Master and my God, lives here with me. It is not only in thought that I approach him; it is not only by grace that he approaches me; but he has really and corporally come to find and console the poor prisoner. He wished to keep him company; and can he not do it, all‐powerful as he is?... Oh! lost for ever, my prison, which wins for me the honor to carry my Lord upon my heart, not as a sign, but the reality of my union with him.

“In the first days I demanded with great earnestness that our Lord should call me to a more excellent testimony to his name. The worst days are not even yet passed; on the contrary, they are coming near, and they will be so evil that the goodness of God will be obliged to shorten them; but, at all events, we are now drawing near to them. I had from the first the hope that God would give me the grace to die well; at present my hope has become a true and solid confidence. It seems to me that I am prepared for anything through Him who sustains me and will accompany me even unto death. Will he do it? That which I know is, that if he will not, I shall have a regret which nothing but submission to his will can calm.”

F. Ducoudray gives us his farewell letter also. It ends with alleluia in the heart and the _fiat_ on the lips:

“I have received _all_. Tuesday what a surprise, what joy!... I am no more alone. I have our Lord for guest in my little cell.... And it is true, _credo_! On Wednesday I seemed to live over again the day of my first communion, and I surprised myself by bursting into tears. For twenty‐five days I had been deprived of the rich blessing—of my only treasure!

“I shut myself in the guest‐chamber,” he continued, referring to the room in which the Last Supper was eaten, and that “upper chamber,” in which the disciples remained concealed until the coming of the Holy Ghost, “and much I wish, after these ten days which separate us from Pentecost are passed, to see again the light of heaven. Between now and then what events may arise! We are near the crisis; but if it is prolonged, we have reason to fear that horrible events will take place. I cannot prevent myself at times from being greatly impressed at finding myself connected with such grave circumstances. But here we make a good retreat, which will facilitate our entrance into eternity. I have held myself, from the first day of my arrival here, ready for any sacrifice whatever; for I have the strong, sweet confidence that if God permits hostages and victims to be made of us priests and religious, it will truly be _in odium fidei, in odium nominus Christi Jesu_.(118)

“We pray, pray much, disposed to live if God pleases, to die if God pleases, as worthy children of our most happy father, S. Ignatius.”

Happy the pen that is broken after those last lines.

“It should be well understood,” wrote F. Caubert, “that it is really God who gives us courage in our trials; otherwise the courage would very soon exhaust itself. For me, I have to run often to prayer to renew mine, like a poor clock that has to be wound up every little while. In a life so isolated, sequestered and devoid of occupation, _ennui_ comes quickly. One can easily make himself a rule, but we cannot always read or pray. I should have experienced much of this in myself during this my three weeks’ retreat had I not been sustained by this very dose of prayer. You understand that in this monotonous life, whenever the good God hides his presence (and that is usual, in order to make the trial greater), one must often feel the sinking of nature. But this feeling of weakness is precisely the very thing that drives us constantly near to God. The good God is most admirable in his manner of sustaining the soul through these very depressions. Our feebleness is as a chain binding us to his strength, and as an attraction drawing us to his infinite goodness.

“You say to me that it must be that I suffer. In a measure it is true; but if one had nothing to endure, the good God would find nothing in his account. He desires to show mercy to all, and, that he may do so, he wills that we should offer him some sorrows borne for love of him. Alas! if one were not a prisoner (I speak for myself), perhaps he would too easily forget that charity requires that we should have compassion on poor sinners, and offer something for their intention. And then is not the priest the friend of God, and should he not, by this title, devote himself to obtaining for his brothers reconciliation with God, the father of all—the father so full of goodness and so ready for indulgence—especially when he hears himself importuned by the voice of a friend?”

“I take little account of the time of my imprisonment,” he wrote later. “I prefer to leave all that in the hands of God, and to give up to him the care of all that concerns me. He knows better than I what is most useful for my soul. I seek to remember often that one glorifies him so much more, the more that one suffers for his love and to accomplish his holy will. In reality, in submitting to the trial, we practise in an admirable manner the annihilation of ourself.... Is it not also by the sacrifice of ourself that we best imitate our Lord? It is true that my soul has not yet reached to that perfection and to a love so pure and so detached. It is necessary to pass through trials to reach this union with God. He sends them, in his goodness, to purify the soul and to break down the obstacles which oppose themselves to this union. Pray for me, that I may draw this profit from my present trial.”

A few rapidly‐written words from F. Olivaint were the last greeting from one of the tenderest hearts and sweetest souls in the world. “What deplorable events!” he wrote, May 18, to F. Lefebvre. “How well I understand the weary souls of other days who fled to the desert! But it is worth much more to stay in the midst of perils and difficulties to save so many unfortunates from shipwreck. My health is always good, and, after forty‐six days, I am not tired of my retreat—just the contrary.” To F. Chauveau: “Thanks from my heart. Yes, we are nearing the end, by the grace of God. Let us seek to be ready for all that comes. Confidence and prayer! How good our Lord is! If you but knew how, especially for several days past, my little cell has become sweet to me! _Forsan et hæc olim meminisse juvabit._ Who knows that I may not regret it some day? I think just as you do—that Eugene [Count Eugene de Germiny] should not interfere; but in the end, if, by the favor of M. Urbain and his associates, I have need of help, I will ask for Eugene. In any case, thank him for me. Tenderest remembrances to Armand; many thanks to all; benedictions to our friends and benefactors. I believe that all of our own here are doing well. For me, I am perfectly sustained. Once more our Lord is good! Yours from the heart.... May 19, ’71.”

On Monday, the 22d, the order was given to proceed at once, and on the spot, to the execution of all the hostages confined at Mazas. This was kept concealed from the prisoners, but they could not help suspecting it, from the additional gloom growing every moment heavier and more ominous throughout that ever‐gloomy building. The guards came and went, exchanging mysterious words among themselves, replying to the questions of the condemned by threatening allusion, or by an affected silence even more significant. However, the director of the prison, moved by a sentiment of humanity, or perhaps of prudence, ventured to represent to the imperious Commune that an execution in a simple house of detention would be contrary to all forms and precedents; and consequently they were ordered to La Roquette, the prison for those condemned to death. It was on this day that the two pious women succeeded in reaching Mazas, and giving to each of the Jesuit priests there four sacred hosts, with conveniences for carrying them around the neck.

Nearly all were transferred to La Roquette late in the evening of May 22d; but there were so many, the wagons were not large enough to hold all, and some were left at Mazas until the next day. What a moment that must have been when the prisoners, so long in solitude, not even knowing who were their companions in misfortune, came from their cells, and, meeting in the office, beheld and recognized one another! Priests, religious, laymen, all surrounded the Archbishop of Paris.

The transit was long and painful. The prisoners, forty in number, were crowded into baggage‐wagons belonging to the railway of Lyon, and exposed to the gaze and the insults of all. They had to cross the populous quarters of the Faubourg Saint Antoine and the Bastile, where the insurrection was still mistress. The convoy went at a walk, between two lines of armed men, followed by the grossest insults and by a maddened multitude. “Alas! monseigneur,” said a priest, leaning towards the archbishop, “look at your people now.”

When they reached La Roquette that night, they were assembled at once, without any other formality, in the hall, called by name, and shown by a person with a lantern to a long corridor on the lower floor; and as each one passed on in the order named, a door opened and closed upon a captive. The darkness was intense; but it is good to remember that in some of the cells there was the Real Presence, shedding light and peace. The Commune was in desperate straits, and it was at first intended to execute the victims as soon as they should arrive at La Roquette; but a few hours were gained through the jealousy of the director. In the cells was a bed, and such a bed!—a pile of straw and a coverlet, and that was all; no tables, not even a chair. Still, Roquette was better than Mazas, for the cells were not vaults, and, though one was locked up, he was not entombed. And, besides, they were permitted to see each other by means of a window between every two cells, and at recreation, which they were allowed to take in a corridor together, and even in some unoccupied cell opening into the corridor. Food was scarce from the first; even bread was rare. F. Olivaint shared some little things which remained to him with the archbishop, and had the happiness, also, of giving him the Bread of the Strong, for which the prelate was overcome with gratitude.

Every hour the Commune was losing ground. It had only strength left for crime, and it hastened, with its dying breath, to order the execution _en masse_ of the hostages of La Roquette. This was modified to sixty at first. At any price the Commune demanded the head of the priests—those hated men who had troubled the world for eighteen hundred years.

About eight o’clock in the evening of May 24, when the prisoners were in their cells, there was heard a confused noise in the distance—the voices of men and of children, a clamor and laughing that was still more terrible, mixing with the clash of arms. It came nearer and nearer, and some fifty rascals, Avengers of the Republic, Garibaldians, soldiers with all kinds of arms, National Guards with all sorts of costumes, _gamins_ of Paris, poured into the prison, hungry for the blood of six victims, their share. They rushed the whole length of the corridor containing the cells of our dear prisoners, and ranged themselves at the head of a small spiral staircase which led to the _chemin de ronde_. As they passed, each prisoner was pelted through the grating of his cell with a running fire of insult and sentence of death.

Then some one, assuming the office of herald, summoned the prisoners to be ready and to respond each one as his name was called. After that, as each name was pronounced, a door opened, and a victim presented himself. M. Bonjeau, FF. Duguerry, Clerc, Ducoudray, Allard, and Archbishop Darboy were the six chosen. All were present, all were ready, and, in the order named, the procession began. The archbishop and his companions, preceded and followed by this frightful escort, descended the dark, narrow staircase one by one. So unrestrained was the insolence of the captors that their leader was obliged to interfere. “Comrades,” he cried, “we have something better to do than to insult them—that is, to shoot them. It is the command of the Commune.”

No place of execution had been fixed upon. They would have liked to have had it on the spot, but that would give too many witnesses; the first _chemin de ronde_ was in view of the prison windows, and the occupants of the cells on every floor could see all, hear all. So they passed to the second, where they would be sheltered by high ramparts. The victims were ranged in a line at the extreme end of this path, at the foot of the great outside wall.

Those left behind knelt, prayed, and held their breath. The fire of a platoon was heard, followed by a few scattered shots, then cries of _Vive la Commune!_ which told that all was over. There were martyrs now, not victims.

Towards morning the bodies were thrown into a hand‐cart and carried to Père la Chaise, where they were tossed into a ditch; no coffins, no ceremony of any kind. “What matters it,” F. Olivaint had said and proved—“what matters it to a Jesuit, who daily sacrifices his heart, once to sacrifice his head?”

Two days passed, and Friday came, rainy, and the prisoners were confined to their corridor. As they were taking their noon‐day recreation, a delegate of the Commune appeared, and, standing in their midst, called off fifteen names. F. Olivaint was the first. “Present,” he answered, crossing the corridor. F. Caubert was second, and F. de Bengy third. This last name was badly written, and worse pronounced. “If you mean to say _de Bengy_,” he replied, “it is I, and I am here.”

The condemned men asked to be allowed to go for a moment to their cells, as some had slippers on, and no hats. “No,” was the response, “for what remains for you to do you are well enough as you are.” New victims were added from other parts of the prison until there were fifty in all, the number required by the Commune.

These were taken a long road to Belleville, a _faubourg_ at a great distance, in order, probably, to excite the passions of the mob, and rouse them once more.

The procession started at about four o’clock from La Roquette. First came a guard bareheaded, who loudly announced that these were Versaillais, made prisoners that morning. The escort consisted of five hundred armed men, National Guards, to whom were added, for this genial occasion, the _Enfants Perdus_ of Bergeret and rowdies under various names. Presently the women, veritable furies, and the children joined in, howling, shrieking, imprecating, blaspheming. The crowd increasing in numbers and insolence, the guards were obliged to interfere to protect the prisoners, not from insult, but from extreme violence. The fury of the mob constantly demanded the moment of execution; a military band was added to the procession to drown the clamor and make the crowd more willing to wait. Finally they reached the entrance to the _Cité Vincennes_. The passage is narrow, the crowd was enormous, and growing ever more furious as they neared the end. An aged priest, who could not keep up, was shot and killed by a woman, and dragged to the place of general execution. After a time, they found some grounds laid out for country parties or picnics, and an enclosure, uncovered, which was intended for a dancing‐hall. The fifty prisoners were forced into this, jammed savagely against the walls, while the crowd showered maledictions upon them. Then, at about six o’clock, there took place a scene absolutely indescribable; not an execution, but a slaughter. They were not shot, but massacred. One discharge followed another; there was an attempt made to fire by platoons, but it was badly managed. The heroines of the Commune climbed the walls, urging on the men and insulting the priests. The tumult at its height lasted for about fifteen minutes. At seven o’clock all was ended. The bodies were left stretched upon the ground until the next day, when they were thrown into a cellar or vault.

It was the death‐throe of the Commune. The blood of the just had cried to heaven, and France lifted up her head. The next day was Pentecost; the Commune was crushed, the doors of Roquette were opened, the bodies of the martyrs were recovered, and on Wednesday, May 31, the Jesuit church, for two months closed like the rest, was opened once more, and the funeral ceremonies of the five of their order whose imprisonment we have so hastily followed celebrated with the utmost solemnity. Their remains now repose in the Jesuit chapel of the Rue de Sèvres.

“There must be victims; it is God who has chosen them.” They recognized the divine call, and went forth rejoicing. _Ibaut gaudentes._

Antar And Zara; Or, “The Only True Lovers.” III.

An Eastern Romance Narrated In Songs.

By Aubrey De Vere.